Litany of forgotten stained glass angels of the East,

new windscreens of rushed oasis highways.

Love must be somewhere in the desert

this perpetual morning of summer, and its swimming pool eyes.


The light that is an ordinary god,

the light that is anarchic

Holds you here, blending the skylines, 

perishing the oceans with adrift plastic sadness.


I thought you said we could be the mother of something

but our delight is neon and brittle.

Who will wash the ocean? who will guard the sun home?

The sunset is a blown lampshade to a land that waits on secret numbers.


The roads hold up a bridge

to another kind of haloed remembering.

Who will raise the crashed ships from the harbour?

Whose eyes can I fall into for sleep?


A maiden name for satellites, 

white rays of passing cars and the gold that is their shadow

bodying sunset, strangering sunrise.

And we are the holders of sky artefacts

who romance and digitize seraphim.

Plastic Hearts

The ocean is filled up with broken dreams now, 

it blows a tomb of hands all reaching out for the sky, 

stone dictionaries in plastic bags, 

agonise stone wings in ink gulls, 


Whale Nation in a plastic bag, breaking like a heart, 

blankets of exhausted geography. 

The birds are filled with plastic too, 

emblazoning emotions in empty bottles, 

that never sink, that never hold you, imagine you in mercy. 


To feel something, to decamp all the years, to feel something at this age. 

The abandonment of light, the vale of light wanting to find something to shelter. 

To find something to spotlight and live in, 

out of the dark amber and to heaven in. 


A nightfall within the living.

To keep going far, to be with the flowers who know the sunlight, 

arms like ladders, handing out weather to remind you of livingness. 

And you have to praise it anyway, cause it breaks you in two

the seven seas, a heavy metal lover man

the water stars and you all in a backwards birth. 



Greta's poem in support of #passonplastic (


My poem too Leonard Cohen- "Afterlight"



We found out that Leonard Cohen died this morning

and the world was reminded about poetry 

the pale domes of white light

all singing faraway from where we sleep


flame-shadowing gods everywhere

down the Tottenham Court Road

trapped up in treelight

lost in the light of the kitchen


you hold onto me and say 

where do they go, the torpedoing shadows that fill the world

where the moon tries to draw closer and touch love, 

but doesn't quite make it through the fog. 


And how death could be the only way to reunite

and return to music, and find a different kind of peace,

again how the angels must have known already

without the intent of prayers


the long long afterlight

stored up in the day, 

shattering the harshness of the blank world.

But still it rains at home.


Like you, poetry still haunts everyone

like the way we brought our baby home from the hospital

all blue and breathed up 

covered in traffic, a swaying heaven ship


the new cold in the air of our flat

is gentle, a cradle of ships all resting

making the afterlight command 

a nameless world, all static and in us 


we all forgot to be homesick 

unhurt by the thought of “paradise”, 

building empires in our heads, made-up of broken-up light keys, 

the way the word ‘key’ is aways rowing forward


pulling us towards the belief of unseen shores

moving us in, and making us mad again

walking near us, playing hell violins

But really moving us closer to our own need for love.



Love which is warred for

safer in the sky

closer to the birds

who know your dreams intimately. 


I have woken up in a window

and existed from both sides.

the morning is a train

the afterlife is a horse



Riding, riding, the sky to the sky

looking and pulled up 

in the wilderness of the stars that are lit. 


Arms wide open, so close

growing into the dark cupboard

a hyacinth stretching 

out into the first daylight.