Wednesday, 30 October 2013

Absent Cirrus

I rediscovered an old sin-stained notebook
containing your name and old phone number
written in the dark, distracted
curl of your cursive.
I was standing outside a café
watching a cirrus cloud in the cerulean sky
float by like foam on a pint of beer
(meanwhile, the absent-minded cigarette smokers outside
watch their fleeting exhalations
coalesce with the clouds),
and thinking about how 
the memory of our meeting has ebbed,
it too ascending and merging with the sky.
How you
finally broke
like a storm across the sky of everything.

Bed of Roses

Winter brings night by afternoon,
a gloaming sodium vapor lit
ninety-nine metres apart,
but those seemingly obfuscous shadows inbetween
contain the most comfort.

Monday, 28 October 2013

Favourite LP

I've noticed you listening to my favourite LP;
I've often wondered if it conjured thoughts of me.
Honestly, I could not care less if it did or not,
it's just a mild but nagging curiosity.

Do those words hold any meaning to you;
those lyrics which have often defined all that I do,
or are they just some soulless sung sentiments
which I have desperately clinging on to?

I've noticed you listening to my favourite LP;
I've often wondered if it conjured a happy memory.
Do you attach the music to those missing moments
or am I just another meaningless mp3?

I remember the times I used to sing along
and you used to declare that it was our song
but now that we have gone our separate ways
repeating the lyrics just feels wrong.

I've noticed you listening to my favourite LP;
and I wonder how you have the audacity
to ruin something that I used to love so much
and leave its sleeve in our debris.

Beneath the Surface of the Sun's Silence

Phosphenes float in the fleecy clouded sky,
like restive woken walkers, weaving to work.
The withered yellow leaves have all but died;
the worn arms that held them plea for a perk.

The grass-blades shave their early morning frost
as the sun ascends and purifies the night.
The cows complain about the latest milk costs;
the price could not justify the budget's bite.

The wind's peppermint breath conceals its scent
plundered from depths of desperation,
a breakfast of sulfurous sorts, nights spent
ruing the winter's rapid inflation.

And as day swaps shifts with the oscitant moon
the phosphenes know they have arrived too soon.

Sunday, 27 October 2013


My words may not mean much to you.
They elicit no response
and they will hang like stars,
which are always there.

You could wait until the night,
maybe then you’d see them
but you would still have to
choose to look up
and I don’t expect that you will.

Thursday, 24 October 2013

Vision of a Stream

The fleeting vision of a stream
is stolen by a sunny beam.
I cannot feel the peace that lived
within the context of my dream.

By losing heat I pay the cost 
to walk a world of fog and frost.
There is no cause to stay in bed;
the vision of the stream is lost.

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Game Over

My noose has got itself into knots,
nervous about all of its loose ends-
it says it wants me to drop everything
but I can't be beneath when it descends.

My bucket is feeling so empty,
woozy from having its world completely turned-
it says I should kick it into touch
but I can't let go when it is concerned.

The spring in my step is spirited,
bouncy from the thought of a final bound-
and leaping off the pixelated cloud
I fall asleep to the "GAME OVER" sound.

Monday, 21 October 2013

Asylum Skull

Disconnected dissonance drones into my drums,
my lifeless limp body floating above my bed—
the crimson lampshade reaches out to an empty socket
as a seven hour death orbits my hollowed head,
and harrowed though I am, my cerebration can grasp the plug
to spark a glimmering celebration of the dead.

Thursday, 17 October 2013


Repulsive layers of hoary skin,
days old on my body
full of sweat and sin,
matched by the lewd grubby stubble on my chin.
Loosely layered filth on my sheets
which grip me like a drug
and fester where the flesh eats
my former self obsolete.

I ascend.

The dirt from my bristly past descends down the drain,
icy water pours and devours me,
heavenly bites like an angel's unrestrained passion—
a startlingly strong baptism
penetrating my pores.
Resplendent layer of unspoilt skin
I am born;
I am youth.

Sunday, 13 October 2013


Rust rubbed into the black card-sky.
Bleak streetlights, a child's grubby fingertips
which smudge the silence with sounds soaring by,
joining the dots from thirty second clips.
And so the rhetoric realisation echoes a retrospective cry
but the hand that forms cannot maintain the same grip,
I smudge the anxious smile away from my diminishing dye
and extend the same stroke to my wind-chapped lips.

Thursday, 10 October 2013

Escape Route

Something changed that night,
full-beam irradiating gleaming green needles
strewed across the silence and the desolate dust,
cascaded horse-chestnuts crunching on the coarse gravel.
As my droning wheel-bearings startled those intrepid foxes
who had dared to make the white paint their bed,
the black cat's eyes glinted towards the ebonized sky
as if their master was prepared for flight.
Much like the foxes' ill-fortuned sleep,
my small-hour soundtrack was disconnected
by some strange interference suggesting a return to signal;
a tinkering tone I could forgive
for I now find myself back in the civilization I had loved to avoid.
Through all the twists and turns,
and incandescent lunar-lit landscapes
I cannot shake your mind.

Tuesday, 8 October 2013

Evolution of (a) Man

Minor brushstrokes
on the portrait of my youth,
a springtime collection of sentiments
that no longer hold their truth.
So I sever the cold roots of winter
painting over the love that they had gripped
and find home in my sunny solitude
and the missing pages torn and ripped.

Sunday, 6 October 2013


Surreptitious little ripples spread animus in my mind,
but art ameliorates that sour state.
48:39 to combat those dilapidated disorganised plans,
accompanying acerbic print on off-white
which resembles that resentment to empty words with its flowered obtuseness.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter;
I'm done.

Thursday, 3 October 2013

Sleeping Away the Dreaming

Lurid, lucid landscapes in luminous zest and zeal
where majestic magenta melts into the black and gloaming teal,
but materiality could never match this mirage of an ideal
so I bring my body to bed, where everything is real.