Monday, 21 March 2016




The creek ran lucid, lacerating the hollow of its flesh so that its bones exposed limestone. 
Tree roots reached to the stream, emerald moss gripped, and the water ran whispering.
Then the cry of the red kite.
The clearing stopped.
And all was quiet.

Monday, 14 March 2016

Friday, 4 March 2016

Aged Anarchy/On a limit

Adolescent dreams of anarchy and revolution
replaced by reality's convolution.
That disillusioned dreaming teen
replaced by dollar signs and routine
feeding the machine
rather than offering a solution.


But we've got five years left in the meter
and I can't help but feel
if we invest just a little more
change, we'll be safe from
the warden that lurks around the corner.

Brown Bird

A swiftness of being,
with gentle sky-taps,
contrasts to the ploddy earthiness
of the ground below.

The fog had swollen,
you could chew it,
breathe it,
and squish it in your hands.

It made the sky flax-white,
refined as a leather purse,
or gentle oak-stained
glass of wine.

And with all anchors of land,
a solemn being uproots,
up, up,
and up once more.

Melting Pot

The world will wither under the weight of dust
and the lies of the mass media.

First the oil will run out, and then the trust
descending into mass hysteria.

And all is in the hands of some elected fate
choosing between a burials or cremations;
whichever offers the best exchange rate
must be the best option for Earth's divided nations.

Throw your dollars, your euros and your pounds into a baseball cap
and melt them down for what they are worth.
Smother yourself into their smouldering sap
and save your skin before you save the Earth.

The Sound of a Human

Do monsters ever cry at night in bed, snoring fast asleep?
Do monsters ever stop  and think of who they're going to eat?
Roar goes the lion;
growl goes the bear.
What sound does a human make
sleeping under there?

Dimly Tinted Windows

I think I look good
from a distance
in dimly tinted

Far enough away
to not perceive
my vague expression
as lost.


The light powdering
through the hole in my head
can be seen through the hole
in my feet for I am hollow.
The fact that sleep
won't fix these faults
can only seem to add to
my drowsy sense of sorrow.

A Transaction of Sorts

Silhouettes cutting the moonlight
into long dark rooms;
each of them greeting another.
With a smile and a bow
they part ways
each thinking
that the other will remember him.


What is a silver medal
but an invitation that shines
in another man's shadow;
a lunar loser's false light.