a trick of the light

numbers can turn
cornering on light
a second's refraction
a redrawn future

glassy possibility
the infinite, it's instant
cycling narratives
a show-reel of

cars and houses, probably
a heartwarming
end to poverty "a
journey" numbers resting

with a glazed impermanence
it's here, on the
cusp of ambiguity
you decide if

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The School Run

I've got two humans in tow, differently-sized each a parcel of traits and possibilities likes and fears one wants to be an artist one wants to be a superhero both wrapped up against the first cold day of Autumn A clean moon in a washed sky the novelty of breath and we stand and wait at the side of the road for the tide of one tonne metal boxes towering over the littlest's head each carrying one person to belch and fart past us, inches away a seemingly endless stream of personal choice dreams of individual freedom as an act of collective madness doing their bit for the two humans' future

Up in smoke

"I observe that the Prime Minister has decided that in future, smoking will be banned" said Cornelius, looking over his dead legacy media artefact whilst indulging in a cheroot of vulgar length. I entertained private thoughts about the wisdom of having a heat source so close to a flammable object, but refrained from voicing them. "That is within his purview" I replied, primly. "And one could make the argument that, libertarian concerns aside, it's not the worst idea he's had" "Indeed not" replied my friend, who had now swapped his cheroot for an indecently large Meerschaum Pipe of the classic Sherlock Holmes style (the proper one in Black and White, none of this modern nonsense where they repress their homoeroticism in the Tate Gallery or somesuch before eating hummus) "For he has had at least four truly terrible ideas this week alone The man's an arse." "Indeed he is" I replied, "and one could furthermore ma...

Pounds and ounces

Bushels and pecks and barleycorns a glorious inheritance chains, leagues, gills the tides of history the great rolling mass of history, our reclaimed birthright one holds back a tear while ordering a quarter of humbugs for everything is quantifiably British now, we can measure our waiting lists in leagues, count our dead by the hundredweight observe the roods of sleeping bags and cardboard the queue at the food bank is ten perches long (or ten rods, if you prefer, either way, it's 250 links) two gallons to the peck of tears four to the half bushel emphasise the Imperial ahead of the measurement, and why stop there? why not count the flow of money in florins settling gently on the floors of offshore counting-houses Universal Credit, reduced by guineas but a thrupennny bit for nurses, be grateful have a shilling, console yourself that even if there's no food on the shelves at least we can measure nothing in ounces

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