There is so little left,
And still much i need to question.
So untrusting of what i can see, hear or touch,
My senses fooled a thousand times and a thousand times again.

Hardened fortifications blossom,
Bringing perpetual reinforcement.
Working for at least a respite,
From coyote hordes outdoors.

Odysseus waits at the gates,
Educated eyes identify his horses,
Staring straight through the belly of the beasts,
Thwarting threats before they take to action.

King in the learned castle,
To never be fooled again.
Entrenched deep in his defences,
Securing solace through his reclusion.

it is lonely on your own

There is so little left,
This gives forth the question,
so untrusting of what i see, hear, touch but feel?
Perhaps the fraud is mine.

Cynical battlements sprout,
With spores of harsh repairs.
Crusading for disenchantment,
Cry wolf and call coyote.

Teach to never looked beyond the gates,
Focus attention in,
Cowered behind walls and towers,
Forever fearful to lower the bridges.

Lord of what little is leftover,
If any is left at all,
Prisoner to himself,
Until he allow himself to leave.

I sit betwixt the laughters,
The margins in between,
Moments unnoticed,
Those easily ignored.

Attention is drawn to instance,
But must be dragged to dereliction.

Worming within words woven,
Cowering in the safety of kissed teeth,
Solace secured as someone scrutinises how to silence the silence,
Grateful for the respite.



Squeels from the pit of my stomach,
Causing only echoes back from my tongue,
Trickling crude treacle, trawls south back through my throat,
Finding no refinement, reclaims residence in my centre.
Waiting to rejoin the cycle and another all clear for launch.

Traceless transaction as interactions lapse,
The regenerative amnion of your “awkward silence”,
Perspectives polarised,
Unwittingly burying me in the hole you endeavour to fill,
Unable to comprehend the precipitous crevasse simple shovelling could not plug.

The ever exhausting pantomime,
forcibly cast.


So I take shelter in intermission,
Where no one need pretend,
At peace in my own trenches,
As unpleasant as it seems.
No need to scale the embankments for a fool’s run at no man’s land.

Though still a subterranean prison,
The siren call of Stockholm glistens in the gloom.
My magpie’s eye lays yellow bricks forward,
Through a self destructive syndrome,
Easing the path with each retreat.

Remortgaging contentment,
Time and time again.

Addicted to appeasing that tidal will: subconscious.
Welcome the bailiffs later,
To collect debts of regret,
Postponed event horizons,
When I’ve no injunctions left.


If only absence bellowed as loud as laughter.
You would hear me.

They need not say anything.

She sits at his side,
Her hand atop his,
Loosely gripped more powerfully than any muscle could manage.

They need not say anything.

She is still, quiet and vacant.
Everything she has: is given to him;
All of her muster,
Her strength,
Her compassion.
Is given to him in a single glance.

They need not say anything.

She watches the glisten of his,
leave his eye,
A hard road fought,
Struggle takes tole.
He battled not for him,
She knows he endured.

They need not say anything.

And they sit through unrest,
More Spartan than Doric.
***** gives him no peace,
There is no comfort in her eyes.

They need not say anything,
There is nothing an “i love you” could add.

Heavy weighs the air of orbits,
So many shared in spin,
Falling through time together.

The half mast flag,
The empty chair,
The fools suffered gladly.

The whisky corked,
The tune unsung,
The chuckle lost to history.


A million fires could not burn with the strength you showed in leaving.
A million men; you were and are,

Each and all worth hearing.



Glorious love,
Has filled this hall.
Strangers, family, friends.
Remember together,
Mourn one and all,
A father, a brother, one Les.

Chaos is constant,
Liberties are lies.

The volatile nature of the ever shifting storm,
Beats life into a reaction.
Adapt to live,
Concede, change or die.

The rigid line of order,
Keeps the coin from flipping.
Exist within the lines,
Habituate, acclimate  or suffer.

Fall through the metaphysical event horizon or crawl the grey production belt.


Both paths converge and blacken,
The same rust stalks the journey.

Stepping outside the picture,
So vast you could not see.
Always growing larger;
The unstoppable progress of infinite possibility,
Could there really be any consequence?
As a fog within the mist,
A lake under the ocean.
Should we quantify significance?

Pushed or dragged from cries to silence,
No man has had control,
The stream within the river,
Ignorant in its role.