Friday, 31 October 2014


The gravel street was warmed by the rusting sunset
hours ago. Now, lit up by bulbs and sparks,
we sit with it and watch the opposite's onset;
silent, bound to the tune of a meadowlark.
The sap-filled tree stands, the hidden sun
heats the splintered wood of the bench's tired frame.
A light spits forth, and so the ritual is done.
On the whispered lake now shines a thin flame
that shimmers upon the rolling waves. We watch it grow,
averting our eyes from that crack of light
that burns our eyes if stared at. Wind now blows
away the clouds to announce the end of night.
And we too must part like the solemn clouds
destined to be caught by light and crowds.


Dusty light filters through;
eyes wide,
lips spread,
rolling over shut out
of my head.

The echo resonates
with the tremolo
fading; longingly


I let the drizzle fall and form its stains.
I'll dye the rest so it can look the same.
Thinking what it would be like outside
while melted wood is running down my thighs.

And still my joints creek like weak trees
that are easily swayed by the whispering wind.
Knowing I have no time for her heavy hands
and yet I can't help but miss the moaning reprimands.


That which could inspire such sweet prose,
secreting the scent of such a sweet, sweet rose.
While any other dream would be,
twice as sweet with honey.
Might honey not come from bees, 
And I would sign my affidavit,
so sweetly, suavely, sagely,
in my finest calligraphy. 
So that the bureau
would have no choice but agree.
But I will give them their honey. 
with the bees, 
and they will know;
so must they know.

Thursday, 2 October 2014

The Orchard

In the old orchard
we wandered hand in hand
beneath the vibrant branches,
heavy with dew, and age,
and we, young in years and spirit
saw the future ripening, in fragrant blossom and mellow fruit;
in warm rays and grass as green as our thought.

Now, in the rusting Autumn,
the fallen leaves cannot cover
the obfuscation of the clouds and the wayward moon
like the face of old Death
so small we can hide it behind a thumbnail
if we can only raise our hand.

Dead Bird

The buzzard bled,
led on its back
with his head twisted to the ground.
His mouth would gape
and then close
as if something inside his beak
was attempting

His feet clutched together tightly
with his eyes
wide open;
almost breathing, it seemed;
his wings pulled
and like Christ he was surely
lost and


Her wings whip the day sore
sinewed by the dusk;
shadowplay on the moon.

To fade into fog then to gloom
twilight flies, fallen glances;
whispers blurred by cloud.

Following a regal path proud
to feed on fuzzing bug haze;
whipping the day away once more.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

A Post


I descended into a mist
and in the midst of it was you.
I descended into a mist
in your eyes, a smokey blue.
I descended into a mist
but I could not see it through.
I descended into a mist
and in the midst of it was you.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Autumn Leaves

Your auburn leaves rusted their coarse crust
onto the cobbles of my drive,
and I've been craving your metallic taste to touch my tongue,
just as the sun touches those leaves still standing,
and pierces scattered rays through,
like searchlights for those leaves once lost,
until the golden glow, with each glance upwards,
dissipates into darkness
and the premature dusk calls of the search for the night.

Spring Leaves

Leafs bleeding dew as the rays pour from the horizon
nature with no disguise on.
Earth in equilibrium,
towering trees,
in the furthest reach of the eye
A flightless kite awaits the night.
Silence is golden,
ans so is the sky.

Alone in Kyoto

I saw the city pavement
— a whirl of activity
I saw the glamour and movement
— a swirl of anonymity 
Sharp faces, sharp clothes.
Bright streets, dark woe.

Autumn's Nostalgia

The unmistakable nostalgia of September is upon us,
the hot breeze s
                            w                 through the air,
                               e           s                              caressing magnolia petals
                                  e    p                                                                               as it dances through 
the neighbouring woods.

The only noises that penetrate the whirling air are birds singing,
leaves brushing each other, and the rustling of my book pages
whilst the smell of distant floral laundry detergent percolates
through the thick and heavy summer air,
content with imitating their natural counterparts.

First Drops

The air is filled with water 
and the stalks are rustling dry
with the thunder speaking softly
in a corner of the sky

and the whirl and chase of leaves and chestnuts
pursuing down the lane
and the chill to raise your grumbles
with the first dark drops of rain...


I have committed the worst of sins
one can commit. I have not been
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
take and engulf me, mercilessly.
I applied my mind to the symmetric
arguments of art, its web of trivia,
when my parents bore me for
a much grander purpose in this
Life. It never leaves me. Always at my side,
that shadow of a melancholy man.


The crowds that linger in desolate spaces are bound by nothing,
and yet are as rooted as the trees that whisper in autumn.
The merciless soil grants no escape to those without a sense of self,
They construct cells to hold the sacred and unwilling,
Square and rectangular blocks housing all their frivolities.
Burdened by burdens masquerading as necessary joys.


People are a distraction
both from ennui
and motivation
which is why
I feel so distracted
from the motivation
of a useful attraction.

Inhaling Summer

A half-bloomed hydrangea 
swaying in the balmy air 
I close my eyes
and let the scent linger.


You left this morning
a strand of hair, the door
half a cup of black coffee, on the floor
a note
singing nothing you hadn't sung before
already, as the pitch black of night simmered down
I was drinking up your dregs for more.

Clouds and Cliffs

A landscape of clouds and cliffs
lurid in luscious green,
and sandstone rolls and lifts
into the twisted perception of dream.


A                             r                               t
both compliments and compromises 
the condition of the human soul
lies waiting for a muse to perfect it
and so too does my soul.

Lost Network

I like to wake
before the tinny jingle
of my phone's alarm,
I can get good and lost
in the vast countryside
it's like I'm the only human on earth,
but only as long as
the network signal is strong enough
that I can be assured my isolation
is a temporary fantasy.


I've tried deleting your number out of my phone to convince myself that
I won't contact you again. And I don't, yet I still can't help but
scroll through your social media accounts,
[on which I have unfriended you and
erased every trace of our virtual contact
or sentimental photos, as though it would rid me
of what had occurred]
Yet I smile at some things you say
and at others get a little bewildered what I ever saw in you.
Still, the smallest mention of another loser's name
or any implied intimacies
and I still get a warm bubbling sensation in my stomach
and a tightness in my chest.

I probably don't care. 
I'm pretty sure
I don't care.
It's nothing.

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Yonderly Shores

The susurrus brush of sinuous waves,
systatic with the siccaneous sand,
is soft in her sun-clad syzygy
guided by the virason's weathered hand.

The fusillade of over-turned fossils
foraminate the fool's merry frescade—
a farraginous flânerie falls short
of foaming footprints he's now forced to wade.

And so the shore laps up the shingled kiss,
an insatiable disregard for man;
insidiating with the sea to spoil
his own lecanoscopic day-dreamed plan.

And so the shore stops his saccharine kiss,
the velleites of man in ignorant bliss.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Share a Life with...

I've been looking for someone to complete me,
but the search is like
hunting for a Coca-Cola bottle
with my name on,
and finding any name but mine,
or with a different spelling variation.

My unloveable heart matches
the obscurity of letters,
but then again I suppose
love is just a intelligently marketed drink
that I have no real desire for
when its flavours fizz out
long before sell-by date.

Train Carriage Confessions

I find it no coincidence that you seat yourself here,
beside me,
when there are empty rows available.
Equally apparent, is that I am caught by the same instinctive attraction—
my attentive gaze greeting your curious glance
towards my pen
into my eyes.
Neither of us, with our timid temperaments,
have the intrepidity to initiate a decisive action of discourse, and so
I sit here
half-wishing your peregrine eyes
would pass over my obstructive shoulder
and read these confessions,
knowing them to be as true
as the light I can perceive inside of you.

Silence and Sirens

There's little difference in the susurrus spoken sound
of 'silence' and 'sirens'
yet within their substance
is considerable distance
That is how I feel
about the sigh of you and I.
I've spent an ephemeral eternity
trying to establish
which of us, despite apparent semblance,
is guilty of the din.
I've started to surmise that it is me—
the bashful banshee.

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Searching for the Sun

I wake with the aching beauty
of the world. The sunlight shines a
sparrow's silhouette through my window ajar,
but it is gone before
the morning's melody is heard.
The fact that every thing is profound
takes nothing from the unique, singular
profundity of every moment, fragment
and splinter of our being.
The path is full of gravel.
I shovel the stones because
I like to hear them clatter.
I don't remember which way
the sun comes up.
I hunt for it in the mornings
then I just sit among the rocks
and pick at the weeds, thirsting
their way up, hoping for rain.
The weeds get their wish,
and I wade back in wet and worn
The storm clears and
I'm left
still searching for the sun.

...Of our Time

Do not mistake what is being said for what has been said,
for even though time transcends the fragments in a spasmodic puzzle,
there is weight in each word
(repeated or not)
and with each imbrication
our individual actions implicate,
we are each of us
essentially the sum of our parts.

Monday, 18 August 2014


Children sitting on the cliff edge, examining
the ebbing tide,
tossed pebbles first, then flowers.
The flowers floated;
the children sank.


with thigh-rolled jeans he had strode
out to where the sea catches its breath,
forgetting the electronical device in his pocket.

And in that wind-plucked foam, 
made a father-pose,
though no sandal'd tussock bug rolled the dunes
waving the prize of a perfect wooden pistol,
and the shore was repeatedly planed clean,
clear of all gust battered figures.

The Noise That You'll Hear...

The hollow crash of waves on sand
is behind me.
now the sun, through sand,
sears my feet callused.
from sand to stone,
from stone to grass,
and home.
My skin glows like a coal.
I can still hear the water
as sleep slowly follows.

Sequestration at Sea

My aimless heart dances atop a tide-free ocean
with no pull to bring him to shore.
I know that he does not mind being at sea
but my mind's not as sure anymore.

I can't decide if I'm more frightened at getting stranded
or that it's what I hold deep within my will.
You see, at heart I am still a buoy
who is destined to stay innocently still.

With luck, I will be led to safety by a lighthouse
and arrive at your body of land.
A life spent avoiding being on the rocks
might prevent me caressing the sand.

So I will concentrate on making my life a speck
barely seen by hostile telescopes.
I will sail as far away as I can
then drop the anchor and cut the ropes.


The spider hung grotesque
upon his palace made of string.
My palace shuts out all the light
his trembles in the wind.
The maxim goes that I am strong
and he is weak and thin.
Yet here he sits, an emperor. And I am yet to spin.


Insincerity is society's greatest hypocrisy
and I cannot stomach the illusion.
A plethora of prepared pleasantries
to choke on in calculated confusion.

So spare me the sycophantic simpering,
complimented with a soap opera smile.
Remove the mechanical masquerade that custom has made
and display your human hatred without guile.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Estuary and the Ebbing Light

Forget my thoughts floating down the river,
let the bank pick up stray reeds and algae
like an unrestrained dog owner with boundless and bundling
love. Let there be darkness,
allow the mouth to open up and pour brackish water
into a grey pool of jagged generations.
Clasp the sky's air, wiggle your dirty toes,
splash your knees, sing to the birds, tell my thoughts
to stop swimming upstream, where they might
find the source to be furiously underwhelming.

Night Shames

Composing conversations
in my head
with the ideal conclusions
to relieve dread.
But what I can construct
within a thought
is never completely construed
the way it ought.
And so I must recompose
with blushing shame
a peripheral panicked past
penned to my name.

Monday, 16 June 2014


Tiptoes traverse the muddy trail,
heeding not the heavy heels
which hinder their tender tread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition
through foliage fair and frail,
each steely sinew anneals
to a thorough structured thread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition
must eventually derail
from the salubrious appeals
of the constant path ahead...


Sunday's splintered sunlight
punctures panicked moments
that the mind construes as truth.
A subconscious retelling
of Monday's mundane memory
that manifested in my youth.
The authentic narrative
from a nebulous night
in a morphinic stream
is surrendered seconds
of a worn-out waking life
wound up in last year's dream.

Tuesday, 20 May 2014

The Mystique has been Lost

The mystique has been lost—
paper print-outs replace
the palpable ticket of card complete with a shiny seal,
now scanned lazily and discarded,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
seen through a plethora
of phone screens capturing the same pixelated images,
to share to more indifferent, unseeing eyes,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
a predetermined set
readily available to be previewed on the Internet,
playing only the most $ucce$$ful hits,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
and through the sea
of vexatious tropes from a diluted, stagnating scene
that the Internet age has brought
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
and yet the music has not.


Carve something graceful
into my chest meaningful;
so to kiss and clench.

Crossed Paths

There is a saccharine romance,
a scenario spoiled by chance
when passing by a stranger
known only by a smile and glance.

And so the sweetness is subdued
to its lonely circumstance,
in a crossing of dreamy eyes
which can both beguile and entrance.

Both parties go separate ways
whilst their minds skip, hand in hand
both pondering what could have been
if confidence had more command...

Monday, 19 May 2014

The Changing of Guard

Waves peel away the pebbled sheets
on the maritime mattress,
folding gently towards the foot
of the ocean bed.

The dawn sun rises
at the dusk of the lunar reign.
The bed is freshly made
to be slept in again.


Ink ingrained into the palm of my hand,
a furtive reminder;
now here
subtle enough to be washed away.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Sunshine Under Lock

The morning mist
makes way for afternoon bliss
that the month must miss.

But the early bloom
and her serotinious moon
cannot come too soon.

The Breadth that Breathes Between Strangers

There is a breadth that breathes
between strangers,
it is what predicates them.

Born in the bloom of hostility
in a dewy-eyed spring,
it bears no rational prejudice.

Yet we send our souls to slaughter
of stuffy summer petulance;
even a breadth can be confining.

Monday, 14 April 2014

Floating Above Water

You approached like a red balloon
against the cerulean sky,
carving your certain way through the clouds
to catch my  sun-spotted eye.

I tried to avoid your burning gaze
hearing of the damage that could be done
but nervous glances downwards met
the placid reflection of the sun.

My tense disposition knew one way
to maintain an amiable shade,
so I smiled into the ripples
of all the paths that I have made.

Then I stretched up on to my toes
reaching your form with a pin,
and hearing the pop I closed my eyes
to immerse myself within.

Monday, 7 April 2014

Above the Motorway

I see vehicles parked on bridges over motorways.
I wonder if it's an unmarked police car
measuring the velocity of careless crimes
or a lost soul contemplating their final act.

I'm sickened at which my instincts would prefer.


The dissonant swarms
are surrounding again
inside my head.
Inside my head,
swarming my thoughts,
they surround me again.
Where can I escape
when they are in me?
I can't escape
this part of me.
Each snapping jaw drones
and my neck snaps to look.
I'm lost again
back in my self dug rut.

Saturday, 29 March 2014

Undulated Dew

as deep as an ocean,
seems to end our spring song too soon
until soft warmth
off your roscid lips
and sends ripples across the room.

Wild Dance

Whistling winds whip away at withered leaves
coercing them to sway and dance
into an invisible ballet,
like a stringless ventriloquist.
Airy and wispy, the strength amazes me
and I feel myself pulled
by nothing
towards nowhere
but on and on
and I wonder what allows
such a boisterous wraith
to wreak havoc on the elderly residents.
Angry turbulence and resentful gusts
I fight against on all vectors
trotting on myopic as a mule
saddled in dignity.
I ignore the dancing leaves
and pierce through the medium
like an arrow through flesh
and I continue through the contiguous solution,
heeding none of its warnings
of an immensity unseen
and far too visible,
and march on triumphant
only to be left dancing in the current
along side the foliage
I once ignored,
and hated.

Monday, 24 March 2014

Sawdust on the Wire

Here it is, that feeling.
Starting at the centre of my sternum,
where I keep store my solemn secrets.
The same scene floods back.

Starting at the centre of my sternum
and, working their way up to my brain,
the same scene floods back;
sawdust on the wire.

Working their way up to my brain,
the new pills soon take effect.
Sawdust on the wire
dissolves in the synapse.

The new pills soon take effect.
Here it is. That feeling
dissolves in the synapse,
where I keep store my solemn secrets.


Nobody realises how much they piss
until they aim into a pint glass
and now all that I'm left staring at
is another sentimental spillage
that my body's cell can't sustain.

Saturday, 8 March 2014

The Final Stretch

A variegated verdure of tendril-like veins
vesuviate their stillatitious sudor.
Sweat sweeps down sinew strengthened trunks
with each strident stride; with each replanting of the roots,
engraving an ephemeral power
against the pot-holed pavement.

Natures' tempest, with its own truculent power, contends each giant step—
torrid torrents transfluent to the fluent pounding.

Yet each droplet,
each beat,
each step

until the spirited spurt of a storm with home in its sight
reaches the final
S        T        R         E         T         C        H.         

Saturday, 22 February 2014


In memory, of the child
who bounced the ball into the field
and though he searched, he realized it would never return.
While the grass and the earth choked it
the child stopped and turned away for ever.

He moved on — It remained.

Self Cycle Reset

The greatest consequence
a lost soul must conquer
is who he has become.

This terrifying notion
keeps me awake all night
til I forget with untroubled sleep.

And I wake up
some three months later
forgetting that I ever existed.

Monday, 17 February 2014

Cloud Walker

I dance only with colours
but the world's all black and white;
I laugh a lot in dreams,
but I can't say that of real life.
So I dwell on the threshold
of phantasmagorial bliss
noctambulating my nepheloid nights
with feet rooted in the sun's kiss

Monday, 3 February 2014

Undue Residue

A simulated resonance
echoing in my
A wind chime rusting
in a disintegrating
A crow pecking negatives
in the saran-wrapped
I leak
and we


This morning,
out of boredom more than hunger,
I looked into the cupboard
to find a jar of jalapeños.
Let us not get into the argument
of whether they should be stored
in the cupboard or fridge;
they were unopened
and so warranted no need to be refrigerated
whatever your preference.
Anyway, this inviting jar was labeled
hot and sweet,
and it made me wonder
if I would ever have a jar of jalapeños
to call my own.