Death and rebirth beautifully choreographed, year after year, century after century. All washed and replenished from a never ceasing orb.
Even the most destructive and selfish demons burning and raping her, are nothing but a minuscule smear on infinite time.


The earth looks as blue looking down from above, as it does looking up from below.


The grass mugged the cow, the sky just took the clouds and threw them at the mountains, the mountains so shocked, they dropped their snow on the lounging trees, causing them to run to the lake to cool off, if only the lake was warned, he would not have drowned the trees. Now the lake is inconsolable, crying on his knees, drowning the bushes too, oh what days are these?!


Beyond the rain, beyond the cloud, beyond the blue. In the darkness, the stars are still there, shining for someone else.


Every generation ashamed of evil in it’s pot.
Hoping the following generation
becomes what they could not.


I am on edge as the bodies could come in at any time, in any room, the only sure thing is, they will come, in shredded pieces, wailing in pain. My heart is in constant preparation for grief.


“Just concentrate” he said to the orange.


Death a mixed bag

When we were young we’d flick his nose
then we’d age and the fear would grow
we’d do anything to avoid his gate
In time we see his friendly face.


Blue is the sky and green is the tree
one is for sadness and one for jealousy
both wish to see what the other can see.


The bus was full to bursting with righteous religious folks heading to the church. Half way they find the road is blocked. They remained there indefinitely. There was a diversion, but there is only one way for the righteous. In a town not that far away, the church stands sadly empty, at the junction of many paths.


All flavour in the meal, not tasteless water, not the wadding of starchy potato. Sparkling spice from one mouthful to the next. A meal is not a chore, it is not a grind, it is tingles and smiles, satisfied sounds. A meal, as a book, as a movie.


I bought the same shirt as I saw a guy on TV wearing,
now I am as unique as he is.


The heroes are the ones who rescue us
no hero has attacked anyone.


The new generation is different to the old, the older generation do not understand them. The young enjoy a different tune, a different food, a different language. The generational gap, the misunderstood. Yet no, the new generation do enjoy garbage, they lazily sit upon inherited knowledge, they love the frivolous and the superficial, they love the chemical and plastic. they are lacklustre. The older generation know this, as they created them, they paved the way to stupidity with greed and laziness, profit margins and prejudice. We cannot complain of our own fetid flawed product.


The crow’s calamitous call
is tumbling down the tree
it does not sound at all
like wisdom to me.

Cats and cads

He hands me a golden heart, pristine
I am overjoyed
he takes it and shreds it in front of me
however can I look at him again
carefully he sews it together
the repair makes it more beautiful than ever
I am in love again
he throws it to the wall to shatter
I fall to the well, to the darkness
sly he takes to the silken thread again
patiently I wait to be rescued again
such a fool.


A fabrication of a falsehood, an aggrandisement of hyperbole, a boastful embroidery, of an elaboration of an extravagance, a magnification of an overestimation, a million ways to introduce your meagre slice of lies.


Without thought the words arrive, how they form they can’t decide, I’ll continue to type and relay absurd, those other else are not yet cured. It must be a joke I believe, something for their tension to relieve, it doesn’t really need to rhyme, just their joke at this time, an aerial to gather mist, a receptor for a wording gist, my mind is open the rivers flow, till the dam clogs to stop the go, crashing through the water eager, washes away obtrusive beaver, he can go where suns have gone, far away then beyond, leave me to receive the signal, erratic spangle befuddle mingle, a crash of rhino a murder of crows, these thoughts do not arrive in rows, shake them out onto a page, let the times new roman age, wring them out, spread them on the plate, till the count is one four eight.


Dream of the money tree
wish for being free financially
keep feeding that greedy plan
turn away as they rape the land
worthlessness from the press
another president manifests
green can be so very gory
rewrite a heartfelt story.


We are the tigers and the bears
we are the mice and the flies
we are the birds in the sky
and all the fish in the sea
we are all and everything
we should respect ourselves.


She preens and perfects at the end of the bed
claws checked and vision calibrated
a sniper assembles her rifle.

Throwing Seahorses

In Clacton on sea, under blue skies, I spied an artefact. It shone gold on ancient polished stone, pebbles they called them. It sat inconsequential among the shopkeeper’s wares, bearing the sign ‘Welcome to Clacton on sea’. A gold seahorse in a sailer’s hat smiled from behind the slogan. As soon as I saw it, I had to have it. I approached the sly looking shop keeper, he was short, squinty and gimpy, he regarded my interest with suspicion. I enquired how much the piece might be worth, he replied “The sticker says five pounds ninety-nine”. I reached into my pocket, feeling through my coins, I pulled them out into the light, to my astonishment it came to five pounds ninety-nine. I asked if he would take five pounds, he said no. I handed the coins to the reluctant sales man, he begrudgingly handed me the item with a warning “Take it if you must, but do not cross the Essex seal, or there will be terrible consequences”. I paused then asked “What sort of consequences?”. He hurrumphed and said “Terrible ones” He then scurried back through the door behind the shop. I do not believe in magic, superstition and suchlike, yet the artefact seemed to shudder beneath it’s paper bag, I paid this no mind and shoved it into my duffle-coat pocket.
I continued to enjoy clear blue skies throughout the rest of the day, before returning to my car, a Y reg Cortina, in reasonable running order, just needing some toupee tape for her vinyl roof, which flaps and trails giving her the appearance of a sprinting bank manager. I gingerly lowered myself onto the scorching plastic seats and started her up to head home. The artefact shuddered once again. I put it down to a misfiring plug and pulled out of the carpark to head home. Blue skies continued to bless my day until along the A12 a dull rumble filled the car, I was approaching London, the border to take my leave of Essex, I thought ‘surely that was nonesen..’. My thought was interrupted by a black lightning bolt firing from the blue, splitting my Cortina in two. In a whirl I was thrown from the wreckage onto the bank. I grasped the shuddering and vibrating artefact from my pocket and threw it in clacton’s general direction. I turned and began my walk back to London.
This was several years ago, I still cannot stand the sight of a ‘Kiss me quick’ hat.


Ashen skies host a charcoal dance
mercurial crows untethered
chatter with glee to celebrate
another storm weathered.


Climbing in the car for a drive, a drive just for my entertainment, no chore, no reason. I soak in the view, admire the engineering, the hours that went into the tiniest switch. Then look to the road, the black ribbon twisting from left to right over and down, the feeling of the road through the steering wheel and beneath the seat. Then to begin to explore, explore how the car moves at speed, how the weight moves around the car, how the car balances on just one wheel as a ballerina pirouettes. The car is not behaving as a normal car anymore, she is dancing as in the hands of a racing driver. Yet I am not a racing driver, I am not experienced in such a place. I press too far, the feelings become alien, soon I do not know the movements she is showing me. Her skirt swings flamenco, my heart chatters in alarming rhythms. I gather my adrenalin, my ego, my exuberance and slow. To listen to the engine purr, the chassis settle, my heart recover, after the invigoration of dancing off the leash.


Just below the surface she swims. When the light is right you can catch a shimmer of her scales, in the corner of your eye, you can see her tail whip. On a full moon she emerges iridescent green and blue, piercing the surface of this world. She then returns back to her realm, to tell of what she saw.


Drinking the stew made from shrew
would cue the wretched flu ensued
a rendezvous with toilet tissue
instead imbue a tier of tiramisu
ensure the trips to the loo are few
accrue from the shrewd food guru.

Being different is not a sin

Our country and nation, our state, our fatherland, motherland and homeland, our realm, our kingdom, our empire, our republic, our commonwealth, our province, our district, our region, our domain. Our humorously phallic imaginary ownership.


I don’t want to pull at the stake
don’t want to loosen it’s grip
don’t want to slacken the rope
don’t want my tether to slip
I wish to abandon life’s fruits
wish to bury my roots
wish to stay in one place
for an expressionless face.


I have sensitive skin, any contact with what I dislike is met with an angry welt, anything distasteful is met with a rash of red itching annoyance. It dies off after a while, some time away from contact with the annoyance.


The sea does not call to me
not her beckoning melody
others paw at her diamond crests
their splashing laughter manifests
but I see the dark depths she hides
where all her sickening death resides
I will not step upon her trap door
my place is right here
on the shore.


The impossible is only what your mind does not believe
do not lose heart, all you dream can come true
all you need to do is put your mind to it
hey kids stop throwing stuff at me
while I flap around the yard.


We tread the path of difference
away from the well worn path
we are not the gossipers
we are the gossip.


Thinking in a yurt

While laying looking up through the crown, the sky changes so quickly, the rain ending it’s fall, sending tears in all directions down the dome, the clouds are breaking, the sun fills my eyes, forced close, to rest, to think of writing, of transience.


Tired, I took a nap. Swiftly I fell to a parallel universe and peaked back to look at how odd normality was back there. Why was I there, how did I get there, soon I was back there, returned at the sound of knocking. In a daze I wandered to the front door, looking through window I see a delivery driver over by the hedge, contemplating life on the other side.. of the hedge. I left him to his contemplation and went back to my slumber. Almost immediately I am woken by a voice, “Hello.. Hello!… Hello!!” it says in increasing volume through the now open door. I returned to the door and found a bewildered driver asking me whether I opened the door, as he said it was closed when he knocked. This is too confusing to consider at such a moment, I looked at the door behind me, but could offer nothing but shoulder expression and signed for the package. I returned to my bed, to try to locate where I might be.


How many distractions till my mind is full enough to not face worry anymore? How to keep the level from dipping, plunging me back into thought? I’ll listen to music while playing a game, as the TV strobes in the corner of my eye, as I check my phone for messages and browse a mindless magazine full of gloss, keep the distraction bar full, drive all thoughts away.
Till I stop to do nothing but sit, no sight, no sound, nothing but sitting. Thoughts flood in, a tidal wave of questions I watch wash past. I reach for none of them, stay dry, keep dry up on the hill, to wait for the waves to settle. In the sun the sea settles, I watch all my thoughts twinkle on the settling surface of a calm blue sea.


I spent the whole day yesterday chasing possessed fruit around the garden, when they weren’t chasing me. You’d never imagine how vicious a demonised gourd can be, yet the cleaver was angrier. The cauliflowers were quite resentful at the gourds treatment, they came at me with demonic intent. Yet the cauliflower met cleaver just the same. I ended in a sweaty heap among the scattered veggie-side.


Drums pounding and smoke wisps weaving
cast runes clatter scattered for the reading
sacrifices given for the gods are feeding
the dramatic ways of shamanic healing.

Out and about

It’s too warm out today, yet the skies are grey, I’m sweating in this coat, my head is in a foggy place, am I walking sideways? I am unsure. Is this what it feels like right before you faint?


Surely it is not that hot, no one else looks that hot, I must be ill, why am I out when I’m ill. I’m too far way from home to be ill. Maybe it is that hot.


Walking is different alone, I judge myself more when alone. Am I staring? Are they staring? Why am I wearing a hat? No one else is wearing a hat, am I walking normally? Do I look lonely? Is everyone else thinking ‘Just a little more, then I can go home’?


At Caffe Nero, Italian coffee, Italian cake, the strings flow on the radio. Then the singing starts, in French, this throws me.


Fiddling over the speakers, coffee in the air, my pulse is sinking to lounge level.


Now I am more relaxed, I can indulge in some people watching, so many different stories on so many different faces.

Fledged Thoughts

There is nothing to write, but I will write anyway, for surely if the plug is removed, some clear water will come, after I flush the scum. Still nothing, yet this is something, if little. Yet from little seeds, huge trees are felled and made into books.. A twisted analogy, or a metaphor, I wonder what the difference is? [Leaves to look it up].. [Returns]. Well I am somewhat enlightened, yet not entirely, The analogy is an explicit comparison, one of reality, the metaphor is implicit, not necessarily a literal comparison at all. In short it seems a metaphor is an analogy for the imaginative. Then there is ‘Allegory’ which I stumbled upon, hmm, this is a story with a second depth, another meaning. So close, yet in many ways they do not overlap. Subtle ways to steer a mind towards an intention, without giving ones agenda away. All sorts of disagreeables can agree to what they thought they did not, just by putting a thought in a different context. In a snap they can be un-hypnotised. What a wonderful thought, to think that a hateful mind could be reset with a different view. What a naive thought, hoho. But out there somewhere is the cure for stupidity, just a minute, I think it is knowledge. Cracked it! Then I continue, there are words after all, ah, the tap is spitting rust again, perhaps a knock to the faucet, but the clear water is from a far away well. Glug glug, drip, drip. Sigh, is it proper english to write ‘sigh’? Perhaps ‘He gave a sigh’ or ‘There was no sigh deep enough’, I should have perhaps quoted myself ‘sigh’, yet I do not say sigh, I’ll go with *sigh* an action, unwritten officially, maybe. Not that I am writing in proper english anyway, whatever that might mean in an ever-evolving language. Something eloquent, away from any hip or temporary slang. Poncey or pretentious? Well, I hope not. Just elegant as I see it. A sentence un-shortened, at just the right flow is a beautiful thing to behold. Crisply dancing to imaginary music, a waltzing sentence barely touches the floor.


In the corner of the room, barely noticeable, hush as a whisper, the end of the world began. We had time of course, the end of the world was very ponderous, or should I say languid, as the end did not show one sign of wavering. If it was found sooner, before it spread throughout the house.. well, it would have made no difference. Probably would have just made the last days more stressful.


The ship is heaving and crashing in contradiction to my stomach. Every crash sends my stomach up, every heave sends it to the deck. The mast is heaving too, creaking at the strain of too much sail. The captain is obstinate, he will sink another boat in his bloody minded quest to beat the wind and sea. Take us poor souls too in his mania. Surely mutiny is not as offensive as following a captain to the depths. Yet the crew are busying themselves bailing and sewing sails, to send them up to tear once more. I can feel the strain in every beam, we will never again see the shore.


A snake, a dragon, scaled down.


I came here to write, but found nothing but white. What am I supposed to do with that? Just the vacant glare of a page saturated in emptiness. Soon from staring so longingly, my soul reflects the emptiness of the page. Damn it, the situation is supposed to be the entire reverse, the page to be filled with my soul’s renderings. All I can see is the map of the pulp’s final resting place, where it should be bracing for it’s pounding by words. Yet this page is unafraid, unintimidated, I don’t blame it. What a sorry state of affairs, beaten to a pulp, by pulp.


All that danced is still, all grounds are moving a tango towards the door, the birds inspired are swimming the seas, the cows are shattering the sound barrier in flights of fancy, the houses frolic delicately down a frothing road, the humans are struck deaf and dumb sending fleshy roots in to the ground, contraire sounds strain the eyes, deafened by the stench of a billion fish waltzing in the newly flesh forest, the air crawls and the sea flies, in so many folds we will return to normality.


Is there room for art in this numb perfunctory society? What are we looking for, what do we wait for at the end of the day, at the end of the week? Another dose of social adjustment, a violent outbreak, is there anything real that people buy? Just electric drugs bought and used to sooth a passing moment. Does anyone understand why a flower is beautiful, do they know how much energy is amassed to create a petal? Is a painting a worthless waste, a carving beyond comprehension? Have we evolved only to preen pluck and paint our eyebrows?


I note the walls solidity, they will be here long after me. A plant wavers in a gentle breeze, already wilting, as far as I can see. The sun fires shadows across the floor, a book lays in gloom behind the door. I hear the birds, a flickering flame, soon extinguished, a crying shame. Passing cloud blunts the shadow’s edge, the book reveals it’s title.


She appears, at first, to be frail. Yet as soon as her eyes are held to yours, any thoughts of escape are folly.



Half Full

The alcohol is to the glass
what the bullet is to the gun
ban the shot glasses
to sober everyone.


Wisps coil beautifully from a neat paper funnel
admired indistinctly for no cause but cancer.


Sulking at his confiscated mouse, sullenly he turned away
we picked him up and held him, he purred,
against his better judgement.


He would plot of things to do
and things to be done
his life of task only just begun
he would think of things to learn
music to play, money to earn
endless lists for the fullest life
beautiful house and robust wife
all the world gives invitation
yet he sits indoors
with imagination.


The sky turned darkest blue then black, yet lit still by the burning sun. All began to collapse. At first this was disturbing, thinking of recovery and repair, yet in moments I knew it would not matter, there would be no repair, no recovery. I went from despair to freedom in a blink. The ground leapt, shaken into the air, then plunging back down. All we built and made sprinkled like biscuit crumbs into the sea. Where the sea boiled, meeting the earths steaming guts pouring from within. Tumbling and collapsing, in millennia our corpse finally fizzled out in the sun, like spit on a stove.


An ever expanding jagged crescent grows before my eyes, rippling coloured angles dancing. Perhaps I am looking to another place, perhaps I am downloading an update.


But today is another day, today I feel I will be forever trapped by my own anxiety, the window gifts for a time, a beautiful view, which lends an even starker contrast against these walls, walls built by me, no one else, I know me so well, I built them to counter any plan I could have for escape. I counter reason and hope with self deprecation, spite and slander, hearing the rusty key turn, I lock me in again.