Tuesday, 31 December 2013


Cold thumbs, like bolts,
pressed into the crevices of my skull
keep my head together;
an expedient fix
for my recurrent rupture.
My tongue is somewhere in my throat
dancing a final waltz,
drunk from the life's it had touched,
thinking not of the hangover that
tomorrow's loneliness brings.
DeathI am no [longer able to survive
this vessel the Lord has intended for me,
give me any]thing else.

New Year's Resolution

The universe becomes differentiated by day and cohesive by night.
Walls convolute into cloud
rather than clear figments of colour and orchestration.
Night is the synthesis, the absolute plan in its final form.
Solidarity of darkness awaits us
when human life has blinked out with no more left to offer.
Why then progress?
To know an end of darkness (a finality) is better, to some,
than to flounder in flux for eons and ages.
People who spend so long searching
just have to look when the corpse of day rises before the eyes—
it raises nightmares because it tells us of what is unification.
Unification is the constancy of dullness.
Unification is such an unsightly concept.
We want a human whole working in tandem together.
That is unsightly.
It denies that the world consists of an autumn:
vivacious leaves scattering in a tempest of close to no significance.
That is why we are taken by sleep in darkness,
because when faced with Unification
we turn away into the splendor of our own minds.
We want the time after the splitting of the tongues.
We are made for divergence.
But now I know that being human, a seeker of divergence,
is an ungodly chore of wasting.
A painter who paints constantly without rest
just to pull his eyes away from the terror of a blank canvas; the horror vacui.

This year I will reach a resolution
that transcends small fallible goals of self-improvement.
I want and will be unified with darkness and maybe a finality will be reached.
I hope.

Specular Glare

The subsided winter sun
shimmers on a wet, winding road.
To my left, the fallen giants
kiss the dewy grounds
on a forest's edge—
and to my right,
a great body of water
consoles the other side
with a soft silent stroke.
The sun's specular glare
threatens to down my drowsy retinas
until the sanguine sunset
ceases the suffering,
reminding me that all is beautiful
whether we start or end our journeys.

Open Door

I wrestled against the whirlwinds
which strained against my every stride.
They sent dark thoughts flying wildly
to convolute and then collide.

The vacant precipitous road
that I must ascend to get back
ran with a drowning deluge
that only amplified my mind's attack.

Yet just as I was about to break
and fight against the storm no more,
my eyes averted to a yard
in which there was an open door.

The door ajar filled me with hope,
it was no entrance to be ignored,
such was its power to entrance—
the threshold for the house of the Lord.

I had walked by that church countless times
but had always noted the door to be closed,
yet I found shelter when I needed it most
and my darkest flaws had been exposed.

Perhaps that door was a sign from God,
or just a fateful union of mind and time in tune,
but if that door was left open for a reason,
the Lord know's I'm thankful—I'll be home soon.

Soul Question

Do we
stir the air 
when we 
leave to 
our essence?

An Escape

Ghostly white
prolong the night, 
scare the reality of day
daydreams and nightmares away.


Yesterday I bought a new novel.
I considered taking it back
when I saw it had no spine
but then I concluded
neither do I.


So beautiful is a tree tumbling over a cliff's edge
it will soon fall to the sea, but it carries on,
salt waiting to lick its roots, lapping at the soil
let me count the ways they coil and twirl
capillaries circling the areole like vines,
dust settling on the grass and back as the wind takes it
soon specks on a pane of glass effaced by the wind.

Dream Life Away

Lately, I've found more meaning
in my dreams
than during the day's dreary blur,
so tell me
why bother to wake up
from a lucid life,
worth much more than living?

Fading into Greyscale

Tangled up in severed threads,
my oldest friends they want me dead.
A rainbow sketched in black and white
drowns my eyes in silver light.

You fill me up with old laments,
a message that I never sent;
a memory that I can't recall,
a tale that's grown a bit too tall.

A Day

Rose-fingered dawn, lay your warm cloth upon me.
Awaken them, deep down the cold billowy sea.
Helios, you shall rise and run over the land;
may your slow movement turn us all back to sand

Now unveil fallow pastures and rivers of gold;
dieing trees soon to be covered in greenish mold
Will this last long enough for me to walk away
and will anyone ever remember that day?

Endless fields unfurl before my eyes;
as a burning sunset slowly dies
Realms of life start falling out of sight;
seas of stars unfold through the night

Across the meadow, now turned to grey,
alone the pallid moonlights lay.
Wanly disclosing the rippling wheat
lying in quickly vanishing heat.

Saturday, 21 December 2013


Fleshy smile,
more hideous
than the skull
that skulks behind.

Thursday, 19 December 2013

Please, No Happiness. Just Sleep.

How long
I turn it off,
and save those well wishes
for next year's bleary eyes?
there's NO need to check,
or include me in your HAPPINESS.
I don't want to hear your fireworks
or dance to vapid songs
that will be forgotten
JUST as soon as we all will.
Just let me SLEEP.

Sunday, 15 December 2013

The Second Storm

There was a storm in heaven.
The clouds were rearranged.
The sinners blew through open gates,
whilst the angels were scattered and estranged.

The lord could not recall
which souls he intended to keep.
So he handed the nearest man a brush
and in trust told him to sweep.

It was Satan who took the tool
and he did exactly as God had asked.
He swept away all signs of sin,
took his thanks and then unmasked.

The lord was irascible in his wrath
that he had let the devil deceive,
but Satan said "It is you who lied-
I repent and you reward no reprieve!".

And so it was, heaven dared no more clouds
to bring a storm again.
But the fallen angel has righteous reason
to return with flames of rain.

More or Less

I am happy



I am not.

                                                                           (          H          a          p          p           y          ).

Praying for Morning

The weekend has come again.
Bitter words and liquor are loosely
rationed throughout the room in unison,
both equally influencing the other to release their potent sting.
I sit among them, indulging in both conversation and consumption
yet experiencing a great dread of their interactions and the respective responses.

Hours pass,
conversation and consumption has surpassed ration and rationalisation
and the rolled up notes are as spent as the sins they secured.
I cast a nervous glance at the clock on the wall.
It's almost time.
Is it my turn to speak?
Another mouthful to avoid such discomfiture.

Another hour passes and plans are picking up pace.
People reach for their coats,
making a raucous racket 
as they make their way to the door. 
I also make for the door,
coat and bottle
in trembling hand.
to a reticent and reluctant
cacophony of error.

And so we disappear into the night, 
Their noise polluting the air, I grip my bottle tight.
Looking down at the threshold at my feet,
I just want to turn and retreat.
I wish I could return to a bed less exciting.
The cold night suddenly does not seem so inviting.

But Satan's serpents circle the room
and I cannot make my excuses.
I take solace, knowing that as long as I do not kick out
I will not be bit.
Besides, morning must surely come soon.

Wednesday, 11 December 2013

December's Dream

The scent of your gossamer locks
distilled by the December deluge
infuses with the damp fabrics
which cover your soft winter skin,
it reaches my nose at the exact moment-
your red wine breath whispers
in tired susurrant tongue with chapped
cherry lips, biting back the
lullabies to lure away sleep
and I don't know where to rest
my eyes, ears, or nose,
so settle for your shoulder
and shelter from the cold.

Friday, 6 December 2013

Clouds In the Dark

If I catch you in the dark
I'm so sorry that I didn't wear my reflective lights.
Maybe if we found a spark to ignite
we wouldn't have to lift our eyes.

If I leapt out from my shoes
explore the city from a hundred feet above you,
is it worth it in the long run?
Waiting for the day
and losing sights of setting suns.

Monday, 2 December 2013


Ethereal phosphorescence in the ether
of a blanket beneath the stars.
Sparks waltz from the glowing flames
pedalled from choruses and cars.
And as the day's dimuendo is forgotten,
the bled-out sun as distant as my gaze
I match my black pupils to the white moon,
wide and wonderful in my contented daze.

Sunday, 1 December 2013

Finding Warmth

Incandescent candle light, 
emitting emollient pine.
Triple layers leave the night
wrapped in wool and wine.

Condensation fills the panes
when morning comes around
from a warmth that never wanes
with four bare feet off the ground.

Yet the frost gathers outside
dissipating the dewy day,
so we let our breath escape inside;
(once more) you'll keep the cold at bay.