I think what I have been trying to define is
that I can never be sure you died at all.
you've simply faded into a suspended state
of "somewhere else".
That small coffin
contained nothing but bone and flesh,
and you were always so much more than
bone and flesh,
so I am sure it could never have been you.
In the back of my head,
you're still sitting in front of the
sweltering living room fire,
a fresh glass of water by your side.
Perhaps you are simply not home when I visit.
Not available when I call.
You are not here, and I understand
that I will never see you again,
much like the death
I've been told occurred.
In the back of my head,
you are not here.
You are somewhere else.
I hope this somewhere is warm.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 3:10 PM UTC
Down lies a still smouldering crow,
his sullen wings saturated
with fast-drying wines.
The rouged soils rupture and burst
into bloom. The rotting welts
turn green with age.
Now petal spill
like blood from the buds
The wilting, creasing constellation.
Down lies a smouldering crow.
He wears his mother’s
face now, as he rests, at last,
amongst the flowers without a
casket
to separate.
Now feathers spill
from hollow bone, and cold
eyes widen, blind.
The birdsong
will be
silent
yet now
until
spring.
Up rises the dimmed dove
with wings unfolded, revealed
as a stray unsent letter -
the white cross. Even still,
where the flight feathers
dust upwards, they
do not reach the sky.
Because, although they are
white and soft,
ash bruised skies
refuse to open.
The winged shadow stitches
into the poppies below,
darkening
vermilion into a sickly rouge.
A crow lies beneath.
Too young to die, yet
old enough to fight.
His poppyseed eyes
are eternally blind
to beauty
of the dove.
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 5:04 PM UTC
It's one of those nights
where the cat doesn't come inside.
It's warm enough she doesn't need to,
and it's still light until eleven.
It's one of those nights
where I leave the naked window
open into the twilight.
There's never any cars
this late, late, late.
It's one of those nights
when the door is slammed
by the intruding air.
At least the angled glass
stabs into the night sky with
stiff hinges.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC
Skeletal twigs snap -
fingers developing a
hunger of their own
form crescent wounds.
Asymmetrical arcs pierce.
A mechanical creak - joints scratch.
The subtle giveaway of artifice,
a hint that behind the skin
lies not flesh but ice.
A revulsion.
Stiff with nimble
pre-mortem rigor mortis.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC
I look for the seeds that I
threw in handfuls
at the base of the thorns
and weeds that haven't
been yet pulled out. They gleam
hard shells. Ellipses of
the forthcoming.
They sit exposed atop
stone hard soil
with hefty leaves as
protective suffocation
and tough shelled insects for company.
I only planted them earlier today.
The beady pupils stare, not
yet grown to blink.
Why do you not grow?
Do you need watered?
More shade?
A safer place to rest?
Why do you not grow?
The thorns are deep red and
mossy with dark fertile green
as thick as my bone
thin wrists.
They grow descending
in droops, heavy
taunting black pearls.
Definitely June. Nearly July.
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 6:39 PM UTC
Haven't you heard?
Starting tomorrow everything is going to be just fine.
They just announced it
blaring over the speakers
the radio
the telly.
A languid female voice - the jagged automaton - rang out
loud and clear
eliminating chance for error.
Did you hear?
The computer says we
don't have to worry anymore.
Did you hear?
Did you hear? The robot
thinks our worry
is all very silly.
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
Miracle man,
What can you do for me?
Will you spread your angel wings
and block my view
or can you hold red cupped in
your ape hands and turn
wine into ichor?
Miracle man,
wave me your wand
swift movements only
or wave me goodbye.
Don't tell me you know how
to prepare for
the inevitable unless
you defy definite certainties.
Miracle man,
your complex grace,
teach me dying but
do not let me die.
Show me living amongst
wilting lives.
Or don't.
Miracle man,
place your hand to
my wrist
my chest
my throat
and show me
iron strength in pulses.
Miracle man,
Do not acknowledge
what you cannot
save for me.
Shield my eyes, guardian.
Help me hide from
tomorrow's tomorrow.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 6:56 PM UTC
Constricting lengths around breaths
Ignorance at half-pint lungs
Jumping away from tadpole death
Water dries warped when your eyes shut
Reflections in the butterfly
Shimmer - distortion.
Mortality owners, please explain your limits
Ten or less bullet points.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC
I still think about
those two ten year olds
in the kitchen
baking scones, in the
flour-clouded haze of that early
spring. Tucking in matching lanyards
for our secret club.
I still think about
sitting in your boyish room
and brushing blue chalk
through wavy blond, while
you showed me your favourite
football cards. You'd exhale as a laugh,
a defiant filly's huff.
Lavender oil rubbed onto our
narrow wrists beneath the
orange bands.
I still think about our
sweet innocence. The laughter
we made to deny our
growing up.
I still think about you
when we pass by each other.
Sometimes I smile. Often
I don't. An indifferent glance.
People don't believe me now
when I say we were ever
close as we were. A phantom
lavender scent lingers
at our confluence.
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 8:08 PM UTC
He presented the model ship,
sitting it carefully on a footstool,
and we toured the deck together
towards pen-barrel pipes,
past toothpick benches
and matchstick fences.
Larger than life, yet
held in two warm hands.
I traced the brushstrokes of
the oak-brown gloss across
the hull with gentle fingertips, mirroring
every hour of effort, every hour
of time.
My finger lingered over a
patched imperfection.
I saw every grand story play
out before me, a hundred times
smaller, condensed against time.
Hands mimicked the motions of
an ocean, rocking in time
with his melodic memories
as his voice reeled tales
of the youth that
still glimmered
in his dusted eyes
Surrounded in the comfort
of the rippling blue carpet
practiced hands map out the
scenery - a scene I see clearly -
the lighthouse
the navigating star.
On the shrunken hull, behind the
asterix helm, I see a miniscule man
- eyes a pure portion of the
ocean - gazing out at the
watercolour horizon, eyes on
the indication of any
destination lying beyond.
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 7:11 PM UTC