Here amongst the mammals shuffles the dinosaur, all rippling muscle and strident flanks. As he lumbers around the errant, tiny creatures, he wonders why he’s here, and what brought him to this place. Here and there the animals pair off, … Continue reading Dinosaur. A poem.
I’m spinning in a vacuum, lost in zero-gee. Point and counterpoint, continually rolling free. I try to gain a foothold, but my world’s a churning sea. Spinning in this vacuum, until I hear from thee. Continue reading Spin. A poem.
Aisha and I swore simultaneously. Silas gestured to his slavering doberman, straining at the chain he held. “This is Goering,” he said. “I think he would like to make your acquaintance.” He unleashed the beast and it catapulted down the … Continue reading The Sale. Part 15.
I’m driving home, too fast, as always, around curves on too narrow roads. My headlights pierce the darkness, painting the surrounding trees in lily white. Each trunk beckons lovingly, a world-stopping kiss and a permanent embrace. I am so tempted by each offer lying just beyond the guard rail, in wood and leaves and twisted metal. My wheels squeal on each corner as I ponder fate, as I always will and always won’t. Continue reading Corners. A poem.
I used to take LOTS of photos. Well, I did when I was happier, better travelled, less single and less skint. I take less now. That doesn’t stop me from loving the odd bit of amateur, upstart photography. Nowadays, it’s … Continue reading An upstart photographer.
My smile is always tinged with sadness and regret, because even all this love I have can’t change what’s done and said. I’ll reveal to you my everything, be the oracle of my shame, Entrust you with my deepest hurt … Continue reading Reveal. A poem.
We all, a crescendo of broken hearts, slivered by degrees, like fractured performance art, played out in front of voyeuristic crowds for residual affirmation and a single denarius. Come join me in the circus round so that we may hug … Continue reading Crowd Pleasers. A poem.
It’s just small talk. Idle conversation. But every sanguine movement of her mouth and every captivating word that passes those bewitching lips, buoys me like the drowning man lost on a tormented sea. She is the lifeline extended, dragging me … Continue reading Small Talk. A poem.
Sands. A haiku trilogy. 1. Beachhead Beachhead: we arrive. They abscond over the dune sea, we soon give chase. 2. Flight The flight of the few. Seeking life beyond the dust, they long to escape. 3. Lost The sand shifts … Continue reading Haiku Friday. ‘Sands’. A haiku trilogy.
What are you thinking? A pen and pad displayed When the mind is set ablaze With notions of notoriety. All literal conventions will pale into non-consideration: a parley of truth and lie. What are you thinking? All this concordant bliss has left you here amiss, wandering through tattered halls in a mall without end, hankering for a bargain to make you more complete. What are you thinking? What distortions do you receive A bright and puissant reprieve from all the empty googling that makes up your days and leaves you none the wiser. And poorer, much more so. What. Are. … Continue reading WRYT. poem.
Fell on fell days. Coaxed anxiously from the storm that rages mutually in this misconceiving heart. Fell days, fallen, overtaken, redistributed, emotions cascading like misdirected energy streams through angst-filled fibres. Fell days, in here, somewhere. No return? No matter, better … Continue reading Fell on fell days. A poem.
I am me and me is the quantum of you and me and you and I %$&# HATE This World Earth Terra Planet People Society Civilisation Virtuality So Much. BUT I was me but I’m not sure who I am now maybe I’m not who I think I am %$&# LOVE This my World your World their World our World whose World no World So Much. Continue reading Paradox. A poem.
My fingertips were worn from scraping constantly against the inner wall, tracing our way through the maze. The electric bulbs in the stone and earth ceiling flickered dimly and our shadows gently danced on the surrounding walls as we stumbled … Continue reading The Sale. Part 14.
You are my Machiavelli, tug my strings until I scream. Your ceaseless manipulations keep me dancing to your whims. While I smile and play along as I always will, it seems, be my lonesome Machiavelli and spend some time with me. Continue reading Machiavelli. A poem.
I’m putting together a book of poetry to self-publish, hopefully before Christmas. I’m working on whittling the two hundred plus poems I’ve written over the last nine months down to about fifty, as that’s the general size of most poetry … Continue reading A Poor Poet’s Cause
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