an introduction to the love epochal

my poetry is about process, as much as it is a poem. i think of the love epochal as one long poem that i hope will never end. maybe someone can pick it up from me at some point. pass on the responsibility until the robots replace us.

it is just a series of random poetic thoughts i have. or overhear. a lot of business jargon finds its way in. little bits of gossip about random people. lots of thoughts in the bath about philosophy. but ultimately it’s a sort of diary of the life a fictional, autistic poet who is trying to approach the world with unconditional love but can’t help hating fascists while also being busy and overwhelmed generally by the day to day experience of life.

i edit the poem and post it pretty much one year to the day after each bit was written. the editing is a dialectical struggle between coherence and adherence to the linearity of thought. at first, i just put it more or less in the order it was written and just edited for rhythm and rhyme.

after performing a few times, i started aiming more for coherence, re-ordering to try and link the thoughts into a series of almost self contained little poems. but you can’t herd poets so generally i fluctuate between these two poles never fully committing either way. perhaps to the project’s detriment. who knows. i’m just an artist. i don’t have to make sense.

i also write little blog posts inspired by the day’s poetry. and i sometimes make spoken word versions of bits from the poem, and videos, and these things can be found on spotify, youtube, apple music, all those things. and that’s what the love epochal is.

horse

@poet’s corner 7 jan 2026

hi, happy new year everyone.

this isn’t about horses, but it sort of has has a donkey in it, and i think the don himself rode a mule, which is somewhat horse related i think.

i had been writing a lot of poetry in 2024. and in 2025 i started posting it to the internet and reading it in bars. and continued writing. but in a new context – a public poet. i mean, in a limited way. this change made me think of book 2 of cervante’s don quixote. one of the first great works of meta-fiction.

reus brexitus

brexitus rex, a fencepost;

no entry for french blokes

yes hello we are here

it is act two of don quixote

or quixote like… piss moat

(though i prefer quixotic,

like chaotic)

anyway

so far so quixotic

(to rhyme with exotic)

anyway

in which we ask,

will the windmills we recall

from the first act charge back?

in which we find,

that windmills

don’t charge on poets

this next poem contains one word that is a derivative of horse.

it is about an idea i think about a lot which i call the book at the end of the universe.

i like to think that, when this whole thing is over, all the players will be invited to inspect the logs and find out what the other characters were thinking, what actually went down, who thought they had got away with cheating, and so on. like, the ultimate compendium of gossip, sleaze, and quiet morality.

the book however raises questions: could it have existed before the universe started? does it already exist? do the players who have already left the game have access to it? or are there superplayers who have access to the book now? and would reading the book change the book?

anyway, this is…

the elucidation

hey. imagine if everyone

knew everything

not about the physics and philosophy of the universe,

god and the mystery of life;

but about every dirty thought you have ever had,

and all the gossip since the pharaoh and moses

smoked camel lights in negotiation

round behind the pyramid

not just who horsed who,

but every weird wet dream too

we would be more liberal and better behaved i should think

subterfuge stymied,

the obfuscated elucidated.

staying almost on theme, i want to do my first repeat, because while it doesn’t contain a horse, it would have if it not for the austerity budgets of david cameron and george osbourne. apologies to anyone who didn’t like this when i read it four weeks ago. also, apologies to anyone who doesn’t like it today.

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

finally. i don’t like to write too much about politics. i have a degree in political philosophy. i used to wish people were more interested in politics. i have been proved wrong.

anyway

a new leader had been ennobled and he was promising to end wars while at the same time pardoning violent people who were in prison for good, violent reasons. a mockery has been made of the rule of law. corruption is open, bragged about. it’s depressing.

but there is a horse in this verse.

all the king’s memes

i despair we are so selfish

in such a self defeating way

meritocratic is not

what the world is today

it’s a pump and dump town

and there’s new mayor in clown

so double down

to top trump

they say

all the king’s horses

and all the king’s memes

couldn’t repair humpty‘s

defective genes

he pulls fascist faces

and pardons racists

we can only prey

for a ceasefire that sticks

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

the wind cools and we race to the ferry and over the hill / comfortable in the air between fiction and essay—

the best bike rides have boats in them. that’s just a fact. we were nearing the end of the holiday, and fortunately the wind calmed a bit and we got an epic ride over the big mountain in.

i was comfortable and cool in the breeze, and considering one of my favourite writers – milan kundera. he writes perfect prose, light yet weighty. deep with philosophy, shallow with the needs of flesh. the story is unimportant – the storyteller is the whole show. characters, plots and places are tools which the author uses to carve the meaning of life into his reader.

another shoe that never drops, no leg too short to scorch the earth

i had never heard the phrase ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’ before. had to google it. reminded me of a competition i heard about on radio 4 many years ago for pointless aphorisms. the two i recall are ‘no leg’s too short to reach the ground’ and ‘you don’t need niagra falls to wet a stamp’. it’s weird what sticks with you.

#poetry #writing #autisticart #aphorisms

a nearly new horizon lost, for which i missed legs day at the gym

i feel it is important to celebrate rejection. somewhere buried in the disappointment there is hopefully a lesson. something constructive to be taken. a way to improve. but even if there isn’t, even if you just tried your best and failed, isn’t it better to have given it a shot? and now, a year later, i can look back and i know that if i hadn’t had this rejection, i would have missed out on other acceptances.

#poetry #spokenword #writing #acceptance #rejection

story and sensation is all there is, between the end and the beginning

what is it to be a human? in any instant, all there is are the sensations you feel, see, hear, etc. a temperature, the weight of the earth pushing against your feet or arse, your shirt label on your neck. and then there is the story you tell yourself these things mean. but you know, you could be a brain in a vat being fed false experiences by a computer. and you are free to tell yourself that story if you prefer it.

cursed inadequate chuck-sticking, can’t hold cash either

i can’t really throw. or catch. i’ve got a bit better at it over the years, but i am just not a hand eye coordination sort of person. likewise, i am not designed to use raquets. i once chucked a tennis raquet into the air in frustration, only to catch it with my face shortly thereafter.

i don’t think i have ever successfully struck a shuttlecock. and how anyone can hit a baseball with such a narrow bat i’ll never comprehend.

so it’s little surprise that i am also hopeless at chucking sticks for the dog. yet every time, i’m a bit disappointed in myself. a bit of me seems to believe i’m eventually going to get the knack of it.