Maybe I’ll never make a good father,
the world has shown me it’s ugly face.
I see things too logically,
The things I’ve done and seen,
my dark sense of humour,
twisted sources of entertainment
My sedated emotions
and even my choice of forensics profession
all these things probably makes me
a pretty bad father,
a bad person.
"I want to be a forensic scientist, because daddy says it's cool."
"I really love to sing. I want to be on stage and make songs."
"I'm really into investigating and detective stuff... maybe that?"
not in school.
No plans at all
No desire to see 18.
Who are who look
Through gazed window
Attention glazed whom
None knew who steal
Care sought answer
Who mute at window move
Lost city ghost
Who forensic wonder
Who cutaway found
Uncertain broken ground
Cloud circling shark
Shards of thought
Diamond scratch the glass
Weekend wilted grass view
Litter blown listless below
The weighted cloth
The china clog
The fireplace tiles
Cold as dead stars.
Shall we drown together in deep lagoons of forensic cognitions, my seductress of medieval echelons?
As your mouth is already full, I strongly recommend that you masticate that which you initially intended to ingest.
We could become spellbound by the moon. What do you think my Vedic chant of austere arrhythmias?
I suggest that we simply need to interact without reserve amidst this toxicity of inhibition. The sound of the violin is hauntingly beautiful as it conveys literary intensity.
Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.
The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.
It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.
And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.
Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
Sniper victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.