She swelled and she rumbled, she spat magma across her surface. Earth, she seemed emotional about the whole populaces history of sordid affairs. Wracked with guilt, wracked with fear, the people wondered how to heal all that they had done, to return all the goodness they had pulled from her. Yet they found no way to reverse their actions, no way to put all of it right. In their ignorance, they thought it was their fault, they foolishly thought they had a choice. In their arrogance, they thought they were designated caretakers upon that world. Yet from a distance, she whirled blue and green, the same as she had done all the time man resided on her surface. Then the swelling, the cracking and the bursting. In an explosive burst, earth’s egg was launched, out of her incubation pod. The egg perfect, new, on it’s way to distant stars. As the husk ripped open, used up and dead, floats out into the galactic sea.


Spirit Animal

My spirit animal resides with me, around me, following me, leading me. Yet I don’t really know who he could be. I sometimes think of a bear, I have been told a couple of times, I seem like a bear spirit, my lazy strength, my big hugs and sleepy winters. Yet ego is not so swollen to align myself with such a magnificent soul. Perhaps I am shrew or vole, platypus or duck. I say these things, belittling the magnificence in every creature waddling walking and crawling. Whichever I find with me, whoever chose to be with me, I am honoured with your company.



The rich dictate the value of their wares. Their possessions gain wealth from the wealth residing. While the poor cannot even gain the worth of their possessions. For need slashes at worth viciously. Buyers lap at the blood of the bleeding, then throw their sovereigns at the foot of the golden throne. A perverted world it seems, existence sieving the dirt from the gold, to polish a perfect land for the few. Then a curse to the order, if this cruelty turns to be true.



Generations of swine emerge from the Etonian machine, with not one care to those below, not a clue of what it means to wonder if you might fail, if you might hunger. For they are born into the mechanism, into the machine, from birth they have their place. To mould the land to their liking. Below, the proles scamper on the lower limbs, the bowels, the engine room, to feed the palaces above. One after the other, father to son, each more inbred than the last. Free to ride the world, frivolously scampering through the world’s blood, as boots are cheap as souls for them.



Mapacho is meditating by the holes in the lawn, he contemplates their meaning. For many hours he will sit and watch the holes just be. Sometimes he will wonder why there are small animals in these holes, blocking the holes, so he removes them. Soon he returns to pondering, by the holes in the lawn.



It is not going to be written, if I do not start typing.


Is there anybody there?

The one who resides out of sight
who meant to drown, yet not quite
sitting in the shelter of the deli’s canopy
awaiting just some scraps to fall in charity
one who lies with the forsaken in the street
one who knows all the passing strangers feet
gazing up to wonder how the moon can smile
the same silly smile for the pure and the vile
who cannot sleep sweetly undisturbed
who’s next day is not reserved
For they, are a rain dog too.


The beat of Shamanic drum carries across the fields, echoing against the heavy clouds. In the distance a white horse listens, paying close attention, her ears up, her tail a flag in the breeze. As I walk a loop, the rhythm continues, the mustang excitedly tracks my steps. Against her fence I halt the sound and she comes skipping in glee, coming close, to meet me. My heart melts in her needless attention.


The rain incessant
showers indecent
unwelcome flurry
rude precipitation
lashing down dire
teeming abruptly
ferociously pouring
a desperate deluge
sheeting disgusting
monsoon onslaught
a detestable torrent
in grievous flooding
regrettably drowning.


The next rulers of this world
will be ageless sentient plastic
all we mindlessly discarded
gaining the thought we never had.


That dumb amber scum
that lazily produced crop urine
that gut swelling swill
that cheap liver welch
that acrid foaming belch aid
that lever between love
cheers for nothing.


A plague upon religion
a curse upon spells
pray for atheism
disbelief sells.


The damned light of day is rushing past the curtains again. Cursed morning interrupting my dreaming. The sun paints flamboyant pink clouds across my closed eyelids, rousing an unwelcome waking ambition. Enough of this incessant light. I crawl out, to the floor to where I store my bulbs. I drag the old cardboard box out from under the bed and in a dawn daze search for a bulb, the right bulb. One such bulb remains, 100 watts, with a bayonet fixing, an onyx bulb, of darkest black. Some relief I trust, if it is still intact. I twist it into the fitting and with bleary eyes, I reach for the switch on the wall. In sweet relief, the room is bathed in sweet darkness. I feel my way to my warm morning bed, to return to my blessed dreams.



At midnight on a summer evening, the TV keeps me company, till my wife returns. It flickers quietly in my periphery, while I read under lamplight. The sickle moon lends a darkness rare on these northern summer nights, the longest day approaches. The TV’s needy light-show catches my attention momentarily, a drama silently plays out in a strobe lit club. I return to the solace of the peaceful words in my book. The flicker is now more of a distraction than company, so I turn it off, to read under the glow of the orange lamp alone. The day’s warmth has dissipated, a chill comes, I watch the hairs prick up, in a wave across my forearms. I read one line for the fourth time, distracted by a nonsense draught that blows across my lap. Away from the orange glow that falls upon my book, in the corner of my eye, a blue light resides. Not flickering, not strobing, just steadily staying. I cannot turn from my book, I try to read the line again, ‘Not once did he call to her, not once did he care’, I read, yet do not, my eyes are just passing along the line, distracted. The blue light remains, in my imagination it gets brighter and it gets colder. The chill is surely not just my mind. My hairs are stretching out on goose bumps as I begin to shiver. The room turns so quiet, disquiet, a presence is presenting itself in the corner of my eye. By my shoulder, on my shoulder, a distant breath breathes coldly to my ear. The weight of no one rests a hand upon my shoulder, for there is nobody here. Frozen to the seat I hear an intake of breath, a shiver of words come forth on an algid vapour saying, ‘There are no such thing as ghosts’.



At the flea market, I am looking through all that folks couldn’t fit in their garbage cans. It is late, all the ‘good stuff’ was taken in the offensively early hours. Now us strays look through the meagre pickings like gulls behind the stalls. A distressed used up doll rests her head in a rusty radio flyer, a hand knitted clown hangs sad across a tank with a broken gun. Over by some gardening tools I spy a familiar figure, eyeing the bluntest scythe in the world, it’s rusty and the handles are rotten, but has a pleasing curve to her shape, that he seems to appreciate. It’s Tom Waits, he is wearing his familiar denim jacket, it’s getting tattered, the collar wrinkled, just right. He found comfortable cloth to reside, and will not abandon it. I track him in the corner of my eye, so not to startle him, to have him take flight, to feign a normal interaction. He holds the scythe up and says to me, or perhaps just to the universe at large, “I have driven this road many times, see the swing in the snath? It’s the Cabrillo high way, just north of Big Sur”. I am unfamiliar with the road but I am grateful for the eye contact and anecdote.

Tom reaches into his pocket. In a flourish, glitter takes flight. I’d like to say that he disappeared in flash, but the glitter just floated down, tumbling, catching the midday sun. Later I spotted Tom again, browsing some hiphop CDs, a little glitter in his hair.



I tried to take every one of them seriously, but found it extremely hard to see past the red nose, the orange wig and the big shoes. How can anyone expect to be taken seriously in such an outfit? Yet they expect a sober face, an austere reaction. If anything the whole situation is so queer and perverse, it is darn right scary to cross such passionate insanity. Not one part funny or amusing. Everywhere I look, more and more bulbous noses, more baggy pants and elongated brogues. They look bright and dandy, yet declare a deviance verging on terrifying. The chuckles and shuddering of shoulders in their odd expressions, it has me running for cover. I peek through the blinds, they are still there, honking their horns, throwing their pails of glitter, squirting flowers and flapping their shoes in waddling walks. I am not coming out till they’re gone.


Star Trek.
Season 1. Episode 24.
This side of paradise.

In deep space the crew arrive at a planet, to find out what became of a colony, a colony presumed dead, allegedly bathed in alien radiation.
As the crew arrive, to their surprise, they are greeted by the colonists, alive, well and happy, despite the heinous consequences of lethal exposure. The good Captain Kirk insists they are rescued, taken back to civilisation. ‘Underdeveloped’ are among the accusations cast upon the planet’s inhabitants.
The colonists have other ideas though, for who would wish to leave bliss, paradise, heaven? In a glade, in good company, Spock is rendered happy by a philanthropic plant, a terrible fate I am sure. One by one, others are rendered happy, soon nearly all the crew are full of bliss and joy. But for Kirk, Kirk is suspicious of happiness, he must find a way around it!
Not only are the crew rendered happy, they are also cured of all of their ills, they are shielded from the radiation, all previous harm and scars erased, rendering them healthy. This confounds Kirk further. The whole crew are in bliss, a smile resides on Spock’s face as he lays in the heather.
All but Kirk are joyful, till a burst of bloom renders Kirk contemplative, happy, nearly.. In a fitful fight, an anger, Kirk breaks the spell of peace. Eureka! He found the way to break this joy with anger, so sets off to cure the rest of the crew.. beginning with Spock, in a daring fight he continues to provoke Spock into anger, soon he has him back to normal. The cure found, the rest of the crew a cured of joy, as are the colonists, revived, they say “We have not achieved anything in all this time!”..
In conclusion, they pull away in the Enterprise, escaping from paradise, Spock tells Kirk, “That was the first time I have ever been happy”.
What a fucked up episode that was, what the hell was the lesson in there?

In Bloom

Time goes swiftly for a tree, the days blink
Leaves shimmer in the impatient breeze
Limbs stretch for summer and coil in the cold
Firework lives flicker beneath ageing limbs
Painlessly, swiftly, the tree’s light extinguishes.
Her children pour into the new sky.


The seed arrives
rests on the fertile ground
soaking in the sun, it ignites
searches for what it needs to grow
in moisture and in mineral
life explodes into bloom
takes root in the page.


Black clowns
an obsidian splash
Crows high in boughs
are coal in the ash.


Standing in the woods I see
the tree standing next to me
she waves her bough gently
I will stand by her eternally.


Trails carve through
hills of green
ever turning
round the
elvish trees
sourly turning
newly wished in
outlandish dreams
heave the time
into the pot
do not sprint
do not dawdle
every clocks tick is
newly born to
eat well
and never
need again



Falling calendar leaves

June is approaching fast. Intimidating in her velocity. She may just bounce straight over me, smashing into July. There should be some sort of speed restriction put upon the months these days. All that I looked forward to shot past my eyes in a flash. They fly by quicker than I can write them into the calendar. But I need to write them in, for they mark my enjoyment, so I know when joy is here. In quiet times, I can look forward, to joy. I wait, but I don’t wait for long. Joy is bearing down on me like a freight train. ‘Wooo Woooo!’ Joy, coming through! I am battered by the fast moving concerns. Perhaps an empty calendar would slow my passing flame.


The clouds are coiling,
the day is spoiling
a darkness is climbing the knoll
The sun is hiding,
the Gods residing
their lightning is boring holes
The flames are rising,
their thunder striking
the Gods are erasing the stain
Ever blackening,
the earth is shattering
to starting all over again.


doing nothing
getting nervous


Fragile, temporary
only for a day
rare and delicate
ever to decay


Drink until numb
rudely swill it down
untie your brain stem
nestle into the
knoll and drown.


Chop chop

The axe vs the feather was always going to be a bloody affair. I am now surprised the axe took so long to swing. No doubt the monster’s innate cowardice hampered its steps. But now, now they are bold and swinging their hatefully cold axe with reckless abandon. Fear and ignorance in every slice. The ones who mourn this impending death of common decency, are cursed with soft kind hearts and a noble soul. Which lends them the urge to defiantly, peacefully be slaughtered on the front line of hope. A wish that the incoming monsters are more than happy to oblige. Those who could tip the balance, those who could put a flutter of doubt into the axe’s swing, are too preoccupied with attaining faster broadband to notice anything real going on outside of their screen. By the time it is all over, even the monsters will regret their outpouring of fearful abuse. When every soul finds only differences in their neighbour, only distrust in their heart, we will reside in a piteously lonely place. Only ruins are left of ruinous intent.
They could have been a feather, a feather free to fly, peacefully, discovering the beauty of every land, of every people, in care and love. Free of anger and hatred. To fly in that elusive dream of harmony.


What we thought to be
the solid timber of progress
turned out to be merely facade
simulated wood grain panelling
in the cruel reality of the sun
progress warped and peeled.


He wrote with his face
all manner of words were written
punctuation came naturally, fluently
he wrote cursively, still not cursing
he wrote reams, he wrote scrolls
he wrote pages, he wrote books
The pages burned, as they hit the ear.


The moth is confused
in our amber lights
her flight takes
crooked turns
she orbits our
false moons
against the fuse
she burns.


Inertia has me still.
I have gathered so much
stagnant momentum,
I can barely hold it in.
The enormous thrust
of listlessness
is uncontainable.
Stand back,
I am doing



Lono tattoo. By Matt Brownlee.


Kanaloa watched Kāne create, he watched life spring at Kāne’s touch. Kanaloa wished to do the same. So Kanaloa formed bodies of clay and touched them with his godly hand. But, no life was forthcoming. Incensed, Kanaloa cursed Kāne’s people to mortality. When they fell, Kanaloa took Kāne’s souls to his realm below.


Papahānaumoku the Mother of the land, wife to Wākea, the father. In love they created the first born, but she arrived still born. This child was buried into the new soft earth. The first Kalo grew from her navel. A second child was born alive, linked forever with her sibling, to nurture each other eternally. A wonderful legend. We will gloss over the part where Wākea takes his daughter Hoʻohokukalani as his lover. As always, these Gods are a law unto themselves.


Kāne threw the volcanos on his wheel
he blew life into our ancestral form
poured the oceans into the well
his creation knew no bounds
the first to create it all.



Until just now
I had never been stung by a bee
first I thought she was a wasp
so determined was she
lonesome lone, solitary soul
perhaps the same little bee
from two nights ago
she would give no rest
an undignified chase
from garden from nest

Today she stung me, on the knee
after leaving my shorts
now she lays on the ground
she breathes her last
her sting is stung
I am sad she passed
her senseless demise
I wish she knew
I am harmless.



Large or Near?

I could hear the buzzards way up above, they were circling, climbing up in the warming morning air. A stream ran lazily, hosting dragon flies and trout in her clear waters. No hint of a breeze even tickled the bank’s grasses. Where I sat and soaked my feet. Looking up into the blue, I watched until the buzzards were tiny specks, then gone, way up into the stratosphere. I returned my eyes to trees, to re-adjust from the brightly lit heavens. In the distance, at the edge of the forest’s shadow, a figure appeared. Stocky, thick and chestnut brown, rolling, looking like he was built entirely of shoulders, he exuded power. A giant head turned towards the river, the river where my feet soaked. Stone still I watched as he grew in nearness. Nearer, his brown coat shuddered with the weight of every step. His eyes, small in his giant face, yet glint with intelligent energy. His nose searched side to side and around, then reached down to the river. His long tongue reached into the stream, he quenched his thirst, then he sat. He sat and looked straight at me. A mere few yards of wandering water between me and the bear. He looked much nearer, for there is no larger than he in the forest, nothing he fears in the forest. He looked straight through me. I looked down, to the river, to the scattering trout. Glancing up, several heart beats later, the bear was walking, shrinking to further away, to the forest. Another contest won.


Yesterday we spent some time with a crow
A short time
a moment even
He was beautiful
I would hope he is beautiful still
His eyes shone with intelligence
His feathers gleamed immaculately in springs health
He walked along a wall fearlessly
He was the greatest thing I witnessed yesterday.


Just why does the sun bring smiles, while the rain draws frowns. Is it the rain, or is it us? Surely rain is drink, fertility, the rain is life, the rain is all we need, what all of nature needs. Yet we would rather bask in the sun. Sure the sun gives, it gives warmth and vitamin, yet after a short time, the sun begins to take. Life is taken by the sun, baked away, scorched to nothing. Till the flood, the rain just gives. Yet there we are soaked to the bone, a miserable wretch, dripping off vanity. Ah I forget, the water brings rot. Rot of metal and of wood, of skin and of bone. Rot is a terror we know, it sits in the back of our psyche, ‘Must keep dry’ It tells, ‘Must keep away from the burning rain’. Let the sun come and kill this rotting rain. Fresh and dry again.


All my clothes have gone and shrunk
it has effected my entire trunk
all the shirts on all the racks
all my jeans and all my slacks
even my belts have fallen short
every wearable item I have bought
I read the labels, I took all care
this happenstance is hardy fair
my whole wardrobe has hit the skids
the only thing I have that fits
is my trusty derby hat
oh shit, perhaps…
I just got fat?..



Wearing shorts

The night sky is full of wondrous things
I listen intently as the moon starts to sing
I gaze upon angels skating on Saturn’s rings
I watch the gold spilling from the comet’s wings
I witness a newborn star pirouette in her first spin
Never looking down again, the night holds everything.


I am not staring, not enamoured in distance,
I am not listening, I am not intently picking out sound,
I look like I am somewhere else,
yet I am just soaking, just soaking in now.


The cowards take the side
of one with a gun
darkly they are saturated
they never see the sun
when the gun is dropped
you should see those chickens run.


There is a confusion between respect and destruction
burning the beautiful for man’s moronic eruptions
Gods stand for earth in a protection of lines
we cross them all in reverence to lies.


Think she danced flamboyant in courtly flowing lace
delicate, fragile, lissome, the epitome of grace
elfin, glissade as frost across the lake
divine and faultless she pulls my heart awake.


Up in a soaring momentum, into the blue thinning air, to slow and to plateau, to pause, to be weightless, to bow to gravity’s law, gaining motion acceleration, to return to the earth once more.


Microscopic spiders are laying webs across the ledge, never any sign of building, they just appear. Dust gathers on the thread, they waft on a tiny breeze, tomorrow there will be more, you’ll see.

The Days Run Away Like Space Hoppers Over The Hills

A beautiful day here, the sky is so clear above, it is almost black. A wonderful day for a walk along the paths by the fields. Green and lush, they roll for miles, like gentle ocean waves. The birds chatter to me, joyfully pretty and territorial. Looking to the waving grass, I spot a herd of wild space hoppers cresting the hill. Majestically they bounce towards me, their happy faces grinning as they approach. I remember as a child, I rode one around the garden, halcyon days. But these are different, these are wild, unbroken. Yet I am feeling frivolous. Cautiously I approach a friendly looking space hopper who jiggles near, offering my palm to sniff, an introduction. I stroke her horns and gently settle onto her back, at first she shuffles and bounces, spins a turn. Moments later she knows I mean no harm, so we bounce together, across the field and over the hill.


Common decency continues to be marginalised, free thinkers labeled as freaks. We are ploughed through in straight furrows. pared of original thought, arrow straight. A field of torpid submissive grain.



Oh Jesus! it’s fallen off again, that silly tile has no gumption, no grip. Now I can see it again, and what a hideous thing to see. Why do you think we have tiles? Not to see this, I can tell you! Shards of infinity are beaming through the crack again, it is too much time and dimension for one brain to cope with. I would describe the colour of the jabbing beam, yet it is of no colour human eyes have ever seen before, therefore there is no reference to let you gain purchase upon it’s visage. Suffice to say, it is penetrating and beautifully aggressive. Through the chattering slashing pain it starts to become hypnotic, almost pleasant, like the hottest chilli to the eye. Once again I grope for the glue gun and empty the pump into the vicious cavity. The visual screeching abates and I shove the tile back over the scar, I return to my book to read, try to read, as other dimensions tickle this realm, from behind the fragile tile.


If you cannot cope with the inconvenience of protests against our imminent extinction.
You really are going to find our extinction most inconvenient.
Most inconvenient indeed.


Sleight of hand

The street magician gathered a crowd around him, as bugs they stuck to his nauseous smarm. His fingers flowed elegantly as he secreted coins in his pocket. His hands flowed like fish in a pool, barely human at all. All now was mime, his mouth forming surprise, his eyes showing impish glee, reflected in the onlookers vacuous gorping lenses. He showed the crowd he had nothing up his sleeves in a fastidious flourish. In theatrical exaggeration, in feigned surprise, he opening his coat, displaying his empty pockets. In a cockney skip he bared his shins and shook his feet, to show nothing within. Then in fluid motion he removed one brogue and gently tipped it. Nothing poured out, he showed his empty shoe. He slipped the shoe back on and removed the next. This time he glanced side to side, as a hustler of old, let slip a grim grin, slowly he tipped the second brogue. Nothing poured, nothing flowed or fell, again an empty shoe. He replaced the second shoe, as he did the first, then buggered off.



Religions and shrines, charms and deities, all are fuelled by intention. No power resides in a figure or object, but what we bestow upon it. Our souls have the great power, which we trick into motion with intention from a projected greater source. It is intention which fuels our belief, and belief that fuels our strength. It is unwise to try to prove your shrine’s power to those who have nothing but disdain for it, for nothing will be proved to them but the reinforcement of their own belief, to strengthen their belief of nothing. Indeed the atheist carries great belief, for he believes in himself without doubt. This security, this faith, gives him strength. Someone in doubt of their own faith and the agnostic are in a more weakened state than one who believes absolutely, in nothing. Be secure in whatever you carry, whatever you believe, for that is strength itself.


Change was always going to arrive
despite our wishes otherwise.