Wednesday, 29 November 2017

Not Ready for the Songs

The span of the season's wings en-
gulf my shaky sense of safety:
they drag my being to their nest.
Though I'd welcome to be nestled
within their feathery embrace
I would much sooner welcome rest.
So the robin that chirps for me
gleeful on those frosty mornings,
please leave your song until later.
They say it's the most wonderful
time of the year and yet the sense
of weariness is much greater.

Repetition and Alteration

Repetition is a constructed lie
but one that allows us to thrive
for it's a variation improved by
the new moments had whilst alive.

Alteration in the familiar
is a route to a rout of rights
through perfecting something similar
and subsiding all of the slights.

Our Spin Sees it Just...

Pure morning light
    loitered on your
       exposed collar
        filtered through blinds
             who let strips in
           and the duvet
          kisses your breast;
       reflecting light -
     luciform love
and our spin sees it just
   that the ambered
       and slumbered sun
         should rouse those eyes
            from restful lids
         and dance to your
       rising shoulders
    exposing more
  winter lit skin;
soft snowy bliss.

Sunday, 5 November 2017


Seagull, mid-flight,
blown from its track,
caught in a gust of wind,
never finds its way back
but where does it
plan to descend
or if rather the case
did it have any ends?
I'd hope to think
it was fine chance
that took hold of its wing
and control of the dance,
for when you're caught
(feathered or fur)
it's rather the sign of
circumstance in the air.

Boundless Atmosphere

Such sinuous softness
in the silk of your skin
contains your heart's corona
and the light contained within.

Such selenic brightness
in the glow of your eyes
emits your lively love
and how our harmonise.

Such stellular hypnosis
in the pull of your lips
gravitates me towards you
and your meteoric fingertips.

Such heavenly halcyon
when you are in my arms
in a perihelion;
that point of closest calm.

Such heavenly halcyon
when our earthly bodies meet
in space there's heard an explosion
as our weightless love accretes

Saturday, 4 November 2017

Splintered Sun

Trunk splintered sun
lights leaves aglow.
Hands stretching high,
mist flying low.
The summer's death
is all for show.
Nothing to see,
nowhere to go.

Dark and Damp

Horrors lie uncertain
under Heaven's soft snow,
forsaken by sunlight
in a place forbidden go
but we ventured down
for the will of our kind;
us vessel of spirits
to see what we'd find -

it was dark and damp.

Saturday, 21 October 2017


Feathers in your mouth and blood on your tail:
I can't help but be a fool for the facts.
Immaculate paws point to faith I'd lacked
and oust me as someone fragile and frail.

Yet we're still clearly left with a dead bird
and its carcass conveys a carnal sin
so it takes all my strength from within
to dismiss the tweeting that I had heard.

For sometimes feathers are merely feathers
and blood can come from natural sources;
when careless suspicions run their courses
fearful minds can break free of their tethers.

I still nurse that bird in my gentle hands
knowing not who did it harm nor where it lands.

Day To Day/Overwhelmed

Wilted and worn                           with little want
from the whirlwind                      stirring in my bed
of a day to day                             overwhelmed by life
tilted and torn                              by a feeling of can't
from the neglect                          that I've been drowned by
of a day to day;                           overwhelmed by life;
an overwhelmed life -               a day to day
with much to do,                         with little respite,
there's a drowsiness                   of mal-hydration
in a jaundice hue                          and a lack of light,
yet I can't keep up                        with life to live
when it comes to you                   and sleep to fight.

Atlas Stone

Lately, I've had a boulder
that I've taken everywhere.
Rested on my aching shoulder,
it's such a burden to bear.

But it has 'come a part of me
and so I cling to it like hell.
I feel as though it could be
the magic caster of some spell.

But day by day, I've felt strength wane
and the boulder's weight's increased
until I cannot take the strain,
the ache festering like yeast.

And so I've dropped it from my arms
but it's landed on my toes,
which seems to do even more harm...
I doubt the pain ever goes.

I've tried to lift the weight once more
but it was too heavy to take
and as it stays dead on the floor
my failing hands begin to shake.

And now my shoulders feel light
and my skin's no longer cut,
but I still have these hills to fight
and I still have a broken foot.

Saturday, 7 October 2017

The Worsification of Wine

The flocculent feelings of fondness
foraminate frost that had enveloped.
A flaught flicker in your eyes towards mine,
both intoxicated by wine;
I knew a love had developed.

The potency grew stronger with each pour

our pupils both dilated in awe.
More wine madefied your majestic lips
as my fingertips felt for you hips;
I recognised you without flaw.

The effects of the wine dissipated

yet those systatic sensations sinewed.
As intoxication was sedated
our hearts still both felt elated
by the love that was created.

Waking dream; Working dream.

Sleep steady,
sedated by the bright midnight
waking hours
find me heavy eyed
drifting into
nocturnal dreams
of existence,
down the darkest shard.
A luciform logic
malnourished by choice, working on caffeine
to hold a roof above my head
the rain already
falls too much
and the alarm calls
for another day.

Monday, 2 October 2017

Lost in the Lunar Lit Licks

Salt water seeps and spreads
through sepia sheets,
an owner caught unaware
by the changing tides
of the lunar sea
in a midnight stroll;
all light left those words
and meaning shattered
by shingles shunted
towards the shore.

The pale reflection leers
her flickering facade
as though luring the owner
into her sinewed grasp;
lecanscopy and the hypnotic
displacement of pebbles
working in synergy;
still he can't retrieve
those words he wrote
with an assured pen;

the night is ephemeral
but its damage holds eternal.

Sunday, 3 September 2017

A Second Floor Scene

A scent of freshly laundered linen
as your stripes slide off swiftly
and the creases                                
                                             of your skin
are snatched at in delirious delight
under the gaze of Venus' light
and the blinds                                   
                                 stir in the wind
snatching at the open window
where we echo in the night.

Friday, 1 September 2017

September Softness

A plethora of pressed petals
could not duplicate your delicacy,
nor could their scent evoke sensations
a slight bit as strong, as those sustained
by the perfume on your curved clavicle,
skin as exposed as those feelings
I struggle to conceal as you catch me staring
as my inner-self screams those words
that my tongue is too sedulous to speak.

Summer Upstaged

Summer retired, stage right,
with little fanfare,
upstaged by Autumn's carefree cameo,
undeserving of the star billing received
with her limited stage time,
swept away by the shifting folly of fame.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Night Tides

Opalescent aura; the phantom that falls
between my blinds and slips beneath
my duvet onto the folds of my sheets -
my glance and hers meet
at the still and silent sea,
a refracted halcyon, milky hue.
I turn over to you, tight eyed, smiling
at the sentiments that stirred me
from my sleep and how
that silver soul sensed
the soft tides in the waves of my heart.

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

Under the Mill

That hour elapsed with urgency,
my hands trembled but my will did not
as I watched you, watching me,
wonder in those great vessels within their emerald oceans
and I averted my gaze down to my plate,
long purged of its contents.

My eyes found the waitress's, an unspoken request,
as a folded receipt was brought over with packaged mints,
and I promptly overlapped it with plastic
and held open the door, buttoning my jacket
as we made our exit, into the sky's embrace,
fingertips glancing at first, then strengthening in grip.

We circumnavigated that reedy body of water,
reflecting your soft countenance, and mine paled with plans
 - we paused - 
lips glancing at first, then strengthening in grip
before we carried on upward to the rusting sky,
my thoughts anxious with times ans suppositional circumstances.

As our mirthful minds crossed that inclined threshold
we could both discern a city's silhouette in salmon skies
and found a place to rest aching legs and full stomachs.
I opened my mouth - unable to speak; and instead looked out
to the sea where white waves wandered, and my eyes wandered
to those deep emerald oceans once more.

My hands trembled but my will did not,
as I watched you, watching me,
and you replied,

The Widow

Susurrus summons of the solemned sea
welcomingly waves, beckoning me.
I know not her wish
or where I will wash,
but only in her clutch will I feel free.

She's said to be the mother who gave life
but I see the weeping of a widowed wife.
She groans in her grief
to her submerged reef,
her only relief a jagged rock's knife.

I notice that she would not mourn for me
in her desperation for company.
Yet I let her grip;
I let the tide rip,
and she swallows me whole so hungrily.

Lexical Addiction

I've got a craving
to succumb to that lexical addiction;
to allow those words to control me
with what little fix their diluted form still holds.

My subconscious control comprehends
that it's a habitual utterance
and yet with each delightful dose it demands
a little more value in its validity.

And so I let you overcome me
despite my weak-willed protests;
it strikes me that this isn't my usual poison
and yet the purest form might be positive.

I've got a craving
to succumb to that lexical addiction again
and with the utmost understanding
it is uttered.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Effervescent Memories

Effervescent memories, floating to the top,
ending in a pop, ephemeral in their rise
'til their explosive demise, gone into the air,
they're no longer there, effervescent memories.

Night Gifts

Those gifts we sometimes receive in the night
are met by an audience expecting
to see on our faces, signs of delight,
but find the scattered wrapping perplexing.

There's no doubt thought has gone into the gift
and it is something we will come to need
but when there are presents through which we sift
never is it the instructions we read.

So the gifts are collecting dust, somewhere out of sight
and each one is in need of dissecting
but there's a danger that would cause a rift
from a prior warning we didn't heed.

Since, I've paid great care to each gift I've got
and rue every gift I have since forgot.

Saturday, 24 June 2017


These jagged white teeth that leer from the shade
and are rotting under the grasp of moss
menacingly mirthful in mess they've made
care not for his troubles nor for your loss.

Instead they goad him into glaucous grips
willing him to be consumed by the scud
until rolled over by the wave's wet whips,
tossed like a pebble into banks of mud.

Those 5.7 seconds recalled years;
a lifetime condensed into a fraction
and as the philosopher of Algiers
he imagined Sisyphus' satisfaction.

But in that time he could not change his way
to the cliff's delight and his friend's dismay.

— In Silence —

Alone, under the gargantuan balls of gas
that punctuate the pitch black sky in pulchritude
with their puissant burning — in silence — 
as I walk along the centre of the empty roads
arms outstretched, tiptoes touching
the painted white markings that demark contraflow,
and the tinted bulbs of traffic lights
flash and flicker from green to amber to red — in silence —
signalling to the empty roads that nothing in particular
must stop. I take no heed, rushing through
in half-drunken delight, head polluted by rum
and thoughts of a blissful moment spent with you,
and my brain screams in ecstasy — in silence —
for your presence, as though I could rouse you from your silent sleep,
just as your labial lullaby lacerated my eyes; laconic
— in silence —

Friday, 26 May 2017


There's no worse sentence
than one what starts with the words
"I'm not racist, but..."

Wednesday, 17 May 2017


Oh how you've been clinging to those icy grips
like languishing leaves lost among litter.
The weather, it tries its best to warn you
you'd be left directionless and bitter.

That's not to say it's cold all of the time
but rather a sudden forecasted front
and what meteorologists once said;
they'd now rather not be taking that punt.

The forecast's grim; but at least not for him
who's walking around in shorts and a vest.
His happiness shows, for he really knows
he's on the cold Earth only as a guest.

And when the ice melts, he'll swim in the flood
and when he's drowning he'll say "it is good".

Pre-Determined Free-Will

There is a finality and determinism
                              to life that we struggle to describe
                                                             as under the control of our will;
                                                              our choice.

This is true to a certain extent.
                            There is a huge element of cause and effect
                                                             that gives us our many variations
                                                             of lives.

Our choices determine who we are, and
                             what becomes of us as people, yet
                                                            these choices are constricted in the
                                                            confines of fate.

One needs context in order to feel, so the first
                             life would feel nothing, for it had nothing
                                                            to compare to; meaning is ordained from
                                                            prior life.

We are predetermined by our genetic makeup
                                 and by a history of what we 
                                                           at least perceive as free choices; what we're
                                                           programmed to do.

The human life has been set by fate to have a
                                 spring, summer, autumn, winter. This is unavoidable
                                                          unless we ripped out pages from
                                                          life's calendar.

But we can never choose
                                 that the next season should not fall;
                                                         delay it and prepare for it
                                                         though we might.

Our free will determines what happens 
                               with these seasons, just as our choices
                                                         help to bring some seasons to be longer
                                                         than others.

The more free-will we get, the more
                              this global warming effect will occur,
                                                        not only in meteorological seasons but in this
                                                        issue of will.

In order to best attain a credible
                              existence, we must become autonomous
                                                         beings and allow fate to direct us through seasons
                                                         as prescribed for us.

We should not fall foul on the path
                              of choice, for choice blinds us
                                                          into the narcissistic notion that
                                                          we are free.

Whether we are free or not
                              is ultimately an otiose debate
                                                         for we only found out both sides by both
                                                        choice and fate.


Home is where the heart is
or so I have been told
but it isn't the ones out on the streets
whose hearts are empty and cold.
Hungry and not heartless
not harmful, but hurting;
so their heinous criminalisation
is more than disconcerting.
And yet they're swept away
like empty cider cans,
dropped by ones not labelled for addictions;
dropped by privileged hands.
No-one's there to pick them up,
 they all just walk straight past
for they degrade this depressing city
and are looked upon as trash.
But don't throw them away,
recycling needs some sorting;
for every sorry state we find a use
with the right supporting.
See a can? Pick it up!
Put it where it belongs -
we should be looking for the good we can do,
not ignoring all that's wrong.

Monday, 1 May 2017

The Rat

The rat willed for refuge
from the chambers in the sewers,
crowded everywhere that it went.
Away from the refuse
and negativity that skewers
all of the time it has spent.

So it indecisively sought
a solitary space of its own,
but not one single section could it find.
Instead it was caught
by the reality that was thrown
that it was trapped in the tunnels of its mind.

Thursday, 27 April 2017

Sea Legs

I gazed as your saliferous hair
slapped upon the sunset rocks
of a sangria sea.

From out of the mist 
my searchlight came
seeking your signal
to close in on the cooling evening.

Yet the waters are too rough,
I am dehydrated
and I have lost my sea legs.

Saturday, 22 April 2017


There's a higher thing
in hyacinths
sprinkled on the lawn.
They remind me of
my love for you;
how it threatened to be overgrown.

How the upkeep would
distress the neighbourhood
if not picked and pruned.
Yet my blistered hands
can no longer stand
to aggravate the wound.

A Terrible Death

I fear not
how it would feel to die
but to lack feeling,
yet I'm self aware
that I'm terribly self aware
and so terrible.

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

Escaping my Sepulchre

Removing the boulder of your body,
I escaped my sepulchre sequestered,
solivagant against the subterfuge
and the sins and ill will that had festered.

Renascent against the apostasy
in animus that made me ascetic,
I cursed not the boulder that had held me
but rather found forgiveness analgetic.

And such reflections found me less reticent;
regret receded with ruminations
'til I found the ataraxic axiom;
I was thankful for your testing creations

This realisation rendered me removed
from a sorry world that had never improved.

Sunday, 2 April 2017


A jet of afflatus
in my epicurean contemplation of life
as I compose poetry in the shower,
trying to get the perfect balance
of hot and cold,
my fingers webbing from staying in
one spot for too long.

My memory of the words
is swept away in lachryform beads
by the coarse towel's kiss;
grating against horripilated and
humbled flesh,
lost forever with those ephemeral easing
moments of enlightenment.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017


I studied my shadow's sapient subterfuge
as she sequestered in a selenic delight,
somewhere I've never gone, in the dead of the night—
though I wished that I might.

Her swasivious sweven was fleeting and false
as she distracted me from my supine routines,
in a fickle frisson of Freud's wish-fulfilling dreams—
she is not what she seems.

I wonder where tomorrow takes my shadow, and
why can't I too show the silence that she displays,
and if I stray from the sun can I go away—
can I leave with the day?

Sunday, 12 March 2017

Her Horticulture

The lifeless tendrils of her faded amaranth abate
in vicissitude of the verdure found within her Spring.
All plucked are her petals, as their douceur dissipates
and left is an unbloomed knosp of a madness enate.

Still those truculent turbid tendrils tangle around my chest
and try to feed on my tacit and altruistic manner.
Internecine and intransigent, I sometimes detest
those sciophilous, shady seeds that ever began her.

I shudder to think of poisons injected by her thorns
or the injury that one would endure from ingestion.
The vesuviation of variegation is forlorn,
revealing the verisimilitude behind beauty's deception.

There's a torpid tabefaction in this tryst of turgid shoots
and I'm wary of tatonnement in the tawdry tangles of Spring.
I will avoid the plants bearing the serpent's ripest fruits
and, like weeds, rip them up from their once roseate roots.

Friday, 3 March 2017

Dinosaurs in School!

A pterodactyl's gliding in the hall,
we're all terrified and trying to sing.
We all really hope that it will not fall
but I spotted some Blu-Tac stuck to its wing.

A T-Rex is terrorising the loo 
and its arms are too short to wash its hands.
I don't know what this carnivore will do;
can it sit on the toilet or does it stand?

A triceratops is catching some hoops
that it found outside with its three horned face.
The teachers are trying to read with groups
but children are running all over the place.

A stegosaurus' plates rattle the office,
letters and envelopes fly everywhere.
It whips its tail and spills all of the coffees
onto the computer, the desk and the chair.

A brachiosaurus is sat crying in class,
rifling through all of the children's trays.
It's trying to find some nice tasty grass
on which this poor hungry herbivore can graze.

And finally we find a diplodocus
sat on the carpet talking to his friends...
suddenly the teachers and children are raucous
Friday's loudest roar as the school day ends!

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

The Fortitude of Fallen Foliage

Often is winter's arrival mourned
as an icy season of bitter death
but I find it rather a time adorned
with the opportunity for fresh breath.

The solstice is dark and hard to endure
and it represents the pessimist's peak,
but after that those dark days are fewer
and the skies steadily appear less bleak.

So do not mourn the fallen rusted leaf
separated from the embrace of the tree
but rather take solace in the belief
that it will benefit from flying free.

The fallen leaves, once so solemn, stir
from the comforting pick-up in the air.