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.

Wednesday, 10 February 2016

Late Night Reading

The glass of sea in my right hand
obfuscated the light that the window
did not confiscate. These black bleedings
of thoughts that time had spat out.
The bowling blues of green sea-hues
turned beneath the waves of sheets.
The Captain called for his ail,
as I drank my fill of refuge and seaweed.

Thursday, 4 February 2016


The wind howls in an open corridor,
caged like a bird but singing nonetheless—
it seeks not an escape from the confines—
but to wreak terror on the terrestrial testing that trapped it there.

The clouds part and the jailer appears,
grinning sadistically, keys in hand—
the sentence is simply existence—
and the sounds can barely escape the wind through all of the seeping shade.

It has prepped its face for a death,
an unkind death, swift and stiff—
It will become as rigid as a floorboard—
and you will hear it creak at night when all the little lights go out at once.

Saturday, 23 January 2016

As Yet Unnamed

A summer day, whose heat belied
its overshadowed sky, enveloped in a
variegated green rolling from one
landscape to the next,
and in a madified mound framed
the moment where I divined 
that you and I - we -
are a pair.

So dead and dry those lifeless blades
of grass, when compared to that of your
exposed shoulder,
that the torn grass could scarce
forbid our youthful hearts to know
that our neanic bond
natures dearth.
Which severed stump?
Which wooly verge could ever demean the joys of Venus' domain.

That day I could taste the droplets
of your name on my lips, as I
exhaled; its wide-mouthed prefix
swam towards my joining lips
pushing together in unison
before lengthy sigh
had my tongue crashing
against the roof of my mouth,
stretching out the last sound,
impossibly as it was not to smile in ecstasy.

"Begin again!", I heard
your heart skip a beat. When whispered
your three syllables recall
bleak days when no-one had sounded them at all.
The hearts of men, of women,
of beasts and birds
cannot survive bereft of loving words.

Floating on Rolling Hills

Cradle me in your codeine
as multiples of
my out-
s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  d
arm reaches to
yours, lain cold on the carpet; pressed against glass
doors, spilling over green
meandering rivers,
and lonely roads alike.