Category: Blog

Crawlspace Scratch

Working on a nugget of truth
strapped to the booster
loitering in the translation booth
chasing the rooster
tin can scratch
fiddly little latch
airlock frustration
pointless safety
bubbling synapses
pulling the legs off a small cleaning robot
just for a laugh
something to do while waiting

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Well update time from mission control deep in the heart of a Lancashire emerging into joys of spring.

The production schedule for the collection of poetry and prose called How to Be A Spaceman is actually going to plan. This amazing fact alone is no doubt going to be enough to put a spanner in the works but all seems set for the ebook to be published soon, it’s heels followed hotly by a print edition. Hang in there, spacemen…[and women of course]…

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so you’ve now got a glass eye
that’s great
it really suits you
can’t get used to you without
the eye patch that
gave you real character it was
really sorta you
mine’s a JD and Coke
I know I know sacrilege but hell
hell what the hell
so what
and so here’s a toast to the has beens
and might of beens and
the been’s that still are
long may they prosper
in vulcan peace
well not really soon may their fall come
soon may they get it over and done with
soon may they suffer then swallow their pride
in a lake of rum
hey then they can join us in Alphabet City snuck away on
East 3rd a sparrow’s erratic flight
from Avenue D
and this is not a great part of town
this is not hyper-cool urban angst
this is pay dirt and delusion and a hollow heart
yodeling in the gloaming
only full of words that
don’t fit
and some times the bar is full of Belgians
sometimes Nigerians
sometimes English
some stray Chinese now
and then
clutching bottles
grinning ruefully about what might be and
what hasn’t been
the days are for mooching and for flitting
for wincing and for teeth gritting
the nights are for hawks like you and me
feeling free
with darkness to cut
old world bravado
and neon to caress
with new world glass sharp
optimism tinged with the
of a hidden knife

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I Dreamt Last Night of Nebulae

I dreamt last night of nebulae in my hands and dragons in my pocket. 
Sleep cannot be trusted as new portals open and it is not always pleasant 
or warranted what you glimpse through them.
The stars as grains of lost thought. 
Trains of granulated think matter. 
I am a Spaceman and I stride through the ether talking to faeries dancing with sirens and berating the imps that wish to disconnect my air supply. 
The light bulb is turned on, but there is nothing there. 
When I was young I would walk cliff tops contemplating launches and teasing the gulls about their chains and plotting schemes of domination of the galaxy with the stoats frogs and squirrels.
Now I just carve out urban caves.
The dreams have gone.
The nightmares are friends.
Watercolours in the rain.

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