Wednesday, 17 August 2016

I Miss

I miss
the subtle rise and fall
of your back as you
inhale                      —                      exhale;
your lungs gently cradling
the oxygen that lulls
you to sleep.

I miss
being able to tuck your tangles
of hair behind your ears
my 'tips                      —                      touching;
gliding gently down your spine
then returning
to your skull.

I miss
the strand of stringed saliva
that slowly dances
from lips                                            to cheek;
as your open mouth
and your tight eyes
paint you in peace.

I miss
the confusion on your face
as your exhalation wakes
your dream                      —                      huh;
as you groggily ask
what has happened and
I giggle.

I miss
your sleepy protests as
the banshee alarm
blares                      —                      alerts;
it demands for us to greet
a new day and you demand
five more minutes.

I miss
the subconscious roll
towards my icy side of the bed
arms stretched                      —                      grasping;
pulling me closer as your
half-alert lips curl
into a contented smile.


The thrill when
wandering the streets
in the dark
and passing another,
a walking shadow,
in total silence—
both thinking the same thought.
Lost in the solitude
of a lawless and loveless

Merry Mess

A damp explosion
     blots to the bottom.
             Peeling erosion;
                     rancid and rotten.
            Daudling it drips;
     crusty and creased.
The page it dies—
                                                        the words

Dog at the Theatre (A Variance of Light)

Has there been a change in light
or have I just noticed your flaws?
The rays that break through the blinds
expose the state of your paws.

The clouds have opened like curtains
with the first act set to start.
The tale to put your tail between your leg
and I hope it's only the curtains set to part.

There's a wound you keep on licking
and put on display with pride.
I too have an ailment
but one that I'd rather hide.

Yet all you know is to whine and cry
not telling me what is wrong.
I try to second guess the story
from the tone of your song.

So I ask you to lie in your bed,
my voice stern yet with tact.
I calmly caress the crevice of your skull
and prepare you for the final act.

Monday, 1 August 2016

Compiled Details

As knowledge piles up in the brain
like a catalogue of sand
I wonder how it can conjure up
the meaningfulness of it all.
So many books, so many articles,
videos of album reviews lauded as classics
and the crawling through the criterion list.
Shapes noticed in marble tiles while
waiting in hospitals
and magazines in dentist offices.
Where does it all congregate and dance
and reconcile itself.
Surely not beneath the skull alone;
deeper in space it meets and gains
There the matrices of experience and memory
and data sit at the table and indulge
in the same bitter stimulant
and laugh about it all
and here is significance gained?
The question itself is laughed away
as an interstellar breeze grazes the skin
of our star-spangled astral bodies
in the café of Jung's darkest abstraction.

Tree Cover Lover's Delight

Have you ever listened to nature?
Not sat in silence, daydreaming.
Not walking through, admiring.
Not distracted by handheld technology.
I mean really listened attentively.
It strikes me how harmonic it is,
the rise and fall; the unison and the grace.
Carefully planned out and ordered yet wildly unpredictable.
People worry about getting lost.
About straying too far from the path and finding themselves
somewhere where they are unfamiliar.
They are already lost; so far gone along
the path of bright lights
that the yhave forgotten where they want to go.

Nature and I have a meeting room
where we can converse uninterrupted.
She is compassionate to my industrial
and smogginess of mechaincal mind
and so I am careful to do my part
to ensure she doesnt befall the same fate.

I met her this week but I turned up late.

Saturday, 16 July 2016

Bird Trap

I caught you in my trap,
little bird,
and now I let you go.
I long to see you spread your wings,
my love,
in magnificent full flow.

Haunted Skull

Echoes of hollow hate, I
haunt my soul. My
ennui is a blank slate upon which
I shade in the grey happenings of my

My mind, whose mundane oscillations
interest no one
least of all me-
the leaves are falling.

Falling, down into the pits
of my mind. Where
I conjure up a ghost of living;
hollow and morose.

Words in the Breeze

Decisions made
in the tree covered shade
where lovers ease
to words
that just the breeze
had heard.

An hour's slept;
the sun has leapt
through the cracks
to peer
where the ray still lacks
but near...

Buried in Creases

The stony hands of death
will surely grip me before
the creases in my forehead
grip my receding hairline,
but when you pass
and I have already been buried
rest assured my tombstone will weep for you
and wrinkles from smiling
and wrinkles from laughing
and wrinkles from thinking
and wrinkles from worrying
and in every crease there is you.


Count the syllables
like the days during winter;
nod your head then die.

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Referring to the Ending (The Day We Left)

Breathless breakfast; Brexit breaks it.
We'd almost roll off the tongue
if not for the ex in the middle,
just as I rolled in tangled sheets
sweating over just how much the nation
hates immigration.
The pendulum swings
right to left
and back, drawing your curves
in vicious inertia and either way
we're in the red.
A pan-European project to address—
to counter-progress—
technocratic anemia: ecological
catastrophes and economic imbalances
spotlighted by iPhone notifications
of myopic irritations,
beside your
Italian leather
Scandinavian bed
made by migrants to mimic
a heavenly cloud where
only you may lay your head.

Night Light

Shocking synapse barrage
weans a wary glance out the soul's windows
apple of the beholder's eye;
heart palpitations, away it goes.

Scalding black drink
innervate the weary soma
stimulate neither skull nor organs
Blind to dreams and desire, mental glaucoma.

Sweet synesthesia needle,
holy skin, mind wholly in trance
gnaw on God's flesh
and falter in his dance.

Rising lumen reflexes
further subdue subterranean sorrow.
Sensory blaze, pneuma to ash
vagrant drift to vapid tomorrow.

Monday, 27 June 2016

A Weapon Often Overlooked

        V                                                                                SOCIETY.
          ESTABLISHMENT        :                                     E
                                       O        DEMOCRACY'S             S
                                      D        E                         L              I
                                     A        E                         I                R
                                   YOUTH                        P                  O
                                  .                                     P                    R
                                                                       I                     R
                                                                     N                    E

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Universal System Attack

Fights are fought
until rights are bought
and then voices are lost
at free choice's cost;
so all facts are distorted
by who has reported
and who they've supported.

The Estranged Daughter

Less of a bridge over troubled water
but rotten crumbling boards and fraying ropes 
Mother Earth is estranged from her daughter
and the Father had abandoned all hopes.

So the child is left in the hands of thieves
blind to ill intentions of company kept,
for those with duty of care takes and leaves
the Father saw this and from afar wept

But he did not step in to intervene 
instead letting his child make her mistakes;
such was his effort to remain unseen
that he even missed visitation dates.

Daddy please return, and mend the bridge
I want to believe that you do still care
Daddy; a girl's on her knees making a wish
I need to believe that you could be there.

Sunset and Secrets

A splintered sunset in salmon skies
stuck in my paws which are rubbing my eyes.
Obfuscating bark parts to reveal
the dark of the woods til the next dawn will rise.

For now, owls perch on branches of teal,
sharing the secrets that night will conceal.
The morning fire kindles the smouldering shade
whilst phantom embers attempt to appeal.

And so in the day, more secrets are made
by that one star who refuses to fade,
yet the day also swears that he will not tell
as the trees protect light with their palisade.

And so time went in a coherent spell,
until the secrets spilt and the first tree fell.


Words will wagger,
I'll wager,
like weary worms in earth.
I've heard your counter-
but cannot see their worth.
They are embroiled
in dirt
and hide within their hole.
Yet if we unearthed
enough worms
I'm sure it would take its toll.

Ticking Away

This starts
as something
something so slight
                                                                     until caught by                                                            time
and is caught by the night
until it departs
without warning
and it is

A Change of Light

Has there been a change in light
or have I just noticed your flaws?
The rays that break through the blinds
expose the state of your paws.
Yet under the guidance of the lamp
you needn't have a bath;
squeaky clean with a saccharine smile
and I can't help but laugh.


The boards, once tightly bound and bolted
are broken and creak under my weight;
I don't avoid their rotting route
but leave my fall in the hands of fate.

The soles of my shoes are faded
and present a hazardous chance to slip;
I don't choose appropriate footwear
but I do a dance to avoid the dip.

Wednesday, 8 June 2016

Seven Years

More dishes pile—
more to-do lists undone.
Shout away shade
and scrape out the muck.
Never forget to smile
and try to have fun 
before the mirrors, their shards
and with it all the years of bad luck.


Synthetic and coarse,
a wild untamed horse.
An indigo glow
with nowhere to go;
slow narrow lanes—
Meetings and migraines.
Pay at the pump
Clinton or trump—
the new fire or ice;
a roll of the dice
and the score is low...
An Indigo glow
—a wild untamed course—
the world shows no remorse

Tuesday, 24 May 2016


Paint the low flying ceiling
to cover the smoke jaundiced cracks.
Anaesthetise all feeling
to forget the faux forged facts

Melt with me in the house of glass
with an espresso shot of oil.
Cackling so crude and crass
as the landscaper tears up the soil

We need more wood for the decking—
sure, just add it to the list!
Pretend this isn't our home that we're wrecking;
pretend that our children don't exist.

Monday, 9 May 2016

Cold Tea

In the cup's chamber, a teabag infused 
and was decidedly discarded - 
happy that it could make the brew strong.
Perhaps enough for one more use,
never as satisfying as the first;
and though perhaps enough to quench the thirst
nobody once those last dregs loose
and left lying for far too long.
And so the teabag, so lowly regarded
was left cold and then politely refused.