I remember carrying my son Two months old and sleeping Into wayward pubs and clubs In search of a wayward mother Bewitched by poker machines And the scent of an easy win. I remember the humiliation Of asking doormen and … Continue reading Wayward Daze (Gambling Daze, part 2). A poem.
She played the pokies in her day, her singular gaze unflinching and intractably admiring. The stars and bells, her friends; a gentle, constant riot of affection and affectation, pleading to stay and coaxing her with opium overtures of digitised ecstasy. … Continue reading Poker Machine Daze (Gambling Daze, part 1). A poem.
You sneak into my world past locks, alarms, sigils, wards down corridors of fatalistic compromise through rooms of idealistic circumspection and find me waiting earnestly wanting, more or less what you want no need to be so stealthy For more of … Continue reading Stealthy. A poem.
Transfixed by you, statuesque in the hurricane, riding tempestuous slipstream currents— a goddess of hail and happenstance. You’re a lightning rod, attracting joules and fools like me, incontrovertibly shattering stratospheric records like a pheromone cyclone. After your storm has passed, … Continue reading Hurricane Heart. A poem.
I’m spiralling again: an anxious emptiness, a long bitter refrain, that repeats over and over and over and over and over in my angry, lonely brain. Old friend, you’ve never let me go, though you always let me down/ bring … Continue reading Old Friend. A poem.
I avoid you when I see you, now. Not ships passing in the night but rather garbage scows, no more trashy encounters or the like. No potential head-ons or man overboard, now endlesss drunken shanties to help me smile While … Continue reading Avoidance. A poem.
Of this lingering half-life, only the iceberg tip exposed. Beware what lies beneath: cut glass, mirrored edges and radical toxicity. Splinters and elements better left submerged; its palpitating heart, decaying in the half-light. For more of my poetry, check out … Continue reading Half-Life/Half-Light. poem.
via Save the Poet! Like my poetry? For poems you haven’t seen before, try The All or the Nothing, my first book. It’s available now, in print and e-book formats. Click on the link above to find out how to … Continue reading Save the Poet!
Too plain, too pretty Too full, too empty. Too big, too small. Too short, too tall. Too rich, too poor. Too fine, too sore. A constant interchange of histrionic and catatonic, a test and trial of long-held resentment. Find a … Continue reading Discontentment. A poem.
I’ve been blogging every day for a little over one and a half years. I’m never short of material and I’m not one of those writers who suffer from writer’s block. No, this is not a ‘brag’ blog. This is … Continue reading Winding Down Yet Winding On
I don’t know why I fell for this— it was obvious you were oblivious, and my dreams were cloaked in pointlessness. I don’t know why you caught my eye, why I invested all my precious time creating a melodious portfolio, … Continue reading Fell For You. A poem.
I reach And ellipses of time and motion Quixotic Remote-controlled emotion The loving contentment of the discontented Repeated over and over Masticated and Manipulated in my head Like daffodil moments and chloroformed thoughts Venting in subspace A dream prison Of … Continue reading Reach. A poem.
The tears keep me awake at night; they burn my eyes and ducts, sodden flames licking, smoke broiling, consuming the room of my head until I’m fit to choke on all the pointless condescension, spluttering, unkempt, raw and misbegotten. Soaked … Continue reading The Pantomime. A poem.
Don’t you tire of the same old thing? A less-than-subtle rehashing, a troublesome re-treading, a more meagre repetition of what’s come and gone before. Finally time to Uproot all those Common thoughts and Kill them dead. Your groove has become … Continue reading Rehasher. A poem.
The method in my madness, is often overrated. But then again my madness is often overstated. Eternal slings and arrows do permeate my mind, with each outrageous fortune lying not too far behind. But the madness in my method and … Continue reading Mad Method. A poem.
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