You are burnt sienna stuck to a blanket,

raw umber on the doctor’s gloved finger,

a secret ochre on peach coloured triple-ply.

You are the untouchable


turd at the end of a stick,

protesting dirtily.

Soil of soiled underpants,

threatening to collide with a fan,

a happening in nappies.


You are the word at the brunt,

and the rising spires left

by dogs; impasto

in the tread of my shoe,

printed on carpet.


You are the peeping brown crayon,

solar eclipsing,

and the toad, dumped

in a porcelain hole,

never going home.


I sprinkle you with

hundreds and thousands

award you each

a union jack

on a cocktail-stick.


You are the movement

and the mythic brick.

O happy is the pig in you!




With These Eyes

I have seen sandwiches and their wrappings

On the roofs of moving cars,

Beacons of forgetfulness.


I have seen brightly coloured swatches of evening dresses

Caught in the doors of moving cars

Rippling like low flags.


I have seen loose dentures

Of a sleeping old lady

Moving independently of her jaw.


Once, I saw my girlfriend’s sister’s vagina when euphoric twirling

Made her skirt rise and she was not wearing underwear.

I said, “I saw your vagina”, and was asked to leave.


I have entered cubicles

An found shocking brown truth

Of other peoples’ turds.


I once saw a man,

Worse for drink,

Urinate on his own dog.


And once I noticed a conjuror’s

Absurd plastic thumb,

Which, oddly, no one else saw.