There is, now, such a lot of space debris.
Craft abandoned that were military.
For communications, supposedly,
but to guide bombs to where want them to be.

Test models which have now served their purpose.
So obsolete, are just pieces of junk.
Out-of-control, broken-up, and worthless,
But trafficking space, careering as drunk.

Pieces may return if meet gravity.
Most likely deposit in an ocean.
Otherwise, up there for eternity,
as to clear-up, mankind has no notion.

With future spaceships may well be crashes
which cause more damage than a few scratches.


A move away from the conventional.
A safe place to play. That’s intentional.
DJing tracks, that think, exceptional.
The music played loud, but acceptable.

The corporations still have a big say
on what’s recorded and broadcasters play;
distributed; on digital display.
Promoted as essential to relay.

But, there’s a large back catalogue out there.
Much can be streamed and downloaded to share.
Even found to be purchased, if so care,
and that includes recordings which are rare.

So, musically, there’s plenty of choice
for the small town players to find a voice.


Athlete or Model, should be one of those,
the giantess standing in front of me.
About 6ft 6, I’d say, in flat soles.
She’s soft-skinned, black and beautiful, I see.

Directly ahead of me in the queue.
Standing straight, I barely reach her shoulder.
Her hips and shorts in my slightly bowed view.
She’d be the perfect amazon soldier.

But, could she be ‘trans’, I think to myself.
No sign in her glimpsed face, though, of past man.
Then, at the bank till, see she’s short on wealth.
Exchanges some coins for some in her hand.

My turn when she goes. I see her no more.
But outside, a blonde woman, 6ft 4.


Wade in the water. Wade in the water,
children, to escape and avoid capture.
Great sadness if I hear that they’ve caught ya.
Thinking of you free, for me’s pure rapture.

Wade in the water. Wade in the water,
children, and those dogs will fail to track you.
Getting clear away from here, you oughta.
Take the river; let nothing distract you.

Wade in the water. Wade in the water,
children. Think it a freedom baptism.
Out there, nothing so bad can befall ya;
although, stay free, don’t end up in prison.

God. He will trouble the water, children.
And those dogs will be troubled. You’ll lose them.


Bleached empty buildings, de Chirico style’
A barren, almost deserted landscape.
Lively, teeming life? – this is denial.
“We have enough” said, “no more will we take.

And yet a person here, be like a ghost
in his long white costume, sandals on dust.
Too singular to do duty as host,
other than to similar soul. Greet, just.

This seems to be inhospitable land,
devoid of much human activity.
A playground with children, though, is not planned.
Helping escapees, no necessity.

Those soulless structures fall into disuse
before would be put to life-saving use.


Hands up if know what chiromancy is.
It is a way of reading the future,
allegedly. Such fancy from off-wrist.
Lined-up person’s fate is imputed, sure.

You put your finger on it. A flat palm.
All those crevices within the smoothness,
touch on some burden, or ‘come to no harm’.
Possibilities, can assume at best.

An expertise passed down over the years.
You have to hand it to them. It’s science.
Can even bring out someone’s fears and tears,
or bolster up their means of defiance.

Now, more commonly known as palmistry.
Held out for its real name. Chiromancy.


‘This is the church and this is the steeple.
God bless, inside, all the little people.’
Her grandmother’s rhyme that she could recall,
with hands and fingers shaped, so see it all.

And here’s Todmorden Unitarian
at hand but, of course, huge compared to them.
Pointed. Its tower tall and narrowing.
Two fingers stretched, touching, interpreting.

On a base, long and strong, interlocking.
Both sets of digits securely docking.
The grip tight, made to infer the whole thing.
Finally, inverted, the fingers spring.

And that’s the local folk, there all the time.
At least, imagined, in her grandma’s rhyme.


Rigor mortis, man. Now that’s stiff, that is.
Will get you hard and rigid all over.
Not soft and supple, like a girl who’ll please.
Laid out, man, and it stretches all over.

Don’t want to get in that state, man. Not yet.
Don’t want to go there. There’s other places.
Don’t want to die, man, or live to regret
Someone else’s I caused. Me, disgraces.

And I get locked up, and at risk in there.
Man, in prison a man can disappear.
Be murdered for what did, and no one care.
Man, a lot of the time be spent in fear.

So best I don’t carry this knife and gun.
Or else, a stiff too soon, likely become.