Beans on half a bit of toast.

Beans on half a bit of toast.



It was the beans
on the plate –
just half a bit of toast –
I’d been working late
forgotten Tesco on the way
put the pan on, found the butter,
thought, ‘oh shit, you stupid nutter.
He’s banging on
all over the news
about how he earns
ten times
what you do
and how he once
got a little bit more
as much as you live on,
year on year,
your second husband spent on beer,
your first spent on green beans
when gardening consumed his dreams
and love fell on hard times.’
The beans? Not even Heinz.

The washing’s piled up in the corner,
Mini needs a service;
I’ve only been to a dry cleaners
or airports, since the kids
have married and found life at sea
much kinder than this is.
Inflated salaries, the perks of
a contracted life
inspire me just as much as
being married thrice.








But she moved,
you know,
not long ago.
You should’ve seen
the skip,
the size of it
and all that junk,
as if
someone had died,
just where
she used to park
that car.

She’s not gone far,
just down the road;
she thought,
you know,
she’d just unload.
She hadn’t realised
your grief’s not shed
but shreds
a souvenir wreath
your fancy new

New carpets, nice
and oriental spice.
Desert Island Discs,
she switched it off –
I heard.
The whole time
I was there,
d’you know,
she hardly spoke a word;
hadn’t even
done her face.
this life’s a daft




Jealousy’s vampiric,
draining life from aspiration;
Sirens, soulless, empty, driven
by compulsion, deaden others’
forwarding a situation
riven through with lies.
Vampiric Sirens all despise,
annihilate and decimate
the views which they oppose;
threatened by the Other’s creeds
(the burgeoning)
saddle now the new
with bitterness,
and drinking blood from you,
possessive of prosperity,
the Vampire
drenched in cryptic filth
seeks vain revenge on truth.




It’s easier to say,
in Spring,
that light is only
absence of dark,
than it is to face
in Winter
as the day fades
and casts the eye

on Summers past.

Kindling spitting, sparks
the rough hewn fender
shielding the room
from the fossil-fuelled
and stories reignite,
life’s saved,

watching the fire.




Grief is a hollowing
airless thing
that breathes me,
dreads dawn,
wakes night,
resists Spring.

Grief arrests
beating hearts,
limbos us
and distances the sense of joy
from trees, danced in earth.

Grief is a random
lawless thing
that rules sense
gapes speech,
calls time,
breaks codes
and spreads a canopy of flowers
when love unearths the hour.



Tender me tinderly.

Tender me tinderly


Creative type
Spends life on Skype
Could be fitter
Cleaned the floor
When should have been
Publishing a magazine
Had deadlines not just hit her
On the day the puppy
On the baby sitter.

Never quite
got head on right:
cash on trash
in vain attempts to trap
her youth, get back
the zest for undreamt dreams,
just before insight
from unpublished reams.

Wonders why
you’d apply.
not just for lust,
the story goes
and otherwise,
what’s up with those not on a screen,
the people who live in between
the virtual and reality,
here, heard, seen and touched?

Creative types
Need not apply.
But someone who can drive,
put up a shelf, who’s
in good health,
domestically deaf and blind,
might find
her locked up with some words
at last the Muse unleashed
by your requests for company.
The Bard’s a selfish beast.




I live now in fantasy
with what you and I could be,
quite free of
the insanity
which seemed to dictate fate
and make you my late
Today I pray
there is some way
our dreams have rallied and found fruit
in other shapes, despite our shared pursuits
of darker means to avoid strife
and make the best of life.
I love you still,
I always will, my own fault was my fails,
in capability to exploit the worth
of all that life had given me,
imbalanced by the dirth
of blessings life bequeathed to you
by virtue of you birth,
incubated, insulated at source from
Your worth.