Sex Master 3000

Richard Dawkins is on tv, some kind of shopping channel. He is naked. Luckily, I can only see him from the waist up, the lower part of the screen covered by images of the DVDs he’s selling. He’s making pelvic thrusting motions. I realise he’s having sex with someone unseen. He’s advertising Sex Master 3000, the ultimate course in lovemaking. I feel a little sick. 


9/11 on Sidwell Street

Crossing the border 

By the ghost Eastgate

Dark clouds gather in the East,

Sunlight from the West,

Into the dark lands

Chavs shout,


Pavement blocked 

By bus queues.


Bombard the damned

Who live and love beyond 

The ideal worlds 

Of Next

And John Lewis 

Whose aspirations 

Are found in Poundland 

And deep frozen in Iceland .

Fallout From Syriaย 

I’m in Israel or Palestine. A relative has had me voluntarily sectioned. I’m in s drab, grey room. Rubbish is strewn across the floor. The relative, a posh woman, has a dog with her. It’s a present. Somethng for me to hug. The dog digs his feet in as she tries to drag it over to me. It’s terrified of me. I must be a monster. They leave. I try to figure out a complicated lamp, and increase the illumination. There’s a tv. Every channel displays a world wind map, showing nuclear fallout drifting from the Syria bombing, across the globe. Huge numbers of people will die. 
I leave the room. The sanatorium is more like a hotel. I’m only booked in for a few days. I go down in a lift, to explore outside. A doctor in the lift talks to me about s difficult patient. A fruit display is arranged like a human arm. 
I’m exploring a medieval castle, on the Jewish side, everywhere here is separated between Muslim and Jew. It’s a lovely ruin. At the top, I see people setting up for a performance. They’re all volunteers. They rig a PA system and lights, and set the stage. I’m sat amongst many tired, noisy, Americans. People walk on stage. Tibetan monks. One is the Dalai Lama. The monks wash the feet of selected people in the audience. The Americans are brash, noisy and inconsiderate, as if watching a tv show in their own homes. People tell them to shut up. I’m brought on to the stage, not by a monk, but a Nepalese secret service man. He makes me kneel, and shouts abuse at me in Nepalese. I don’t understand. A monk leads me away. I’m dressed as a monk, and set free. 
I’m with the Steve Harris. We order food at an outdoor Palestinian restaurant. We take a seat, and chat to two Palestinian guys at the next table. They have very light blue eyes. We talk about Tony Blair, and war crimes in Iraq. They speak excellent English. Our food is delivered to another table. We gather our things. 
I’m lost, I have Steve’s jacket and bag. I follow a grey haired guy along a precarious path and try to get my bearings. He leads me through a confusing urban landscape of landfill streets, flyover railways and ageing, but beautiful buildings. I spot a market building I remember. I thank him for his help. I know the way back to the sanatorium now, only a few more days of isolation and mental torture before I can fly home, away from this confusion of duality and separateness.