The scent of those twenty roses
won’t hide the stench
of our exponential



Don’t look at me that way
with brown eyes
like it was yesterday
your hair
slicked back
a hint of the irreverent grin
that can have me unpinned
don’t lay your hand on the small of my back
so the heat of your palm
leaves a brand
as if to reclaim me

No Regrets

hotel room
in summer
sheets pulled taut across the bed
cotton as tense as the buzz between us
reckless place to be
caught up in the midst
of past
and present
like ants in amber
each expecting the other to move
to remember
what it was like
to feel
to breathe in each other’s breath
leaving room
for no regrets

Desired Effect

Your soft promises of love
written poetically
laid to rest on our bed
had the desired effect
they were the blinders
that hid the transgressions
and the indentation on my pillow
of an interloper’s head

Air Mail

Don’t send me envelopes
stuffed full of hot air
devoid of emotion
lacking any sign of love
or devotion
they are not worth the paper
they aren’t written on


I feared I had lost all ability to write
Or perhaps 
I just lost all feeling
As you suspected I might
once your dirty linen
came to light


You were the DNA stain
impressed on my dress
proof of my

You were the hidden texts
the love letters
evidence, I shredded

You were my greatest love
most hated ex
who courted someone else

Scratched Vinyl

Left me
a lifetime ago
my broken pieces strewn
across the poetry
he wrote me
nestled in the photos
I snapped as we drank
like scratches in the vinyl
of our songs
Its been 3 decades
sleeved in regret
but then he came back
in a reply
(6 years late!)
a fraction heavier
no wiser
a happily married cliche
with children
still a salesman
touting his boyish grin
and all over again
he has me committed 
to sin

Parting shot

this, is for the false memories
suspended in photographs
hung, drawn and quartered postcards
endless phone logs
and care packages
which found their way into your arms
when I was distant and out of reach

this, is an acerbic soap box preach
my parting shot
a ghost
to haunt
the conscience you lacked
when you had someone else rolled on their back
because mine was turned


I wish I knew
what the fuck you are looking for
‘cos I just this minute saw
that creative
you profess to seek
right there…
semi naked
in your bathroom mirror

She said she served herself up to you
on a silver platter
only for you to say you fancied
something less sweet
more tart
and preferably
with no meat

Fear: Sold

Walking home from a nightshift in Sleaford
moving from A to B
in a rough sequence of Muybridge movements
stop motion
stop the world from churning inside my brain
stop my body aching
like a bone refusing to knit
unnerving photographs from the past
super imposed on my conscience
from a time you pursued me down with a proposal
and I simply said yes
to settle 
for less

* first appeared as a guest blog on Ford Dagenham’s Hatchbacks on fire 

Isolated Devices

Caching pieces of yourself
along the crumb trail of infinite feeds
cowering behind age old avatars
cropping away less favourable body parts
in that place
where regret is erased
when hindsight catches up
You delete the diatribe
and in a set of key strokes
it’s taken from view
but still impressed on servers
hanging there
like dirty laundry
awaiting discovery in another time
but this is the modern age!
Characters are formed in technological think tanks
polluted with narcissists and ill informed miscreants
it’s where we present
those fractured and manipulated versions of ourselves
This is the new world we discovered
through coppery wire
and high speed connections
led here by visionaries 
armed with punch cards and magnetic tape
and the irony in all this?
despite their promises
we are still
nothing more
isolated devices


White sheets
like a scene from Tracey Emin
laid back
My leg curled 
over your thigh
a million 
dust motes
in the shards of sunlight
cutting axes 
through the room
dividing our cosmos
like an unsettling analogy
between the former
of this space
and me


I never did
to being

having to employ new techniques
just to connect
like ducking and weaving
the salacious topics
that flowed freely between us

trapping fully formed sentences
behind pursed lips
and swallowing back
the bitter taste of sharp words
in one go

I don’t recognise
your new version of me
the one unable to win you over
with a curved hip
or this soliloquy

* written as a part of a guest blog ‘triptych’ for Ford Dagenham at Hatchbacks on Fire