with a younger fella

& all he wants

is the next drink

next bar

next conversation

& then suddenly

he’s asleep

I ate along the way

while he muzzled

his next drink

& I remember

being like him

not being hungry

not wanting anything

but the next

whatever that next was






& then

the next woman stuck

fed me while I was

necking drinks

& I could campaign longer

in so many ways


howling at the moon

my own

comes late at night

not always in drink

under the influence

once in magic

clutching my stick wand

creating the circle

hearing the world

in all of its senses

crackling in the undergrowth

clouds past by the moon

the wind whipping my words

into the dark

hearing the dogs

sing them right back

wondering if i was being foolish

hoping for no humans on the track

more often

this is a release of rage

venting pent up emotions

not that often do I do this

a need every now & then

pain out loud into the world

escaping this thin cage

levelling up

levelling out

across the void

maybe one time you’ll hear

stop & think

ah, yes,

the fool there on the hill

at it again


seasonal affective disorder

takes so much

some days just to lift my head

feet to hit the floor

throw back covers

get out of bed

if it wasn’t for the need

to piss

I could drift away the day

not out loud crises

some searching of the soul

I’m tired so much

not sure I can raise the pulse

to try & raise my thinking

set some new goal

everything I’ve tried

turned to shit

& I can’t even forgive

my own self pity

not one little bit

it’s the spiral game

fifty eight days to spring

maybe one day then

when the sun warms these bones

we can see

what brighter living


un petite

if it hadn’t been for un petite


that of nature

long journeys

a good breakfast

& open countryside

we would never have found

St Leonard

or to be more precise

his tomb

we stopped on a long open road

in a lay by with no markings

& it was while Madame

attended to her pressing needs

that I found the time to see exactly

what lay in front of me

a fountain of fresh bright flowers

attached to trees

on the ground

in piles & mounds

mixed with bottles of holy water

from Lourdes


with & without your main man

& paper

billet doux

pinned to the pines

stuck in crevices

on St. Leonards tomb

a simple long rough hewn slab

with an upright cross

adorned with tracts


to fix whatever the pleader needed

babies, love, end to penury

& always

more money

& since

we visit this natural wonder

every couple of years


of the mountains

a grand tidying

crucifix on this side

holy water on that

always flowers everywhere

there are marble thank you plaques now

of lost causes remedied

rosaries in the hundreds that sway

in the light breeze

lit by votive candles left by the faithful

as St Leonard gives on


ok its clever & it is an art form

but it ain’t honest I say

if it doesn’t rhyme

then its not real poetry

she says

all serious & firm

& all I got

is yeah, yeah, yeah

it is dishonest I say

that straining of the language

to make a rhyme riche

rhyme pauvre even

my words on the line

are what I’m thinking

feeling then, now, today

yeah, yeah, yeah, she says

but you are not a brilliant poet

ok, I didn’t get to go

to Oxford or Harvard

do a first in the English lit degree

ever get published in the literary rags

& I recognise the words are all purty

the way they hang in the row

starlings swinging on a branch

but if you listen

concentrate on the flow

there’s a note out

missed beats in there

that ting the ear

like a cracked bowl

yeah yeah yeah she says

not knowing

what I just did to her

like the pretty poets

she says knows…

peg or two

love apparently

was the catalyst

prime mover

a deep passion

delivering the need

to take me down

that peg or two

I needed grounding

or something

my crime

being happy with my life

at that particular time

which changed

pretty damn soon

with her program

to shrink my head



to a more decent level

& who has the arrogance


nerve to do that

make the call of judgement

on decisions

to then act wilfully

upon these

& me?

I’d missed her

supreme confidence

grand understanding




& her capacity

to fuck all of it


to make me a better person


I don’t remember



to say

thank you

wasn’t fussed

late night call

I was heading to bed

I need to talk with you

she said slow soft

down the phone

& I asked if this could wait?

no was all she said

doors on the latch

let yourself in

I need to sleep

couple of hours later

she lived that far away

the bed moved

as she lay down next to me

first the preamble

the how do you do’s

some since I saw you’s

& I say: look love

I’m exhausted here

can you just say what you

need to say

& I’ll listen

not fussed ok?

that brought silence

then a kiss

which was a surprise

had not expected that

I think I love you

came in a defiant whisper

ok, ok

as long as you know

I haven’t got any of that

I like you

am fond of you

I need you she sighed

as I counted a while

ok, ok,

I feel you need somebody

I’m just not sure

that that

somebody is me

& I think we drifted a time

when I woke

no weight on the bed

she was gone

a little note left on the pillow

thank you

for being a friend

yeah, yeah, I thought

turning over

pulling up the cover

wonder if I’ll ever

see that one again?

pity mining for pay

when you turn up

happy to meet old friends

not seen in some time

& realise complete

just the one glance

sentiment & time

has clouded you again

immediately understanding


why you lost touch with them all

not malice

no one needs

deserves any of that

but the boring of it all

the not quite’s

got it togethers

but for the lack’ers

never had a break types

the yes but’s

flowing fast as lava on wet ground

& it is hard to turn away

let go

these people meant something


their albatross weight


sucking at the sentiment

like gap toothed two year olds

suckling deep on mama’s teats

this was self protection

reserve of the lover

who learnt the thorny lesson

too hard

dragged to the bottom of the well

left to drown

as they floated on

to their next rescuer

pity mining for pay


gently strolling

on a damp winter Saturday

after a long time of absence

gazing into bright shop windows

being reminded by these

how very few counter culture places

there are left in the world

times we’d roll through here

twenty, thirty strong

Harleys, Triumphs, choppers

the town would stop

stand to watch

clapping & hollering

instant love

of us

what we were

fellow denizens left over

from those heady days

now long gone

& you can take a stick

point out the temples to crystals

candle emporiums

caverns for covens, hedge witches

high end jewellery stores

& mock the fey

if that was your way

yet just enough exists

in these deep pockets

of alternative realities

flourishing & furnishing the soul

despite the heavy commercial presence

of the festival

the people

the alternatives

will & do