Terminus Road


Prentice sleeps rough in a derelict coal cellar in Brighton UK. From one drink to the next, his aim is survival. Fully distrustful of authority, he has a humorous take on life.

In between battles to obtain booze, smokes, and money – by whatever means necessary – he is obsessed with the need to talk to his friend Mark. There’s something he needs to say to him.

Mark, however, is having problems of his own. These are only getting worse with his association with the repulsive dealer Phil Stringer. Everybody hates Stringer, but are too frightened to say so. Even the Police.

But Prentice and Mark share a very, very difficult secret. What can they say to each other when they finally meet up again? Will Prentice find anywhere to live and the companionship he craves? Will he find the next can of Super-Strength Lager?

And what about the enigmatic girl Sophie, interweaving through their lives? Is she just another victim, waiting to be run down by the juggernaut of exploitation? Or is she tougher than she looks?

This is a fast-paced noir epic of the Brighton streets. Funny and scary, it portrays addiction and survival, friendship and betrayal, punishment and getting away with it.

Through the eyes of Prentice we see Brighton and the world itself as we’ve never seen it before.

Eight Stones for Simone Weil

simone twice

London is filled
with delicious little squares.
Sycamores rustle
above the lichened
bench, as I
weigh the
fullest possibilities
of self reduction.
Sparrows skip about
to search the paving.


Whatever I can
do to myself,
will it balance out
whatever is
happening beyond
the perimeter of
this sunken garden?


We consider, with
a lecturer’s wand,
the purest geometry
of existence:
cause and effect,
the mathematical
idealism of the arc.


A worker raises aloft
his hammer
before the strike.


It is painful
beyond any endurance
to feel this point.
To feel this
point is to know, with
an absolute clarity.


The God withdraws
himself almost
in his entirety
to leave a
waste of
time and
space, so
as to create
an abandonment
across which he
can come to meet us.


The humble and
obedient trees
being hacked
down to
construct the
slats of the
brutal instruments.


I am just a
microscopic crumb
to effect the angle at
which the planet rests
on Christ’s
appalling fulcrum.

Theresa of Ávila

teresa 2 2

Always fading in and out

the myriad creatures

coming from the opened gates of creation


I look into the mouth, the entrance

and the fissure is opening

in what I thought was solid


in my own chest too

the wound is opening

in what I thought was solid


and the pain of it makes me still

and try and sit through it, please

I might cry to the hurting god


and the sitting through becomes

a kind of knowledge

and the god suffering through


whatever the god suffers too

becomes a kind of compassion

the companionship of passion


and the myriad creatures

between these twin gateposts

which I don’t need to spell out


for a reader such as yourself, I know,

come flowing out like

a spillage of blood,


spoilage of water, the beautiful

and the putrid, the vanity

and the superabundance of humility.




temporary departure

not having seen enough

by any means


what can I add?

except to

say that the


derelict mental


was always


and good place for a picnic

‘Mental’ that’s

what they say


as if that

was a condemnation

there are long


hallways filled

with broken chairs

the burnt remains


of former campsites

and the birds

are used


by now

to flying in

and out the windows


will this be made

into luxury flats?


or the whole site

a business park

an enclosure


for the supposedly

real business

of the world?


I’ll be back soon

I’ve just gone off

to oil a bicycle wheel



icy waters


The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”, and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom — Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.

The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage labourers.


Version 2

He hangs
From his own tree,
The negative version

The one
Without whom,
In whom.

His isolation
Is greater,
More forsaken.

Time moves round him,
A mythical figure
As he sways.

The money
Is pointless.
From here

To the terrible
Centuries, the ghettos
And the camps,

The children
Hushed into gas chambers.

A kind of hero,
Reminding Jesus that he,
Too, betrays something.

The whole turning away.
Who was Judas’ mother?
Judas’ father?

It’s not recorded
How they felt
Taking him down,

The shameful suicide
Who nobody helped,
Nobody caught in mid-fall.



What am I searching for? Am I looking for a book?  Am I looking for the key? Am I searching for the salt? There’s always something isn’t there? A teaspoon. An address. The divine. Maybe. Or the sex thing. Walking along the seafront. The clickidy-clackedy machinery of desire.

But that’s a digression, isn’t it?

Anyone fancy winding up an orange?

Where’s the key gone?



Thinking about the murder of Julius

As his name-month swelters

And the Unitarian Doric of New Road

Houses a new busker


The formal portico is like a promise

Of something even better

Rational organisation of things

Simplicity of a sun-shaped god


The flute-player misses a note

Sparrows chip the paving

– No blood on these stones –

The next high improvisation he attempts


Disappears into the blue and out of history.

Columns indent like inert components

Of some unwieldy gear

Which has run down now and lies


Disassembled in the workshop –

Cog-wheels and grease, the smell of solder.