"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Friday, March 18, 2016


Our fathers smoked
During the wartime years,
Grandfathers drew back
With toddlers on their laps.
At the football
Tobacco filled the air,
But it dispersed
When the crowd chose to clap.
And I lie here cut up,
Floating on pain,
All wounds bleeding,
Fiercely pierced,
And throbbing,
Each of them
Waiting their turn to exclaim
While my head swims,
Then sinks,
My brain bobbing.
Protect me from myself
And ease my hurt?
I dare you all,
You bands of smug wowsers,
With your sticky hands
In every pocket,
Your slack mouths
Sucking at petrol bowsers.
So put the sun
In plainly wrapped packets -
You stooges of post-modern crime’s rackets.

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