This sacerdotal exegesis

Enumerated passage of

Noah in the dry seasons

Cry of apostolic credence

Art is the condition which arises

As the result of a subjective stimulus/stimuli

Meeting with a subjective response

We may consider subjectivity to be

The extent to which the judgmental process

Is unqualified by context or expertise

We may also consider a stimulus/stimuli

To be the conscious placing of metrials in order

When we speak of response

We are identifying the activity of

Decoding the order of materials

(It is not guessing at the conscious or unconscious order

Of the materials, or the original order or the originality

Of the order)

Decoding is the term denoting

A comprehension of significance

This significance is wholly analogous with meaning

Meaning can be said to be

The condition arising as the result of

A subjective stimulus/stimuli

Meeting with a subjective response

The conscious placing of materials in order

Produces the artefact

There can be no prescriptive

Or definitive category of artefacts

Or materials whose order can produce the artefact

Concern with the materials

Detracts from the subjective response

And qualifies the judgmental process

Through the criteria of context

It is not enough to rely on the caveat of intellect

Intellect is the qualification by context

And/or expertise of judgemental tools

The chief obstacle to overcome

Is a reluctance to rely on the

Judgement of the individual

We are clinging to the wreckage

Of the process of industrialisation

Where every aspect of existence must

Have a qualitative value placed upon it

As part of a continual process of stocktaking

We are perpetually measuring worth

Education systems are  means

Of perpetuating existing values and

Limit the choices of judgmental tools

A professor of literature may spend

All their life conforming to

The demands of the institution

Much the same way recidivist criminals

Behave according to their patterns of

Institutionalised socialisation

And experiences literature in those terms





Sketched Poems

Summer Evening

Outdoors at the Fox & Coney

Sipped gin and conversation

As dusk creeps bringing

A slight shiver with the laughter

The cardigan across your shoulders

Soft to your skin and warming

Effortless  yet elegant form and function

Sometimes the simplest and most obvious

Caresses are the truest and can be

As undemanding of you as

These flights of fancy you inspire


Idle Thought

Unbidden I pictured

Slowly sliding the strap

Of your dress from your

Shoulder and replacing it

With one lingering tender kiss


At 51

No age to be riding

My bike past you

No hands showing off

Inarticulate tomfoolery

Grazed knees from

The playground of life

No longer sting with

The antiseptic dabbed

51 is the perfect age

To show off for you

No fear of falling

Old enough to know

Better and do it anyway


Estimate My Stupid

I’m sorry I said

It used to be sprung

Like a basketball court

But is now a sunken water feature

When you showed me

The thing with the pencil

For the avoidance of doubt

I am exactly, no rounding

Up or down that stupid

Saturday Afternoon Poems (Extempore)

Talking Dirty

You asked me to

Engage in speaking obscenity

As a condiment to our love making

And though I managed some simple

Adjectival nouns I over reached

And was true to myself so I know

“Indigent wench” is not what you expected

But you discovered that the sensation

Of my holding myself in place

While you convulse with laughter

And your body tried to spit me out

Was a delicious sensation worth repeating


But Why ?

Trying to avoid the role

Of cliche expat Brit

In a continental office

I struck upon the verbal ticks

To buy translation time

So a raised eyebrow and saying “Ja, aber warum ?”

Whilst the mind races through declensions

And old vocab tests mostly failed

The conscious mind furiously wasting time

Did he just say that the mice are unhappy ?

Some existential crisis of German rodents

All that Goethe and Nietzsche I suppose

Or is his IT on the fritz

Don’t say on the fritz I did

Once but I think I got away with it

As patiently Karl waits before

“Why won’t you let me use English ?”

I am the other cliché expat Brit


To Spare Your Blushes

Allow me my love to read to you

From the sacred texts

The Hindu sutras of maintaining

Our existence

I will read the Sanskrit

For which there is no literal

Translatable terms and

Explain to you that the lowing calf

Is from the congress of the cow

So please throw away

Your ‘Position a day’ book

It is far too trainspotting

We might as well wear khagouls

And relax you are supposed

To make that noise


Of Proust

Sweet Madeleine if only I could

Consume you now redolent

Of resplendent youth

Made chic with sophisticated age

Oh Madeleine how you wear a skirt

Split to the thigh because

You can never resist the lure of the accordion

To tango wildly with fierce gaze

All those years you spent

Posing as an exotic dancer

On Baltic cruise ships touring

The port towns of the former

Hanseatic Empire “Stepped Gable Tour”

Whilst in truth you were with

Norwegian Special Forces

When I long to hold you in a tango grip

I know you have 43 ways, unarmed, to kill

Not counting your smile

Or that the firmness in your kiss

Is from the trombone embouchure

Your passion, your life

That and whittling ornate penguins

From salvaged chair legs

Oh Madeleine fragrant and delightful

Your scent lingers on me still

Of ginger, lilac and liquorice

With a trace of the tobacco you chew

I treasure the makeshift spittoon

You fashioned from an antique pith helmet

Oh Madeleine I ache

To know your warm embrace

Yet know you must remain

As enigmatic as the shipping forecast

Forties Cromarty Forth Tyne Dogger

Names that conjure you


Secret Admirer

A lady should have an admirer

Who should be courteous, respectful and distant

Though not remote or enigmatic

The admirer should be firm in their conviction of the

Wondrous virtues of the lady they admire

And should be open in their admiration

Then having been clear, concise and  charming

In paying tribute sincerely

Respectfully retire and not seek to engage

In a vulgar pleading since the admiration

Should not be returned, that is the etiquette



Janus Aging

I am a vain, foolish man. I capture myself at times since no photographic record remains of my childhood. So I mess around, and sometimes I think I look okay for 51 which is what I am in the 1st two. They are from within the last 3 months. The rest are within the last 3 years.  At other times I capture my absurd posturing and now invite you to smirk with me at my doofishness. There is also one image from the last 12 months as a reminder that no-one is exempt from the potential harm of a toxic relationship and that I have survived and survived worse. I tell myself that although I may be vain and foolish, I am, at tattered, battered heart, not bad after all.

Now let’s all listen to ZAZ – Je Veux,  and dance.



No, I have absolutely no idea what the open shirt thing is all about or what I was thinking. I know what I think now and it;s exactly what you’re thinking. “Git”. The vest thing was an accident but frankly I’m vain enough to like it. Just don’t be thinking I don’t also cringe. Janus. I have two faces but they’re both honest, faithful and true.

Saturday Anthology


Instamatic snapshot of a moment

Folds across the processed colour gloss

You look pretty to me now and then

Knowing you might read that your way

Which isn’t how I’d say it, mine is sweeter

And in the shared chronology

I wish I’d been your boyfriend

Held hands while sat in nervousness

Learning how to kiss in snatched goodbyes

You would now have locked away, tied in ribbon

Memories of being the centre of the world

Of being Aphrodite and of laughing hard

Until pop came down your nose

Of gently admonishing the too soon clumsy hands

I wish I’d been your boyfriend then

You would still be clever funny you

And still adored and teenage fancied

But with a memory that makes you smile and pause

When instinct calls to self deprecate

You would have thought me a a sweet fool

Then as now perhaps

I wish I’d been your boyfriend

Swap my bohemian melancholy past

For waiting after school for you to come

With a poem just like this one but naive

I wish I’d been your boyfriend

Too shy to describe out loud the racing pulse

And it may not be your colour even now

But I would have thought you pretty

And told you with my uncertain blushing smile

We are both now in middle age weary

Victims of unsolicited offers of no medical coverage

With lives to reflect on full already

But as I sit and reflect

I wish I’d been your boyfriend

Idle curiosity I suppose

Sat  across a table from each other

Slight frown as you ask me “Really”

And now I have the age to be truthful and naive

“Really, I wish I’d been your boyfriend”

Wish I’d had the privilege of being a place

For always where you are Aphrodite

And I am always more innocent


Sunday Morning

I rise at six and shower silently alone

Soft tread down the stairs for coffee and

“Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet”

And meditative prayers of thanks

Cross legged on the lounge floor

The unnamed homeless man and I sing

Certain of the redemptive power of hope

I adopt my yoga position of the ‘Returning Romantic’

Flat on my back, soles of my feet on the radiator

Warming through like bread on the fork

And once too warm I climb, to my feet and the stairs

I heard you abluting and slip myself back beside you

Cold feet warm themselves on mine

You, the Sunday morning starfish duvet hog

“Which makes me shivering Spongebob yet again”

An indulgent smile creases your mouth

Fresh minty kisses are exchanged and you drape

Yourself across me, gentle, soft and content

And as I sit alone coaxing this thought to sit still

Not even knowing your hair colour

The unnamed homeless man and I sing

Certain of the redemptive power of hope

“Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet”

Interview with the last remaining Arctic Penguin

Q: Mr. Penguin, thank you for agreeing to be interviewed. It’s unusual for a penguin to be able to talk.

P: Well what can I say ? Not only am I the only remaining specimen of an entire species, not only do I live in the arctic wastes entirely alone, but evolution has blessed me with the ability to talk. It’s a tough gig, I’ll tell you.

Q: I can imagine. Who do you talk to ?

P: Puffins, seals, and occasionally polar bears but since they are natural predators those conversations tend to be pithy.

Q: But puffins and seals respond ?

P: No they’re puffins and seals, innit ?

Q: Er, yes I suppose. So tell me, why are you in the arctic ? Every other penguin species lives at the antarctic.

P: Why is anyone anywhere ? Fate ? Circumstance ? Narrative causality ?

Q: Narrative Causality ?

P: Things happen to protagonists because they are protagonists. Or to penguins because they are penguins. Not because things happen and eventually happen to everyone. You wouldn’t be interviewing a puffin for example.

Q: No, but there are many puffins and they can’t talk.

P: Neither can Justin Bieber, but it doesn’t stop people yanking the poor guys chain.

Q: Hmmm. I suppose so. So how does it feel to be the last of your species ?

P: Lonely, obviously. But I’ve been an adult in the wild for years and you get worn into a groove. A slightly melancholic groove, but I suppose, ‘eat – sleep – preen – repeat’ sums it up. A film crew came up a couple of years ago and left a copy of a so-called ‘authoritative guide’ to my behaviour. And it was bizarre to read what I’m supposed to do. After a little while I got a bit down thinking, “Gosh, I don’t do any of this. Maybe that’s why I’m the last.” But that passes. Nah, my life is a country song, but it’s a good country song with a decent beat. Dwight Yokam or a young Steve Earle perhaps.

Q: I see. Because I was looking up your courtship behaviour…….

P: I’ll be perfectly honest, it’s been years. For all I know my courtship behaviour is “wears a hat and plays the trombone”. I have no clue what I’d do if someone released a female into the wild. You see I could read that book about my behaviour and if it’s as far of the mark on that as everything else, I run the risk of being thought a pervy little bugger. I believe that one of the reasons my species is so endangered, the females had a pretty low tolerance for ‘stupid’ as a trait in a mate.

Q: Your quite a complex penguin.

P: Well, you spend some time howling at the aurora borealis and you get to thinking a few deep thoughts. I mean, is certainty possible ? you ask.

Q: Did I ?

P: Not yet but you were going to. I mean I actually meant ‘one’ but if you wander around the arctic saying “Would one like pilchards ? “Why yes one would” then you sound a bit, um, something.

Q: So is it ? Is certainty possible ?

P: I’m glad you asked. If you write the question down what you have a is a collection of symbols which have a common value denoting combinations of sounds which is linguistics. Certainty and possibility are competing ideas and the comparison is limited by our reliance on language. The question is a moot one. Demonstrating the limits of language to convey the subtle complexity of thought.

Q: So solitude suits you.

P: I think you get used to your own plumage. As far as I recall from when I was an egg, I believe the female courtship begins when the female starts to do a little dance, which gets more and more elaborate. Encouraging the male to join in. And apparently, I mean I think but don’t know, if you do join in there’s every chance that the point at which you reveal yourself so desperate to please that you do ‘the soft flipper shuffle’, she knows you have the ‘stupid’ gene

Q: Thank you Mr Penguin

P: You are most welcome.


Night and Day (When the jungle shadows fall)


Prompt (From Reowr)

You laughed the stars
Into the sky
Stink faced
Shoulders bobbing
Pig snort inhalation
You have never been more you
And never more beautiful to me


Worship of heart and friendly ears

All at once

Words familiar to my ear

And foreign to my tongue

Speak the language of heartbreak

So wait a minute

And pour your grief

Into a friendly glass


Wolf in Wolf’s Clothing

I am

Not the ghosts that haunt you

I am

Not the smile to taunt you

I am

The soft pillow

I am

The safe place

I am



Breast Fed

Buried by the lava of sleep frozen figure

Ash of dreams in the air

Flutters of eyelids and autonomic arousal

Somatosensory sexy

Olfactory erotic

Nipple to cervix  postpartum healing

Neurological exploitation

Now made milking parlour sexy ?



Stations of the cross

You kneel with a familiar genuflection

Of rending unto me

Incense in the air and eyes locked

Communion of cartilage on your tongue

Rosary fingertips across your cheek

Profane benediction by a wanton supplicant

I have died for your sins a thousand times

I am no redeemer nor have I risen

I am the flesh and the blood betrayed

I heard your confession and forgave

And now you earnestly invoke

A secular Agape feast



In the glare of ugly words

Almost onomatopoeic

Hitch and squat and

Ease and sink and grind

An urgent afternoon of disarray

Aching in the limbs from passion

Loved dry and whole

Bruises from urgent collision

Hot glow soreness and contentment



Long tender strokes

Rhythmic cadence

Of the brush through your hair

Holding gently to allow it to cascade

Down on to your shoulders

From the sides and back and up

I spent my urgent energy in tangling it

So tenderly take care to undo

Wrists crossed held above your head

Willing submission craving

And now sipping wine, feet moisturized

By my own hands, still and sated


Images of Inspiration & Beauty

I keep a catalogue of images I come across that for one reason or another inspire me. I credit the artists responsible for their excellence.



Your name is not unknown or needs translation

You are the language of skipped heartbeats

Eyes locked through candle flames

Laughter in the rain

The hand held during pain

A shoulder, that is tear stained

Of the simple joy seeing regained

The empty street where you stood

My eyes straining to see the promise of you