From (CRK) To (CGQ)

Dancing in place

with Pink Rabbits,

a rhapsody in standing still.

Stillness wilts

and the past is dusk so

journey East.

Start again.

Feign interest.

Say sorry


say Goodbye

to Rose.

Once more.

Without reply.


Infinite Fool

What’s this shit lipped Black Itch got to be so pleased about?

Coarse idlin’ bastard, the summer’s his!  His days are warm meat, that’s what…

sweet salted rot

endless fucking

divine filth

hopeless glutton

infinite fool!

A fat, healthy fly

can really kick you

when you’re down.

CRK Guernica


Evening fell and as I attempted Proust, all my guilt came home to roost.

All at once, my shame it rose, jolting limbs from rich repose.

I knew well this sad sensation (a diurnal fixture of my resignation),

but tonight was different, tonight was new.

In my bones a fresh malady grew.

No longer was a simple spectre brewed,

no longer the chill of my lost Blue Nude.

The visions that held me then, and the horror that holds me still,

is the carnage of Guernica and dead horses in a field.

Dead horses in a field cast my stomach black.

Franco’s fleet foot incendiary yield did my conscience rack.

Where was my saccharine melancholy?

The prize for years of mortal folly,

of grandeur sought and storming mood,

my sweet misty release, Blue Nude.

No thoughts could stand still in that dead horse field,

no dreamy reflection of the fate I’d sealed.

All that stood was acrid panic, rictus features and ash Germanic.

Good God my appetite has been so crude!

Crying hunger, whilst on fat I chewed, leering and aching and waltzing Blue Nude.

So when market day came I took to that field, her as my armour, my Svalinn Shield.

There in Guenica I stood and floods of fire fell,

as black fat cracked under grinning shell.

Evening still falls, far off bells do peal,

whilst in Guernica I lay, twisted amongst those dead horses in that dead horse field.

Exit, Pursued by a Bear

This play is for the Meadow Cows,

on the creaking lane, ‘neath the creaking bows…

Horses in audience for the grieving Clown who casts himself in;

Run Out Of Town!

How stunningly daft this theatre of fools, with it’s Watermelon and it’s Swimming Pools!”

The player, a spectre, pacing a well worn floor…

“For my unhearing Love! I love you once more!”

“Unhearing! Oh Boots…”

Turned away in her chair,

Clown exit stage right, pursued by a bear…

Absent Without Leave

For those of us who’ve picked it up just to put it down,

found it wanting

and thrown it around.

For those of us who return the next day

with regret in our eyes

for what we’ve chucked away.

For those of us whose keys don’t fit,

whose bridges burn

beyond paths dimly lit.

For those of us who walk slow in the rain,

who wince at the touch of the Boss and the Chain.

For those of us, I propose a toast!

Or maybe an apology,

a letter in the post.

You didn’t see me coming

but then neither did I,

for those of us who yelp and rage and fight and fly…

Norwich in Aestate

Summer is wasted on the suburbs

Shining a lamp on blank pages

There’s a fizz in my head I could put through the wall

The walls of this flat

These beige walls…

Just move the laundry rack and charge

The neighbours won’t notice

Over the hum of mowers

Of hedge trimmers

And football results.

She’s in the corner, quiet again

Staring at her phone, puffy eyed.

I’ll go to the cupboard and drag on my sadness.

Tomorrow can screw.

Wake me in the morning and I’ll blow smoke in its eyes.