Winged Thoughts in the Age of Air

The Sunbank (The Poet, to win back his Love, boasts of his Wealth.)


That dazzling sun
in a wide-open sky:
the banking-house where
my gold is sealed.

At dawn magnifying
daystar with psalms
I draw from heart’s
brilliant vaults;

Noonward disappear
into woods and dells
dappled forestland
withdrawn and sad.

What I love is water’s
silver sparkling gold
a bright-eyed bird
in the dark glade.

At sunset, when
the solar bank closes
I place something
in my eternal account

Solid work done
under the interior sky
stored away from
illiterate darkness.

Good poems are drafts
cheques made out for
billions, trillions.

I pass a bad one
from time-to-time:
anti-civilian reflex.
It doesn’t matter.

No thief has ever
robbed or defrauded
that treasure-house:
masterplans go wrong.

A run on my sunbank
will never happen.
Reserves are infinite

Behind gold doors
closed by fiery swords
beautiful fountain-pens
line counters, unchained.

Take one, engrave
your signature in light
illuminate the world
with your name.


Alarms of the super-rich


Alarms of the super-rich
whiny voices shrilling
high on the wall.

Changing a Tire




Changing a tire
on the wheel of fortune
just after the blowout.

The Messianic Church of the Pancross in Albion

And did those feet?

You know the next line, we’re talking about the unofficial national anthem of the UK

Next question: Whose feet?


Daddy Long Legs

Study in the exhausted
summer where sapphires
die in spider-webs
a sun-dried skeleton:
expired in the arbour.

Wrapped lovingly
around a wisteria pod’s
green torpedo of seasonal
exit, clockwork death’s
beautiful coffin-shaped
mother-ship of final

He offers a small
passionate testament:
something makes
created things cohere.
(Always another world
nearer than near.)


Meeting in Sunlight

A sunlit pavement
dust illuminated
her shadow, mine.

Sublime, since
love is subtle, just
her outline stated:

that consecrated
curve of her face

Where in desire
sunlight sheds joy
across the world.

Philosophers, think:
her two-dimensional
shadow touching mine.

One glance makes
the sun of love
to shine.

Imagine other rays
from that divine
light-source of her eyes.

Lovers, cosmologers!
See a man seeing truth
for the first time.

fireball 1


Men are stupid
women are complicated
but God is so simple.



An explorer lost
at the pole, searching
for the world’s axis
ship crushed in grinding ice
sees no morning
till a distant summer
raises the sun
from dark months.

that returning light
as mystics decribe
warm rays shining
into separation
from a supernatural face
when the dead dream about
the angel of release.

Auroras flicker
round her head;
there’s a flame
in a frozen spine.
Earth no longer
revolves, silently
blue ghosts cast
fantastic shadows.

Oriental cities rise
up into the sky’s
overturned lifeboat.
A photograph
in the underworld
means everything
to men kept alive
in eternal night.


Business Class

cyborg 4

People bouncing around the planet
like three-dimensional yoyo’s
on a squash-court of international airports.

The angular quality of movement today
reflected in sidetracked lives where
everything happens too fast.

A universe unravels as bodies out-of-phase
collide painfully in aching extremities
modern influenza caught travelling.

Magnates cross the sky business-class
names briefly engraved on clouds by lasers
by men with holographic epaulettes.

Only these are too good to touch the earth
too rarefied for our blue sphere.
Business-class is for the very best.



If such a night can
end, begin again
in daylight a new
contract with the sun
out of my black
experience I can say
nothing in this world
is less than one.

If you are returning
through the rain
I’ll light a candle
with a brilliant ray
set it before your
image to behold
your ever-open eyelids
made of gold.

Cyclicity in all
this is the faith
I learn from you
O light that fills this place.
The fractured earth
was broken in the Fall
yet your returning
has the circle’s grace.