If we are only ships that in the dark night pass,
that find each other for a while and then are cast
by wind and currents each on a different tack
drifting too far to ever steer our courses back,
then know I fly your name upon the mast
and carry your memory with me to the last.

Junk journalism, like junk food,
is bad for public health;
we graze on fake celebrities
and choke on others' wealth.

We snack on sex and violence,
imbibe verbal abuse,
ingest the latest additives
with boredom as excuse;

we substitute for wholesome fare
re-constituted mush;
our minds grow flabby from so much
re-gurgitated slush.

So is there no alternative
to journalistic piss?
Of course there is - you're reading it,
junk poetry like this.

Flyleaf

"This book belongs to ME"
and where she lives is noted here,
the flyleaf record of her childish glee
at doing something clever, logically
extending her address to England,
Europe, World, The Universe.

Silly to an adult,
out of place, but why?
For that child starts to realise
in those few foolish words
the journey of the mind
discovering worlds within worlds.

When will she see as clearly again
the logic leading on
to the inevitable paradox
of the place of Man?

Inward and outward journeys start
within that child's head -
the distance of the stars
and the bones of the dead.

The neighbour's red hot poker plant
grew spikes so huge they bowed the stems
until they rested on the ground
but even then continued to grow
so that the flowers bent up towards
the sun with tips like snouts and quills
all pointing backwards, vibrant bright
in psychedelic orange and yellow -
hedgehogs dressed in disco wear.

I've had my suspicions for quite a while
but never had proof enough to be sure.
I've tried to ignore it with a smile
but it's getting to be a regular war.

For it keeps on happening, getting worse,
and the more it continues, the more I'm convinced
they're out to get me, chapter and verse.
And sometimes I think I've even glimpsed

them in a huddle whispering together,
planning their next move to do me down.
I still can't make up my mind whether
confronting them would turn things around.

And the way they stand there innocent like
it's none of their business, not their fault,
and then very soon there comes a spike
in incidents of the usual sort -

the bumping against me, trips and stumbles,
the jogging my elbow to make things fall,
the plasterwork crumbles, the radio mumbles,
things are too big or else too small,

the pen won't write, the key won't turn,
the shoelace bow becomes a knot,
the light doesn't work, the sausages burn -
it's all because of their bloody plot.

Objects conspire against me !

I like to see a silverfish
at night on my kitchen worktop.
I like the way it sprints in bursts
like a blackbird on a lawn
but somehow liquid, bending itself
in order to change direction,
flowing like animal mercury
then pausing for breath, or thought
assessing the situation.
Some people may think it unhygienic
but to me it's a piece of magic.

Cremation is a waste of human flesh
much better fed to worm or dog or bird.
True, ashes fertilise the soil if spread
but, potted, nourish nothing, set absurd
upon a mantelpiece as monument
to man's withdrawal from the natural scheme
of birth, life, death, re-use in other life
in favour of the life eternal dream.
Is man so valuable his flabby flesh
is thought too good for other creatures' use?
Such vanity in a species guilty of
exterminating others without excuse !
I'd choose sky burial with my flesh and bones
served to the lammergeiers as final boon
and fly in those birds' bellies through the sky
between the mountains and the keening moon.