trans, nerd.


June 2016

By Company

Not every vacuum’s a Hoover,
But every Hoover is a vacuum,
Not every hot tub’s a Jacuzzi,
But every Jacuzzi is a hot tub,
Not every Leave voter is racist,
But every racist voted for Leave,
And history will always brand you
By the company you keep.



A pebble cast
Into a pond
May skip
It plops
And drops;
The ripples reach
From shore to shore
For untold,
A pebble dropped
Into a jar
Drops once;
The ripples reach
Much deeper,
Last much longer,
Have a care.

Time And Tide Take Me

Lost to reverie,
Spilling place to place
Awash with strange and curious dreams,
Nothing to nothing to nothing
Until a pinch


Aware again,
But still so close to the shore
The tide could claim me back
At any time.

14.6.16, A Tuesday By Numbers

Some days the weather
is an extension
not a cause
nor a distraction
and the swirling
muggy nothing
day reflects the observer.

Potentially A Thing

A vagueness,
A possibility,
A start, a hint, a feint,
An idea.
Almost an idea.
It’s fading now,
So write it down,
What little scraps remain,
The dust in the wind,
The fog under the scrutiny of the sun,
To be tied in knots,
If caught.


A deep and airless night,

Darkness settles, warmer.

As Coltrane cools the room,

A book burns my hands,

Rankin thrills and chills,

As do I, in my own way.

I Can’t See My House From Here

Some day somebody else will warm my seat,
Take in the view as I do;
Looking out over the rails,
Over the city-linking A-road,
Over brambles, hedgerows,
Car parks, markets;
From here they’ll see the cricket ground,
The floodlights and the ugly,
Cheap hotel,
The council hands in council vans,
The turquoise detailed building,
The concrete future fading, faded, peeling,
The plastic shell they dumped upon
The winter salt;
The back-end of the bus station,
the apex of the shopping centre,
The tips of varied spires,
The weather vanes,
The ever rains,
The weather as it dawdles north and past;
The ‘vomit’ tag sprayed everywhere,
The chipped paint,
Cracked tarmac,
The desperate public space which
Council money will not lavish;
Whosoever wants this view-
Can fucking have it.


Date, stamp!
Every letter,
Clatter, bang!
All the post,
Crash, thump!
Punching moments,
Smash, crack!
Like you hate them,
Snap, snap!
Through the skulls,
Stamp, stamp!
Of the hated,
Date stamp.

June Brits

Standing shaking at the counter
Turning metal into paper
Accidentally, incidentally,
Stood in everybody’s way,
But nobody here minds,
Standing slowly, calm, polite,
Despite the tired commuter rush,
An anxious hand and anxious crutch
Against which nobody will push
We stand in line.

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