trans, nerd.


March 2016

Macklin Street

Walking east,
The low spring sun
Lights the street,
A perfect silver stream,
Bright, inviting and full of-
Sudden cloud,
The stream flows away
Stained tarmac in its place.



More twisted metal
To further spin
The foul rhetoric.
The fanatical fringe
Holds sway over
Ever more minds.
They fall into the hands
Of people who would
Destroy the world.

If one puts one’s ear to the ground
There is the fearful rhythm and sound
Of jackboots approaching.


My father holds a cushion,
Leans forward,
Watching a game of consequence,
Of great national import,
Of personal pride.
England drive against France,
The last of the games,
For a grand slam.
Or something like that, I just wonder
If I can get to the end
Without sleeping.


My work is at
The mercy of
My atten


Sometimes the gates are dark

Forbidding monsters looming, booming,

Overbearing, grinning fearless

In the fading blink of light.

What visions will they pass to me,

What devils have they cast on me,

As I walk on beneath them to

This night’s Plutonian shore?

Mergers and Acquisitions

Dear vultures,
Please stop pecking
At my eye
I’m still alive
Just too tired
To start a fight.

A Blank Canvas is a Threat

Staring blankly

At the blankest

And purest perfect page,


I’ll sacrifice

Some ink upon its face.

With ev’ry word,

Misspelled and blurred,

A mess is slowly made

Until something

Something something,

Something something something-wait.


Looking Up Again

A day, maybe two,
Was as far as I saw,
But now I can see
A huge amount more.

Forgetting Old Fools

“He doesn’t want to wear it,
He’s kinky,
Not a psychopath!”
And all the family doubled
Up and chuckled,
How they laughed.
A horses bray that haunts me
Even now,
So many years on,
The humour of the eighties,
Made a fool
Of a troubled son.

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