July 29th, 2016


This is probably all to do with Donald Trump


Fool's mate fool's mort so early in the game
eye's water sting that this is all we get
sand smashes spills from turned time glass. I met
our death upon Samarra road. My name
from under shroud bass spoke and yours as well.
Thought we had years. Polite I offered seat
Thick cloth makes bones perspire in end-time heat
Death labours hard and honest and his smell
More blood and sweat than mausolean dust.
This it? Above our heads the sky was red
with final fire. Suburban privet bled
black sap. High towers fell in gravel rust.
Death took our hands the world what might have been
Our work undone we burned we ate the green.

After the Bowie Prom


Make it your own once more and make it new
That once was his or hers. Perhaps they're dead.
You hear their voice competing in your head
And love and honour. And you tear down too

That you can recreate. When I translate
Changing the language helps though in a mist
Of not quite yet the word. Funambulist
Trapeze tight walking taking what was great

Real time inventing yours a harder part
Getting what's loved each time both first and right
Performance knife you tread cut feet each night
Both yours and mine not greatest hardest art

Submit our music to another's voice
We sing out proud and humble in this choice.