Friday, 27 September 2013

Seasons Swept Aside

The first leaves have fallen on my dusty careworn drive;
a forlorn foliage graveyard of deciduous death.
Indubitably forsaken from arduous ceaseless use
but not pity peppered in it's plight.
It instead houses those haggard hirelings of the harvest Moon—
like the branches across who had embraced those leaves
and sheltered my drying drive from the ascendant summer Sun-
a favour reciprocated through their ceaseless tacit pact.

I've watched the seasons stake their claim
on that stoic horse-chestnut across the road,
but none could conquer nor truly compliment its colour.
And sweeping the first leaves from my dusty careworn drive,
I discern how drastic the difference appears from mere months ago,
but I can admire how subtly small the seasons shifts really really are
when observed at a distance.
Colour will rekindle.

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

A Sunrise Stroll

Dew-kissed toes
in permeable plimsolls
as morning's coffee breath
collides against my neck.
The wrens cheerfully chirp
to my trudge through leaves to work,
a bracing halcyon blush;
I embrace my morning rush.

A Step in the Right Direction

The moon's bleach illuminates ultra-violet freckles
on your exposed shoulder-blades
as your furrowed frown searches for meaning
in the leafy silhouette of your frame.
You step into the forest's mouth and the silver halo,
which had orbited your crown, falls and fades
and with the bleaches kiss, restless thoughts are cleansed,
all wild and rash becomes tame.

Obscure Junctions

Spanners can so swift and suddenly spring;
the coils of life leap like a jack in the box.
We cannot say what the next day will bring
so we cannot be prepared for life's shocks.

The fog on the path obscures the cliff top
but we have no choice but to walk blindly,
hoping our feet don't reach the sudden drop
and, if they do, the fall treats us kindly.

We should not become bitter about the road
for it too leads us to places of joy.
This route can take us to places so broad
so we should walk; and both rise and fall enjoy.

The twists of this network can lead us dazed
so open your mind and become amazed.

Monday, 23 September 2013


Over-eager summer nights
strip me naked drenched in sweat.
The window is no escape
nor her hazy cigarette.

Autumn evening's welcome sigh,
a brisk breath against my bed.
Her acclimatising bliss
soon brings warmth to where I'm led.

Yet winter's kiss is far too cold
which lingers along my back.
Her sheets shake my shivering spine,
living in sincerity's lack.

Truth is, I can't blame the seasons
for the discomfort night brings.
It's the lonely side of the bed
which brings the coldest of my stings.

Mr. Meldrew, I Feel You...

"Technology has sunk society",
typed tempestuously to the network of inattentive eyes.
Spouting the same old stale jokes shared and restated;
quipped with my continual complaints—
I'm every bit as bad.

Sunday, 22 September 2013

Beyond the Beacon

Azure hammocks of cotton strings
suspend premature rains,
celestial lenses of passionate gas
hug tendrils connected to torrential reins.
Precipitous pride in the catbird seat,
humbles and crumbles to chalices below.
Necessity calls upon deliverance,
for life's elixir, has no life of its own to know.

Saturday, 21 September 2013

Flight from the Fly

The devil is at my window.
Six legs latched onto glass.
His hexagonal eyes disinterested.
I freeze and wait for him to pass.

His crooked smile twists my way.
I look fearfully to the floor.
He stretches a bony finger and beckons.
A signal that I can't ignore.

It's become clear that I'm found.
I have no faith to hide.
How could I possibly use the shadows
when the darkness is his guide?

So I take a shaky step full of shame
and climb onto his sebaceous back,
feel his wings flutter against my heart aflutter,
almost praying for an attack.

But when I open my screwed-up eyes
I see that I'm falling through the air.
I'm paralised completely,
death has answered my prayer.

Wednesday, 18 September 2013

Crossing the Storm

Passing the threshold of the storm
on the road to staying dry.
As the clouds slunked off over my head
I exhaled a thunderous sigh.
I was headed firmly north
whilst the gloom swallowed the south.
Looking the storm in the eye
I ripped the sharp teeth out of his mouth.
But now that I have got here
I just want to waste my time and roam
because I know that if I return
he'll be waiting for when I get home.

Sunday, 15 September 2013


I collected no comfort from these cold keys
in the brightest months of bloom,
but my own flowers came into fruition
in the meager greying gloom.
The paper seemed to absorb raindrops
and break apart with such clarity
which the computer could not evoke
nor offer the same sincerity.
My walking boots had been collecting dirt
whilst my writing pen was collecting dust
and when the conditions turned for the worse
I peeled away the clay-like crust.
Damp air imbrues my curly hair--
through my scalp, soaking my skull;
and only when the summer's passed
do I feel the skies clear calming lull.

Saturday, 14 September 2013

Café Blues

Who runs the sundown coffee joints
at the close of Night and Day?
I have spare time and money
without a place to pay.
There's a premium of rowdy bars
with loud voices and louder shirts
but it all smells so superficial
with egos as high as the girls' skirts.
Just take me in from the cold
and keep my caffeine from going low.
It's another sin-free Friday night
and I have no place to go.

Broken Doll

There are knots in the strings on my shoulders
and I have not the nails to disentangle.
You can ken from my canter and my carriage is contracted;
the controller's lost control.
How'll I relocate my lifeless limbs
with none to manipulate my marionette—
and even if it could be managed
how'll I master my own movement?
So better to sever these tangled chords
and decussate this surplus cerebrum,
disassemble the parts and restart
to give this stooge corpse a course.

Negating the Negative

Considering the phrase "too much of a good thing is a bad thing",
would the inverse indicate
that too much of a bad thing could indeed be a good thing?
It would most likely be concluded to be a rash rationalisation
for the very beginning-
"too much..."
implies an excess, which in itself connotes negativity.
With that being said,
this apparent negative is already an alternation—
or a negative-
of a postive action, and so any negation of a negative action
would invalidate any reprehensibility.

Right is wrong is wrong,
and wrong is right is wrong.

Monday, 9 September 2013

Cold Campaign

Egoistic lists govern my compulsive cabinet-
and though I see the policies that I pass
often alienate the public,
I care not for their votes.
Deep down,
I would rather display contempt towards these empty vessels
rather than fill them up with the ingredients of growth.

So I questioned if culture could cure the ignominious ignorant
when I killed their comatose cult;
but my misanthropic mindset met no well-taught contention;
victory tasted like an insult.


Sheets mottled with our stains
painting portraits of those afternoons
in dried tears and satisfied drool.
Cravings channelised through touch,
tactile tenderness turns to tactical retreat--
emphatic sighs broken by caffeine's refuel.

Tuesday, 3 September 2013

Biting Back at the Crocodiles

Fourteen billion eyes gaze
transfixed on the same thing;
their own self-centred sentiments.

If only we were staring at substance
instead of inconsequential ideals--
and as the starving skeleton stirs
from his lurid lacrimation
his sleepless lucid dreams
are controlled by a Sandman society.

Our own tears are filled with foul floods.
Illicit spills of banal and lilliputian "loss",
these opprobrious cathartic tears blind us
from a sight for sore eyes.

So let not our own troubles be a willing distraction
from our despondent and decaying domain,
but let them guide us into worthy action
and put a priority on the purging of proper pain.

Woven Blanket

A mile long bed, with room to spare 
and a blanket that I’ve woven from your hair
found in the plughole of the shower,
and I still need
every last piece of you
wrapped around me.


Another dart has been rakishly hurled,
curled to the left of the intended red mark.
One more to spare, a double to win,
too cautiously this time into the dark.
With replenished arrows, I hold my resolve,
determined the next should be my final shot
but some vacuous distraction at the hilt of discharge
ensures my fumbling fingers fall foul of the slot.
My rivals also struggle with the subtle balance
of butter-fingered brush and ham-fisted thrust,
sure that it will be my dart to pierce the heart
I'm distraught to find myself once again bust.
The opponent steps up with a glint in his eye
as all I can do is watch him take his aim,
acquiring the target which I have let slip by
I'm once again on the end of a losing game.