Wednesday, 15 January 2014


We share here our eucharist.
Our minds our churches. 
Our souls the light
our fingers scorches. 

We come to warm wintered skins,
Made raw by winter’s flaw. 
We drink the earth’s own juices
To toast the broken Christ
And mutter together melodies
of crisp seditions,
And reheat rebellions
By wood-fire pulses.

We gospel and graffiti,
Make hieroglyphics with fingerpaints
Scarring our names
On the still wet walls
Of Psyche’s cave. 

Wednesday, 1 January 2014

Poem written on Vauxhall Bridge

Steel ramparts cup the riverside line
Jigsaw light from the window puddles
Melts from the banks in square-faced
Streaks, moonlike on the shallowing dance.

Reinforced fake sandstone towers
Corporate turrets and barbed wire greens
A christ-like crown by buttress pressed
And lined with concreted thorns.

The Millbank sands stand exposed
As the Thames recedes depleted.
New-minted facades in the peaking light
Parked fast like anchored ships.

Damaged silver, brick and glass
Built half-castle, half man of war.
Cranes cranked and bent towards the clouds
Leafed with gold by the watering sun.

St. George's lithium cathedral spire
Defies the gods, the voltaged sky's
Tectonic clash. War in heaven,
By angels won,
 London burns, born once again.

This is London, born again and again,
Liberty, blood, penny and pound.
A teething world from the river's gums.
This is London - now.