Thursday, 22 December 2016

Wisp in Wonder

The wisp of smoke
dances towards the sky,
reaching from your dying cigarette
that litters your light fingertips
buring into the overcast troposphere,
resigned to the thickening fate
that the once dainty effluvium has.

I wonder if it is envious
of the smoke that is reserved
to be graced by the touch
of your full, fleshy lips
exhaled softly into the overcast troposphere,
dancing elegantly into the dense sky
savouring its farewell kiss.

I realise that whether by lips or fingertips
the smoke's time in your presence
is ephemeral and all smoke
must eventually join the clouds;
if I was that blissfully endowed smoke
my last action would be to hover
a halo around the crown of your hallowed head.

Saturday, 3 December 2016

A High Street in December

The middle-aged mother meanders merrily,
marveling at carefully arranged window displays,
taking the stretch of pavement with her
life-long bags full of wrapping paper, socks, wine
and the latest toys advertised on Saturday morning television;
there's even a little something for herself
clutched in her right hand, the handles of that particular bag
now ingraining red lines into her frost kissed skin.

Meanwhile morose men moodily make an attempt
to move past the moderate pace of the myopic mother,
making a play to dart in the road where
there's a window of opportunity to squeeze past,
however the 4x4 vehicle puts a stop to that, the driver
making an awful attempt at parallel parking into a space
which, in honesty, is large enough to fit a whole squadron of sleighs;
the man sighs, glancing at his watch, resigned to the fact his train has gone.

The children in the back of the oversized car squabble
over the song choice on their shared music device,
making no attempt to put it away as their father had asked
although in honesty the father would much rather put on a song himself
which reminds him of when Christmas used to mean something to him;
something that might tear away the tedium of sitting
on a cheap plastic faux-leather sofa in the changing rooms
of a budget fashion chain as he gives as small nod of acknowledgement
to the men who share his plight, tapping their feet as wives desperately search
for the garments that might let them reclaim their youth.

Meanwhile, the beggar attempts to benefit from
the well documented "Christmas Spirit", shaking his twenty pence pieces
in his coffee cup, hoping that the charitable might fund
his next meal as they plan their extended family's feast,
but he doesn't count on their short, impatient temperaments
wanting to endure this annual task as efficiently as possible,
so they pointedly avert his pleading gaze,
looking down at their phones or up to the billboards;
anywhere but into his eyes.
All of the citizens floating along in their own snowflaked bubbles.

Friday, 25 November 2016

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,
steamy windows and steamy china cups
as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,
and though he knows that he should focus
on the plot that is being dictated to him
by the seemingly omniscient narrator
he can't help but get drawn into the words
that resonate with his morose soul,
looking blankly at the hot tar
that swirls around in his clammy hands,
avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;
how the year has provided proof that the future
seems almost completely bleak
-though life would still go on believe me-
there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,
not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.
Without that glimmer of purpose
that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...
-what good would livin' do me?-
he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty
than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.
Cold to the world, he makes for the door,
resolute in his plunge.
And a stranger holds the door open,
motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out
and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away
[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]
as his darkness is replaced by
an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.
-God only knows what I'd be without you-

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

X Axis

Each year pulls me further to the left,
and I wonder if my standpoint
is an x-axis
and that I am therefore
growing more and more negative
or that it is in fact spherical
and I will come full circle.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,
and ripples disperse around it;
Crossing over one another as the tree's
lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos
crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,
unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,
they stretched out like wings to whisper against
the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach
tonight, if I was to die and leave.
The world would turn no slower
and the sun would shine no darker.
I'll pass under the bellies of ducks
an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple


Enfolding my breath
into subtle shapes, I cherish
watching them float away silently
as if coerced by a gentle magnetism
into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable
how could we act with pragmatism
while cascading down violently
into the earth we perish
enfolded in death.


I walked heady into the sweet,
damp night, however caught I was in its

The dog across the street whined for me, impetuous, drummed
my porous skin into air,
like a mother praying for their child, making 
me alive again,

Sunspots blossomed over the fullness of night, and 
I curled, ashamed, inside 
their morning light.

Monday, 17 October 2016

Baby Teeth

I pray not to be kept
only for sentiment
like milk teeth in a vitamin jar;
distastefully disregarded - but not discarded
high up on a dust sheeted shelf.

I'd have no room for growth
already extracted
and discoloured with age;
an empty keepsake - a cluttered headache
that no nostalgic pill could remedy.

And I pray don't liken my love
to the taste of Calpol,
    sickly saccharine and sweet;
nor that friendly smile - gone for a while
replaced by a bitter tasting scowl.

Instead you should hold on
to what's relevant now
and the teeth that serve you best;
to chew and grind - but never merely to remind
as some torn and toothless trophy.

Saturday, 8 October 2016

New Block

Laundry detergent invades the air, 
stifling the petrichor concoction
that collides with the swept leaves
discarded to the cobwebbed corner
where the puddles declare soles out of bounds.
Freshly baked biscuits stake their claim,
packaged neatly with plastic and ribbon 
but they too crumble to the scent
of disintegrating damp wood
burning black and iridescent red.
Smoke rises into the crepuscular sky
and is ushered away by the wind,
the fire crackles on as biscuits are opened
and freshly made beds are disturbed
as childish feet disturb leaf piles under amber glow.

Saturday, 1 October 2016


The breeze would gladly meet
her hesitant feet
as they cross and reach to the end.
Like great grinning teeth
the waves and rocks greet,
waiting to embrace their new friend.
Her earbuds dangle at her chest
faintly exhaling their best
eulogy for their oldest of friends.
She would feel blessed
to ride on that crest,
but that's not how this song ends.

She would see no hope
in that dangling rope
that offered to pull her to land.
Nor would she cope
with the strain of the grope
or the embarrassment of stretching her hand.
She'd wait for clouds to part,
her favourite song to start,
and then steady her now trembling hands.
Then she would brace her heart
and finally alone, she'd depart
thinking "This is living" as she lands.


Life is a skydive, descending from heaven.
We see flashes of beauty, experience moments of excitement.
Some may feel safe to know they are in the hands of others
whilst some brave going it alone,
but all of it is a distraction
from the downwards spiral that starts
precisely when we realise we are falling
and ends only at our death.

Planes Mistaken For Stars

Planes mistaken for stars
and I thought I saw your car
take a sharp right
in the calm of the night.

I counted and gave them all stories
imagining their burning glories
but my dream was cut short
effectively taken off life support.

I thought that I'd have to wrench
myself from this bench
as the residents gazed
at a man alone and crazed.

So I slowly trudged my way
to a cage of bricks and dismay
to see your car there, parked
and the clouds had left the skies unmarked.

Friday, 16 September 2016

Tokyo Moth

The homeless man heard a knock at the door
and his obsidian drive
told him that he was alive.

Distracted like a moth in Tokyo,
he sought any form of light
in the bitter cold of night.

His wings fluttered from staircase to window
and found alleviation
in hazed radiation.

His weary rise and fall began to slow
on his back with hired support;
the only thing he'd ever bought.

Now, this moth only had one place to go
and fell into the lure
of artificial light impure.

The homeless man heard a knock at the door
and his obsidian drive
told him that he was alive.

A request

I'd request
just a single blade of grass
tossed into our furnace
to burn
like the wings of a butterfly
ensnared in a spider's web
but remain trapped in a field which,
though lush and green
stretching as far as
my arms reaching out to you,
snuffs out any spark
before I even strike flit to steel.

Copper Pennies

Christen my blood in your name as
I try to lick it clean. It tastes
mildly of copper pennies tossed
into the river and it will
sediment into the rocks, and
one day you will find copper-brown
stones at the base of the creek when
you leave me here to go swimming.

Chasing the feeling of it all,
I have to leave, return to that
creek on a summer night.
Pause where the water illuminates
the light of something lost within you.
Maybe we'll find it after all.

Renovation (Lucifer's Ascent)

Demons emerge from the ground
wrought from ruthless steel and concrete.
A decaying world under their shadows drowned,
their conquest nearly complete.

Grotesque forms grasp for the skies,
Heaven's territory is threatened.
The old from consumption dies;
its ancient breath deadened.

Soulless galleries of glass now stand
where once stood old forma proud.
Gone are days of beauty grande
replaced by a more maligned modern brand.

Wednesday, 17 August 2016

I Miss

I miss
the subtle rise and fall
of your back as you
inhale                      —                      exhale;
your lungs gently cradling
the oxygen that lulls
you to sleep.

I miss
being able to tuck your tangles
of hair behind your ears
my 'tips                      —                      touching;
gliding gently down your spine
then returning
to your skull.

I miss
the strand of stringed saliva
that slowly dances
from lips                                            to cheek;
as your open mouth
and your tight eyes
paint you in peace.

I miss
the confusion on your face
as your exhalation wakes
your dream                      —                      huh;
as you groggily ask
what has happened and
I giggle.

I miss
your sleepy protests as
the banshee alarm
blares                      —                      alerts;
it demands for us to greet
a new day and you demand
five more minutes.

I miss
the subconscious roll
towards my icy side of the bed
arms stretched                      —                      grasping;
pulling me closer as your
half-alert lips curl
into a contented smile.


The thrill when
wandering the streets
in the dark
and passing another,
a walking shadow,
in total silence—
both thinking the same thought.
Lost in the solitude
of a lawless and loveless

Merry Mess

A damp explosion
     blots to the bottom.
             Peeling erosion;
                     rancid and rotten.
            Daudling it drips;
     crusty and creased.
The page it dies—
                                                        the words

Dog at the Theatre (A Variance of Light)

Has there been a change in light
or have I just noticed your flaws?
The rays that break through the blinds
expose the state of your paws.

The clouds have opened like curtains
with the first act set to start.
The tale to put your tail between your leg
and I hope it's only the curtains set to part.

There's a wound you keep on licking
and put on display with pride.
I too have an ailment
but one that I'd rather hide.

Yet all you know is to whine and cry
not telling me what is wrong.
I try to second guess the story
from the tone of your song.

So I ask you to lie in your bed,
my voice stern yet with tact.
I calmly caress the crevice of your skull
and prepare you for the final act.

Monday, 1 August 2016

Compiled Details

As knowledge piles up in the brain
like a catalogue of sand
I wonder how it can conjure up
the meaningfulness of it all.
So many books, so many articles,
videos of album reviews lauded as classics
and the crawling through the criterion list.
Shapes noticed in marble tiles while
waiting in hospitals
and magazines in dentist offices.
Where does it all congregate and dance
and reconcile itself.
Surely not beneath the skull alone;
deeper in space it meets and gains
There the matrices of experience and memory
and data sit at the table and indulge
in the same bitter stimulant
and laugh about it all
and here is significance gained?
The question itself is laughed away
as an interstellar breeze grazes the skin
of our star-spangled astral bodies
in the café of Jung's darkest abstraction.

Tree Cover Lover's Delight

Have you ever listened to nature?
Not sat in silence, daydreaming.
Not walking through, admiring.
Not distracted by handheld technology.
I mean really listened attentively.
It strikes me how harmonic it is,
the rise and fall; the unison and the grace.
Carefully planned out and ordered yet wildly unpredictable.
People worry about getting lost.
About straying too far from the path and finding themselves
somewhere where they are unfamiliar.
They are already lost; so far gone along
the path of bright lights
that the yhave forgotten where they want to go.

Nature and I have a meeting room
where we can converse uninterrupted.
She is compassionate to my industrial
and smogginess of mechaincal mind
and so I am careful to do my part
to ensure she doesnt befall the same fate.

I met her this week but I turned up late.

Saturday, 16 July 2016

Bird Trap

I caught you in my trap,
little bird,
and now I let you go.
I long to see you spread your wings,
my love,
in magnificent full flow.

Haunted Skull

Echoes of hollow hate, I
haunt my soul. My
ennui is a blank slate upon which
I shade in the grey happenings of my

My mind, whose mundane oscillations
interest no one
least of all me-
the leaves are falling.

Falling, down into the pits
of my mind. Where
I conjure up a ghost of living;
hollow and morose.

Words in the Breeze

Decisions made
in the tree covered shade
where lovers ease
to words
that just the breeze
had heard.

An hour's slept;
the sun has leapt
through the cracks
to peer
where the ray still lacks
but near...

Buried in Creases

The stony hands of death
will surely grip me before
the creases in my forehead
grip my receding hairline,
but when you pass
and I have already been buried
rest assured my tombstone will weep for you
and wrinkles from smiling
and wrinkles from laughing
and wrinkles from thinking
and wrinkles from worrying
and in every crease there is you.


Count the syllables
like the days during winter;
nod your head then die.

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Referring to the Ending (The Day We Left)

Breathless breakfast; Brexit breaks it.
We'd almost roll off the tongue
if not for the ex in the middle,
just as I rolled in tangled sheets
sweating over just how much the nation
hates immigration.
The pendulum swings
right to left
and back, drawing your curves
in vicious inertia and either way
we're in the red.
A pan-European project to address—
to counter-progress—
technocratic anemia: ecological
catastrophes and economic imbalances
spotlighted by iPhone notifications
of myopic irritations,
beside your
Italian leather
Scandinavian bed
made by migrants to mimic
a heavenly cloud where
only you may lay your head.

Night Light

Shocking synapse barrage
weans a wary glance out the soul's windows
apple of the beholder's eye;
heart palpitations, away it goes.

Scalding black drink
innervate the weary soma
stimulate neither skull nor organs
Blind to dreams and desire, mental glaucoma.

Sweet synesthesia needle,
holy skin, mind wholly in trance
gnaw on God's flesh
and falter in his dance.

Rising lumen reflexes
further subdue subterranean sorrow.
Sensory blaze, pneuma to ash
vagrant drift to vapid tomorrow.

Monday, 27 June 2016

A Weapon Often Overlooked

    V                                                                                              SOCIETY.
     ESTABLISHMENT        :                                                 E
                                     O        DEMOCRACY'S                        S
                                    D        E                         L                       I
                                   A        E                         I                        R
                                 YOUTH                        P                        O
                                  .                                     P                        R
                                                                       I                         R
                                                                     N                        E

Sunday, 19 June 2016

Universal System Attack

Fights are fought
until rights are bought
and then voices are lost
at free choice's cost;
so all facts are distorted
by who has reported
and who they've supported.

The Estranged Daughter

Less of a bridge over troubled water
but rotten crumbling boards and fraying ropes 
Mother Earth is estranged from her daughter
and the Father had abandoned all hopes.

So the child is left in the hands of thieves
blind to ill intentions of company kept,
for those with duty of care takes and leaves
the Father saw this and from afar wept

But he did not step in to intervene 
instead letting his child make her mistakes;
such was his effort to remain unseen
that he even missed visitation dates.

Daddy please return, and mend the bridge
I want to believe that you do still care
Daddy; a girl's on her knees making a wish
I need to believe that you could be there.

Sunset and Secrets

A splintered sunset in salmon skies
stuck in my paws which are rubbing my eyes.
Obfuscating bark parts to reveal
the dark of the woods til the next dawn will rise.

For now, owls perch on branches of teal,
sharing the secrets that night will conceal.
The morning fire kindles the smouldering shade
whilst phantom embers attempt to appeal.

And so in the day, more secrets are made
by that one star who refuses to fade,
yet the day also swears that he will not tell
as the trees protect light with their palisade.

And so time went in a coherent spell,
until the secrets spilt and the first tree fell.


Words will wagger,
I'll wager,
like weary worms in earth.
I've heard your counter-
but cannot see their worth.
They are embroiled
in dirt
and hide within their hole.
Yet if we unearthed
enough worms
I'm sure it would take its toll.

Ticking Away

This starts
as something
something so slight
                                                                     until caught by                                                            time
and is caught by the night
until it departs
without warning
and it is

A Change of Light

Has there been a change in light
or have I just noticed your flaws?
The rays that break through the blinds
expose the state of your paws.
Yet under the guidance of the lamp
you needn't have a bath;
squeaky clean with a saccharine smile
and I can't help but laugh.


The boards, once tightly bound and bolted
are broken and creak under my weight;
I don't avoid their rotting route
but leave my fall in the hands of fate.

The soles of my shoes are faded
and present a hazardous chance to slip;
I don't choose appropriate footwear
but I do a dance to avoid the dip.

Wednesday, 8 June 2016

Seven Years

More dishes pile—
more to-do lists undone.
Shout away shade
and scrape out the muck.
Never forget to smile
and try to have fun 
before the mirrors, their shards
and with it all the years of bad luck.


Synthetic and coarse,
a wild untamed horse.
An indigo glow
with nowhere to go;
slow narrow lanes—
Meetings and migraines.
Pay at the pump
Clinton or trump—
the new fire or ice;
a roll of the dice
and the score is low...
An Indigo glow
—a wild untamed course—
the world shows no remorse