ending

@poet’s corner 10 dec 2025

fellow poets, the end is nigh.

this is called, the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

life under actually existing capitalism continues;

a unique combination of boring and stressful

the yoga word lost to an armed counter revolution

be mindful, namaste,

despite the flames, be restful

the firewater fades to a numb, dumb dysphoria

as we tag along

behind the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

on foot due to cutbacks

i think about time a lot, the hopeless impossibility of the past, its unchanging nature, its doubtful provenance. but do facts remain or do they change over time? the despots of the past become sanitised by history. they become great men. nearly always men anyway.

but we don’t need great leaders. we need stability, peace, equality, food, shelter and entertainment. we need good company.

this is called

endless time

how would you feel

if everything happened forever

if every moment of your life was still ongoing

everything always in total contradiction

i want the unexpected

off script, dumbfound me

astonish me quick

with your attention to retail

when they finish the history books we’ll see

we just have to just accept the past

it happened

i was once diagnosed with a terminal illness. that was the start of my midlife crisis. i was then completely undiagnosed on my 39th birthday. a misread x-ray was all it was. i went to decathlon and listened to madonna.

i remember the days after diagnosis. feeling so heavy. feeling like i could forget to breathe. this is called

lonely consequence

maybe we can choose

our consequences

and gain energy as the

days accumulate

have i mentioned my inability to visualise the future?

scared, listless,

unreadily forced to bear witness

a dusken golden moment lighted

a sudden recognition;

that leaden feeling

when they tell you are going to die

is loneliness,

as much of it as you can have.

my on and off girlfriend and i were finally turning the dial fully to off. we were taking active steps to move on. it seemed like that was what we were going to do. i decided i would focus more on my housework. but as usual. the temptation to check in arose.

inconclusive, in conclusion

anyway, that was yesterday,

with that we close the chapter

for now the winter sun flits

over scarecrows, toclips and frosty nips

and it all begins to feel conclusive

but then the things as usual

start to get ambiguous

and once again of the good souls

we must ask forgiveness

and one last thing. this is the last chorus of the first year of my epic, ongoing, poem, the love epochal.

the redemptive final chorus

o wean in a manger,

your chocolate trough

it’s a preposterous amount but

somehow never enough

i have a theory

that love is pain

different but the same

sinkin’ fast

this is the last part of part one! i will be dissecting it in the blog over the month. i’m not going to post every day though. this six months of contect has really taken me more like 18 months of work, so i’m slowing down a little.

the poem continues of course, but from july i will be posting less frequently while i work on new music, and on my first novella ‘comin’ up: a neurodivergent memoir’ which will be published later this year.

chaos vikings marchin’ under summer’s radiation
space tunnel violinist, what did we do to you?
reflect on convalescence’s end, my reaction improved
stars are parts of empires, feart to boo a ghost
i schedule noxious imbibition and obnoxious noise projection
with colleagues, on a rager, dipsomaniacal
the bread, my sour domain, hers an egg on top
perfection is a conspicuous imperfection..
pun-ridden dogger-elly sub-nonsense in
ifunereal nomenclature and dress
but i did have six toasts today, all of them doublers
(lentil, tuna rocket; salmon shallot; ched spicy)
you meet someone you know from gossip
our hour our sense our self
in each case you can choose to cooperate or cheat
and hybrid work means shivering alone
by a lockfast window on a sunny day
my favourite track, the album’s last
round the oval, and pound the quad
on the verge of an irretrievable memory, a texture, a vague sense
tangled shoe, cockapoo, over you, road rash tattoo
honestly what are the odds? the prophecy came first much too soon, then again a bit too late
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.

have you tried the toblerone,
insolent infant?
it’s cheap if you can afford
a lot of it
i have a theory
identic twins in tandem
are set at random on their paths
different, but the same

all through the night, we have no past, we won’t reach back
dilatory breathing, with the inmates chewing fat
i always laugh when i chop onions, ever since my pet cat killed himself
liberty’s light will lead us there, libraries gave us power
elongate the environ of the emblem of they who shall be emancipated
pishhead magnetism combines us, their yolk won’t define us
(con)serve – not conscripted infantry but torpid flabby midgetry
superiors drink-sodden day-to-day erudite popinjays
oh god this ship is sinking fast, just hope we make the buddha last
if everyone had to pay market rent on their home forever
the market would reach an equilibrium that would be better for everyone
except the rentier class, who belong in jail, and may well end up there
were there lots of you? well that’s a posse
honestly i’m just trying to live the most wasted, safe life
antediluvian nipponese amble celebrants and another two bunnies
the next poem will be called the gilet years
sugar rush stroll, the last of my 30s, then back to the wall
more nippon, this time kitchen, with an ambassadorial element
i’m 40 tomorrow and honestly everything hurts, throbs, stings or is otherwise stiff
champagne dog run sling factory tour bonnie umbrella
honestly right now i feel ok about myself,
grateful for what ive been given and have achieved in my four decades so far
maybe i’m ready to start reading novels again
found the partick co-op for a just poetic society
if things are going to change anyway, they may as well change for the better
ditched blade draped bed and became bin overladen
something about ikea bed linen
i watch a boring football match in communion with a centimillion europeans
all good souls forgive each other

have you tried the toblerone,
insolent infant?
it’s cheap if you can afford
a lot of it
i have a theory
identic twins in tandem
are set at random on their paths
different, but the same

the love epochal – stanza 5 – the sack of london

i have a new verse out today – the text was previously published in edge of humanity magazine, so please check that out if you haven’t already (see link below). now live on youtube, spotify, etc.

The Sack Of London

every coincidental couple share or will share a day
(assuming all live lives that lap over and aside)
when one is either twice or half as old as their partner.
we only live in relation to each other:
brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children we are all
in second place again, lo siento, i feel your pain
then a vow: to talk much more on the telephone
hazy jane mountain range and a mouthful of blood
the chip shop salt and vinegar on the edge of the breeze
decline is the consequence of a millennium without conquest
bring all ye visigoths, only the sack of london can save us now
sometimes perspective illuminates
sunny convalescence; can i modify my betrayed reaction?
is there space for love without condition between event and response?
the universe is comprised of information thoughts are but ephemeral forms
deleted from the records for eternity, locked within an evanescent system
but are some things unforgivable?
let’s hope good souls can hold a grudge with compassion.

chorus

have you tried the toblerone, feckless bairn?
it’s abysmally pricey, but so is everything else
i have a theory that brexit is the effective sack of london, by hitler
different, but the same

this bipolar love hurts so much round infatuated hertz
bevvy bivouac, coke and jack in the sack
i read about his suicide on teletext in the 90s
a poet tortured, bill teller of the apple orchard
never socrates unsatisfied nor pig in shit:
we are socrates in pig shit, always and 4 real.
i cut a lana del rey tattoo into my arm, is that self harm?
each generation must make the material their own
smell tomato paste and cheddar, my da’s cooking, my home
a feeling of disconnection between body and homunculus
post-prandial down-dumpsy meek remainderman rain run
ink on scar tissue, perineum to the sun
this isn’t a cover up, the red rose, the guerilla’s fist
i am a loaf of bread, origami, a process
in purgatory every pain and every pleasure you caused will be inflicted back
and you will judge yourself
getting there—a tired prayer to monotony
four goes on the playstation then i eat the whole bloody toblerone
all that’s left is our dismal materiel
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us

chorus

have you tried the toblerone, feckless bairn?
it’s abysmally pricey, but so is everything else
i have a theory that brexit is the sack of london, by hitler
different, but the same