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.

Sunday, 22 May 2016

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.

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.

Infected Light

Fragmented amber light
regurgitated by the lout loitered lamps
sprinkles down through the frame
of a plastic window
[off -white and cold;
yet retaining no cooling comfort]
and brittle leafs, tired and defecated
by the smoggy air.
The light spills up to the sky
and rebounds through the shook-up Earth
- as if a glitter globe -
covering any mystique that celestial sphere could draw
so that even stars and the moon
are just emergency exit lights
of a broken bed-sit.

Tuesday, 19 April 2016

Captain's Entry

I woke up this morning because there was nothing else to do
but gravity's grasp on my head
pulled my thoughts like a tidal shift
so I remained looking at the light
that squirted through the narrow slits in the blinds
like a gaping hole on a ship set for the ocean floor.

Accepting my fate I got out of bed and went to the door
to check if the letterbox held any hope
yet that too leaked
as saltwater coarsely collided with the back of my throat
so if this ship is incapable of being steered to safety
I might as well lock myself in and nail any gaps shut.

I woke up this morning because there was nothing else to do
and nothing of note happened
so I fell back asleep, content
with the fact that I still haven't drowned
and despite the uncertainty that the signals are reporting
I still refuse to sink.

Halogen Engines

The sun lay comatose on the sky's veranda, a hollow halogen for those tethered to its pull.
Soft spring songs swim through breeze like schools of fish drawn to the odor of fresh mulch.
The distant mower cuts a carpet of multifarious grass atop a pampered dirt, 
asking the Earth of its faculty, cacophonous and coughing gasoline. 
A seething and still gravel road carves through the surface of the crust, 
imparting a passageway to an island
swallowed on each side by efficient and mass distributed cathedrals of carpentry,
drafted by architects and subsumed by engineers. 
The buzzing industry of the mower has given way,
the only energy remaining is fluted by the symphony of blue jays and house finch.

Thursday, 14 April 2016


My attempts
to inject vivre
have been in vain
so I vociferate
the vitality in my blood
until it all begins to wane.

A Collapse of Control

Cornered by a cage of conflict;
cacophonous in its callous call.
Curtains veil red velvet cushions
and creased posters on the wall.

Feeling more crap than crapulent
as an aching kicks my head.
Thoughts return to that veiled corner
and my thoughts are filled with dread.

Tuesday, 5 April 2016

No Cigar

I am the world's
greatest disappointment.
Mr Might-have-been
could almost have been
my name.
For every
minor victory, i am
mocked with a myriad
monumental defeats.
I am a man;
in some frozen
wilderness, rubbing
sticks together so I live
through the night.
whenever I get a fire
going, God snuffs
the spark
just to see how far
he can push me.
tonight, hell find out.
because tonight,
my wifi
keeps going out.


Days and nights all terribly bleak ;
a way away from the mundane is all I seek.
A breath of fresh air , something to fill the void
when tar-like despair engulfs all I once enjoyed.
Nights of gluttonous blackness , and days in grey
tomorrow will be better, or so must I pray.

A lapse

My throat dries up and my skin starts to itch,
watery eyes and trembling fingers:
I consume it all but it dissolves within me and it escapes me.

Monday, 21 March 2016




The creek ran lucid, lacerating the hollow of its flesh so that its bones exposed limestone. 
Tree roots reached to the stream, emerald moss gripped, and the water ran whispering.
Then the cry of the red kite.
The clearing stopped.
And all was quiet.

Monday, 14 March 2016

Friday, 4 March 2016

Aged Anarchy/On a limit

Adolescent dreams of anarchy and revolution
replaced by reality's convolution.
That disillusioned dreaming teen
replaced by dollar signs and routine
feeding the machine
rather than offering a solution.


But we've got five years left in the meter
and I can't help but feel
if we invest just a little more
change, we'll be safe from
the warden that lurks around the corner.

Brown Bird

A swiftness of being,
with gentle sky-taps,
contrasts to the ploddy earthiness
of the ground below.

The fog had swollen,
you could chew it,
breathe it,
and squish it in your hands.

It made the sky flax-white,
refined as a leather purse,
or gentle oak-stained
glass of wine.

And with all anchors of land,
a solemn being uproots,
up, up,
and up once more.

Melting Pot

The world will wither under the weight of dust
and the lies of the mass media.

First the oil will run out, and then the trust
descending into mass hysteria.

And all is in the hands of some elected fate
choosing between a burials or cremations;
whichever offers the best exchange rate
must be the best option for Earth's divided nations.

Throw your dollars, your euros and your pounds into a baseball cap
and melt them down for what they are worth.
Smother yourself into their smouldering sap
and save your skin before you save the Earth.

The Sound of a Human

Do monsters ever cry at night in bed, snoring fast asleep?
Do monsters ever stop  and think of who they're going to eat?
Roar goes the lion;
growl goes the bear.
What sound does a human make
sleeping under there?

Dimly Tinted Windows

I think I look good
from a distance
in dimly tinted

Far enough away
to not perceive
my vague expression
as lost.


The light powdering
through the hole in my head
can be seen through the hole
in my feet for I am hollow.
The fact that sleep
won't fix these faults
can only seem to add to
my drowsy sense of sorrow.

A Transaction of Sorts

Silhouettes cutting the moonlight
into long dark rooms;
each of them greeting another.
With a smile and a bow
they part ways
each thinking
that the other will remember him.


What is a silver medal
but an invitation that shines
in another man's shadow;
a lunar loser's false light.

Monday, 29 February 2016


Decomposition is duller than dedication
and I delight in that fact.
The denouement of a decadent demise
is the determination that I once lacked.

Friday, 19 February 2016


We live the bitter rush
the cracks to the skull from words thrust upon our heads
a plaster on the wound and we're good again.

We refuse to see
the earth is not beneath us it is above us
hinging on our backs
and everything tips
but the weight is there.

Thursday, 11 February 2016


The lone man stalks the road,
old patched jacket sewed
marks snake where he once strode.
A stolen meal, nothing owed
he still lives by moral code
that lone man nothing slowed.