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 .


Gym II 

mark e smith

Sings in my ears

Hot runes

Two librans

The people in sight

Move in time

Grotesque Waltz

In 4/4 time. 

A John Bird

Gives us his opinion

On professional begging

Figures are quoted 

No evidence presented 

Good Morning Britain

From the mainstream media gym

We’ll get your mind trim

Shape your behaviour

Into Piers Morgan 

Bomb Making

I bought some fertiliser

Modelling clay

And the secret ingredients.  
Mixed together 

In the right amounts 

I got my hands dirty

I’d got angry

With the forces of death

The forces of control 

Things need to change. 
When the bombs were ready

I filled my rucksack

Took a stroll

To a busy place

A soulless place

Where people slept

As they walked through greyness

Devoid of life. 
I threw a bomb. 

Earth, water, and the fire of life

Curving through the still air of the city. 
There was no bang

No flash of light

No death

No destruction
Just silence 

Waiting for the rain to come

And free the seeds of secret fire

Bring life to lifelessness 

Colour to greyness

Hope to the hopeless. 

The Wave Projector

throwing space.

 like side street change 
colour medicine ball lessons. 
There’s a people-birds aware.
happy to The sun 
Some leaves again,
 A Lonely and Great teaching 
 Old, it looks a little ceramic and warm 
spiritually pleased as before.
starting to friends singing, 
wave projector. 
Join in. Today.
 Be washed out. 
Candles. Too bright. 
 I want not the skulls outside,
the leaves I am kicking just want a project. 
It is working today. 
Cicadas chirping. 
Throw the
Ball at the piggy, 
Outside of feeling 
And wave sad, colour on.
I am Upstairs, sometimes balance is a teaching space. 
Too hollow, Inside
He’s to happy pass.

Parliament Street, Exeter

Narrowest Vein,

Hard to spike the needle in that groove,

Pixellated on google maps

Smallest in the urine-nation.

A shortcut on a Saturday night,

Between burger and fight

Like the house of its name – narrow as their minds

And equally as full of steaming, stinking piss.


I escaped from a sinking ship
Made of concrete.
Climbing out of council house windows,
I took my game to the universe.
Rebuilding language with cartoon fonts,
Redefining meaningful action
The Ludic ethic as my creed
No longer ruled by greed.