Money money money money money ******* money. You think you’ll find happiness there. Happiness doesn’t buy you things, doesn’t take you out to dinner. Happiness doesn’t sit prettily on your finger or hang from your earlobes or rest around your neck. Happiness doesn’t have an engine and four wheels that takes you wherever you want to go. Happiness doesn’t add an extra comma or two to your bank account. Happiness doesn’t buy things to make you look beautiful or feel special.
               Happiness holds your hand when you feel down. Happiness cooks for you when you can’t be bothered. Happiness tells you jokes and laughs at yours and when you make eye-contact, happiness keeps it and smiles back. Happiness tells you you’ll pull through. Happiness walks hand-in-hand into the darkness with you without any apprehension.
               Happiness is a seed. You plant it and water it, watch as its roots take hold and the sapling breaks the surface. You nurture the fledgling stem as it grows over time into a huge and beautiful tree. It shelters you from the sun during summer and offers refuge from the snow in winter. It protects you from all the bad things. It gives and gives and gives unconditionally, asking nothing in return. It does not wander off to better climes. You will always find it exactly where you left it. It is your companion in an otherwise barren landscape.
               But I am a dead tree, useless and ugly. I haven’t produced leaves in years. I offer no shelter, just shadows of possibilities on the ground. I harbour no birds. No deer eat my bark. I will fall and all around no ears shall hear. I am not your happiness nor anyone else’s. Just a mess of sticks, not even any use for firewood.

dance for me
dance like death is at your throat
she kisses it softly
fingers through your hair
your undergrowth scent

dance for me
dance like death knows all the moves
hold her hands and
sway to the music
the blaring of trumpets

dance for me
dance like death is your only friend
she kisses your forehead
fingers between your legs
the look of the devil

dance for me
dance like death waits everywhere
look for her always
crawling up your spine
licking your neckskin

dance for me
dance like death wants to *******
irresistible lips
latched on to your ****
******* your love dry

dance for me
dance like death is all you know
she will show fire
smoke in her black eyes
taking you home love

I look up
at the stars,
and sometimes I
think of all
the parallel
universes and
hope to ****
I’m doing better in
one
of them.

Eastbound sundown on the I-84, the sun in my mirrors.
I imagine standing on the beach in Klamath
watching it say good morning to the other side of the world
with the girl of my dreams cradled in my arms asleep.
But the land here is different, the grass is dead
and that girl doesn’t escape my thoughts.
She stays in there, waiting for me to fall asleep
so I can hold her again in the darkness for a few minutes.

Pocatello to the left, Ogden to the right,
where is it I should go tonight?
I heard of an Aberdeen near here, a home away from home.
Maybe it looks the same as the Aberdeen I know.
I move into the left lane, the fast one if you’d believe,
because here in America everything’s the wrong way around.
Last chance now to change my mind, final call for Ogden.
The slip-road passes by me and joins another highway
that seems to ascend into the horizon and disappear completely.

The landscape here is unbearably flat,
I feel myself longing for just the slightest rise or fall,
let myself feel the curvature of the world ever so slightly.
There is a hill on my right that looks just like my Bennachie,
rising sharply to a peak then slowly flattening out
until it joins the inescapable flatness of this country.
Raft River, American Falls, Pocatello,
fourteen, thirty-seven, fifty-eight.
Many miles to go before I can sleep,
many more miles to go until I am home.
Sixteen miles just to the next rest area.

I wanted to drive around Raft River
but I couldn’t see it from the road
and I didn’t know how far it was to Aberdeen.
What looked like a diner was by the road on the right.
The dust swirled up around the solitary pickup parked outside,
the owner looking like the guy in Nighthawks with his back to me.
There was no fancy couple there,
just him on his lonesome in Idaho alone.

Exit 36 points me in the direction of American Falls and Rockland.
This was where I was told to turn off at.
The slip road rose up towards the next road, and it felt wonderful,
finally feeling like I was actually going somewhere,
The signpost at the top of the rise
shows me the way to go to Aberdeen.
Left I go, to American Falls.

Through the city I drove, trailers and bungalows together.
There were big trees in the front and back yards
but they were not too dense that they looked unseemly,
in fact, they added character and life in this place.
A cat darted across the road, waking me up,
warning me not to keep my eyes off the road too much.

The end of the road, stop sign, no others giving me direction.
To the left, the road went around another corner
to go back in the direction I came from.
I took to the right and followed the road,
trees and houses on my right, wasteland to my left.
I went over a crossroads and stopped at the next,
exasperated at the lack of signposts.
I parked next to a long bungalow
with a red-painted ramp going up to the door.
An old woman wearing an apron covered in flour answered,
and she found my accent pleasing
when I asked her the directions to Aberdeen.
She offered me a cookie, and I accepted,
I hadn’t had food since I left Oregon
even though she said I was not far from Aberdeen.

We said our goodbyes and I turned left,
continuing on a road that curved to the right
and through a well-manicured little park.
It was unusual seeing grass this green,
having been offered greys and yellows
for most of my journey in Idaho.
I turned left at the police station then left again.
A large body of water, Snake River I think it was called.
It’s hard to call it a river, more like a lake,
the water the same shade as the lochs back home.

After a few miles, I make it to Aberdeen,
the signpost informing me the population is just over a thousand.
I have a feeling this Aberdeen will be different to mine.
The houses here are so small, but they have good gardens.
There is a warehouse with potatoes inside it.
I am a long way from home tonight.
I can’t find a motel, so I stop at a bungalow covered in windows.
A ***** gold pickup sits outside.
I knock on the front door, which is on the side,
because this is America and everything’s the wrong way around,
and a middle-aged man wearing a mullet
and a Phish tank top answers.
He invites me in and says I can stay as long as I need,
offering me food and beer and company.
They people here are nice, much friendlier than the old Aberdeen.
I like this new Aberdeen, it feels like a home already.

I dreamed well that night, the girl in my arms,
sitting by Snake River, watching it flow,
carrying away all my troubles.

You pulled the last straw from my palm
and now there is nothing left to hold.
I hope you never come to any harm
and that you’re graceful when you’re old.

I wrote a goodbye song for you
but only my failing memories could hear me sing.
In the distant future, whatever you do,
I hope you grow like saplings in the Spring.

there are no more words left. the dictionary spills its ink like wine. try to lap it up but it tastes like poison. i write your name in the air with my finger but i misspell it and the magic is lost. you drift away like flotsam from a capsized ship and you left me clinging to cardboard. you made me drown. you made the world go dark. you made me believe that there were more to dreams than mere fantasy. you made me believe they had substance, they were messages from the future, they were attainable, they were not just dreams but visions. you made me see what wasnt there. there are no more words left.

Lost in a forest of dead and dying trees,
listening to words of death carried by the breeze.
When I will be home I cannot say for certain,
but I will not yet allow life to close the curtain.
Separated by the distance of half a broken world,
but I will never give up on the love of my Idaho girl.

The grass used to be green but now is yellow and sick,
the magic in the universe is running out of tricks.
But one more came my way and my heart wanted more,
and you responded by knocking gently on my door.
It doesn’t feel so far now as half a broken world,
I’ve seen the mind and beauty of my Idaho girl.

In a castle constructed of bones on a mountain high,
our hero sits alone on an ivory throne,
waiting for his current state of jejune to pass.
Whisperings of a voice, mellifluous air,
a singing so beautiful his heart skips a beat
at the gentle murmurings of such an ethereal voice.

And so he vacates his ivory throne
in search of this songbird that has invaded his walls,
the voice instils a certain hiraeth in his mind,
that village once so dear to him that now lies in ruins
due to his incandescent bursts of magical madness.

The owner of this voice, the eloquence, the elegance,
the image in his head that of a maiden on a rock,
as naked as the day she was born
and bathed in an iridescent sunrise.
A scintilla of a break in her voice
and she begins to sob at the meaning of her words.

He finds the source of this angelic sound,
a woebegone but comely creature supine on a table,
her eyes staring into heavenly mountains of madness.
She does not look to meet his wild-eyed gaze,
instead melting away until she is nothing at all,
leaving only dancing embers and phosphenes where she had lain.

He hears this burst of angelic quavers every day
but his madness permits no memory of each
to reside in his brain, comfortable and snug.
Instead, he suffers this delusion every morning,
when his head his quiet and thoughts are oblivion.

This siren swansong has no source in reality,
it is the last vestige of a mind damaged by time and solitude,
where the dawn chorus each morn’s twilight goes unheard,
but the ghostly choral vocalisations of a bitter memory
break his trance and he searches for the only sound not real.

In her final moments, prostrate on the bed,
she imagined herself flying through the stars,
an intergalactic explorer, discovering new planets
and naming new creatures never before seen.
She stops at a small blue marvel,
flooded with water full of strange fish.
She can’t be sure if this is the home she knew
or the home she will come to know
but she finds it beautiful and tranquil.

In the distance, she sees a giant red star.
During her flight there, she feels a sadness,
as if her body is finally cutting away her tethers
and she is now less attached to it,
the freedom of exploring the universe at her leisure
tainted by the fact she is all alone out here.
She always believed a journey was not worth making alone,
it just wasn’t the same without someone to share the wonder with.
Out here, in the cold darkness of space,
the loneliness speared her heart.

The red star bulged at its equator ready to burst any moment.
Dark spots swirled and danced together on its surface,
growing and cooling and shrinking and disappearing,
new ones soon to take their places.
She flew around to the other side and saw herself,
stretched across the entire surface of the star,
lying on her bed, barely holding on,
wires with clear fluid and blood flowing through them.
In the image, her eyes flickered open slightly.
The star shrunk to a tiny point of light
then exploding in brilliant whiteness…

…gasping for breath as her eyes opened wide,
the bright light above her burning her eyes.
She was all alone in her room,
just a machine beeping frantically.
She was back in her own universe,
all alone with no one to share her journey with.
She cried herself to sleep that night,
her right hand holding her left
and she dreamed of a star exploding,
giving birth to a new her.

I’m lost in my thoughts, utterly alone,
staring at those huge peaks clawing at the heavens.
This little homestead dwarfed by those mountains.
I feel small here, this country is vast
and there’s no one here, another planet
victorious in making a more beautiful Earth
without vile creatures poisoning it.
The air is fresh and smells of primroses
and ozone from a distant thunderstorm
behind me across the plains.
This must be a dream, I think to myself,
but I’m too afraid to pinch my arm,
just in case I’m right.

At the Jenny Lake overlook, the mountains looming
as I sit by the water so still,
reflecting the mountains so well
that I can’t tell up from down.
The smell of the pines overwhelms me
and I wade into that cool water
as an eagle whistles into a valley,
the mountains whistling back
and I whistle too, caught in the moment.
The others on the shore whistle too,
and I swear the dozen of us were infinite.

I wish I didn’t dream of you last night.
My heart cannot stand to dream another day with you.
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

The days grow long and the sun rides high and bright,
crawling slowly through the sky with nothing else to do.
I wish I didn’t dream of you last night.

My eyes grow weary with age and incessant sight,
crying tears of pain under that bright sky so blue.
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

I wish I could sleep soundly but I have no more fight
left in me and although I hope it is not true,
I wish I didn’t dream of you last night.

I try as hard as I can, with all my might,
but each day rises with thoughts of you anew.
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

I have nothing left inside me, because this blight
gave my heart wings and beyond my dreams it flew.
I wish I didn’t dream of you last night,
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

On the way to Hell, I met a man
who sold counterfeit tickets to Heaven.
He was ***-bellied, bald and hunchbacked,
mothballs in his mouth and flames in his eyes.
He mumbled through consonants,
slipped over vowels and destroyed syntax,
pointing at the tickets frustratingly
at the comprehension of my confused expression.
I shook my head and moved on
as he coated the air with broken expletives.

By a bridge over a magma river,
a bird-headed demigod held a set of scales,
but he waved me through,
seeing by the weight in my eyes
that my soul’s mass had already been determined.
He whistled a tune vaguely familiar,
a desert swansong of a dying missionary.

The road rose slightly, and at the apex
I saw the city in a foul-smelling valley.
Blanketed by smog, I couldn’t discern much,
a factory chimney billowing smoke and ash,
screams forcing their way through the cloud.
A giant man with skin like fresh, glistening blood
greeted me as I began my descent.
He informed me he was a demon
and he would be giving me a tour.
Asking him how long it would take
he said it was entirely up to me,
all the time in the world was waiting for us.

I asked him why he had no horns
and he laughed with a noise of horse death,
one he had baptised himself with an aeon ago.
He dutifully informed me that this particular misconception
came about due to a similarity between invading warriors
and their certain bloodthirstiness and vitriol
held in much akin to the view of demons at the time.
He assured me that demons weren’t that bad,
friendly enough but with a temper fitting
a location as unearthly foreboding as this place.

As we walked through the ***** streets,
I couldn’t help but notice they were busy with people
rushing about and selling things and generally
much like people did on the mortal plain.
The demon said Hell was much like Earth,
just with greater punishments if you didn’t pull your weight.
An abominably long and disjointed finger
pointed in the direction of the chimney I saw earlier.
That was where the worst of the worst end up,
the rapists and abusers of child and woman,
all the filth humanity had to offer,
always churning, he said, always smoking away.

We stood by the door for some time,
an awkward silence descending between us,
rattling the synapses in my brain
as I tried to comprehend my past life
and the fate that awaited me.

After an insurmountable time, the demon knocked on the door.
I heard scraping on the door, a set of keys fall to the floor,
a curse put upon those keys then the clinking of a lock.
The door opened and a massive fire raged within,
conveyor belts from several directions leading towards it,
naked people, statues to the Heavens, falling off the end
and making the fire grow and glow like no fire I had ever seen.
The demon in charge of this awful place looked me up and down,
asking me what I had done to ever deserve to end up like this.
I attempted an excuse but couldn’t muster the right words,
so I just told him the truth without hint of any repentance.
He shook his head and genuinely looked shocked at what he had learned
and grabbed my shoulders and hauled me towards my piteous soul-death.
I was stripped naked as I became more aware of the intense heat,
flames of scarlets and oranges reached out to my broken body,
all skin and bones and nerves vibrating to an otherworldly chill.
I floated up to a conveyor belt which felt unduly cold beneath my feet,
and as I looked back on the life I lived and the one I dreamed when I was young,
I realised that this was a fitting ending to a life lived fully sans regret.
I opened my arms wide like a Messiah and began to pray eternal thanks.

Once upon a time there lived a ****
who had nothing better to do
than masquerade as a human being,
all the while resenting everything around him.
His days were long and dark
and nothing ever seemed quite real.
People would avoid him in the street,
cross it if they felt so inclined,
a clear pavement in front of him at all times.

The sun made him sweat,
the moon made him freeze,
no happy in-between for the ****.
People screamed and ran away
at just the sight of him,
how those people would run.
His genes were not necessary
for the continuation of the species
so thank **** he never had children.

A lowly street-***** took pity on him,
invited him to her room
and ****** his brains out all night long,
using a ****** of course,
even street-****** have some standards.
After he was done, the **** muttered an apology
and left as the sun began to rise.

They struck up a friendship nevertheless,
the ***** getting the **** to do her bidding
while she lay back and thanked
everyone else on his behalf.
The ***** was only interested in money,
it didn’t matter what the guy looked like
so long as she acquired gold
in some vain attempt to keep herself beautiful.
Women only go for men
they think will keep them beautiful.

The ***** soon became fed up with the ****.
Too busy lying on her back
with her legs spread-eagled
like an overgrown cavern entrance
to listen to his questions.
So off he went, once again,
into a world that hated him.

The **** never saw the ***** again,
but heard her name from time to time.
He hoped beyond all hope
that her life had turned just as **** as his.
It did. He heard rumours that she killed herself
because she never cared enough for others,
then when she needed help, no one was there,
so she had enough and hanged herself.
The **** smiled ever-so-slightly
despite the tears building in his eyes.
You do well outliving a *****.
The world grew a little more colourful.

I lost my heart while walking down a Louisiana street,
a hurricane pounded hard against my heavy chest.
You found my hand when I thought we would never meet.

It came so fast, so soon but somehow so discreet,
my eyes widened, hands clenched, cardiac arrest.
I lost my heart while walking down a Louisiana street.

My legs began to shake at the intensity of the heat,
thought lost in a city whose name I never knew, lest
you found my hand when I thought we would never meet.

If I had thought you someone else, I would have made a retreat,
but I grew calm and my world slowed down at your request.
I lost my heart while walking down a Louisiana street.

My memories of a former love grew more incomplete,
the feelings I had for her were always unexpressed.
You found my hand when I thought we would never meet.

Yet my time there in the deep South was so bittersweet,
as you faded away in the crowd, your image had regressed.
I lost my heart while walking down a Louisiana street;
you found my hand when I thought we would never meet.

There is a little songbird in my heart,
waiting for release.
It sings a song for a woman I love
so very dear.
Trapped in silence behind those bars
blind in the dark.
It sits alone on its perch of stone
pining for your love.
I wish to free it for all to see
the beauty I hide within,
but you’re too far away to hear
the song it sings for you.

Paper memories crumbled up on the floor
within my mind.
The dust of time, piled up high,
lullabies at dusk.
My heart, it aches, for sweet release
of that pretty bird.
My mind, it burns, for satisfaction
of a love returned.
Keeps dreaming up these fantasies
never to be fulfilled.
That songbird hiding in my heart
needs more room to grow.

i summon and conquer your dreammind
with ghosts of aborted foetuses
and we rampage through the corridors
of your indoctrinations.
knock on the doors and you answer
with your deadmind ex nihilo,
manifestations of deeper fetishes,
like the one where you
want to fuckkids and have that power
because you have nothing.
your life is nothing but a bookend
waiting to fall off the shelf.


*n u drag ur naked body thru the blood n the glory of a fight that still has some losing left in it. u lick away ur bruzes n sleep in catatonia coz ur mind fuckedya. had enough but it was pillory n stocks n u swim on the back of a nightterror. still u drag that useless body thru gravel n rocks n icecold water, washing off the dust n the silt n the beggared belief of the siren call of a dream u had when u was young but now its gone n ur left grasping at the pebble of a memory that was once a mighty boulder but time has weathered m worn its face n peeled away all the best parts until now it is smooth n useless n small, an insignificant little morselpiece of what it once was, and u turn it round in ur hand n bury it in the silt.

The night holds no surprises
for the darkness-embracers,
the captains of ships of fools.
They cast away light
as they seek to find themselves
in the mangled branches
of a fig tree
as it envelops them.
They find holes in the bark
and dare to reach inside,
fearless of the serrated teeth
they hope to find within.

The trees devour them.






Their dead hands reach for dirt,
clawing themselves from the roots.
They scream from stitched mouths,
muffled and agonising.
Rigor mortis of the eyelids




seeing you for what you are.




I can feel your hand creep into mine.
Your grip is tight
and palms sweaty,
a shaky embrace,
fear rising in goosebumps
or is it the cold?,
or the fear of growing old
that terrifies you so.


I am here for you,

treading wearily
into the gaping maw
of a

very dark place.

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with W.”
“Water.”
“Yep. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S.”
“Sky.”
“Yep. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with W.”
“Water.”
“Yep. I spy with…”

It just goes on and on, ceaselessly sailing towards another shade of blue.
A cloud, white against the heavens, floats by.
I want it to stop right above me, shelter me from this incessant colour.
It carries on, ignoring my waving arms.

I even dream of it, blue walls, blue ceiling, dripping wet.
Out of the window I look, eyes staring at more blue;
azure, indigo, ultramarine, aquamarine, cobalt and Prussian,
variations on a navy theme.

A storm gathers in the distance, beautiful grey.
Skyscrapers rise on the horizon, beautiful shapes.
A speedboat skips past on the waves, beautiful sounds.
A city offers itself to me, beautiful sights.

I have a
hole cut out
of my heart
in the
shape of
you

I have a
tree bearing
fruit and
they fall
only for
you.

I have a
fire burning
in my soul
and it
burns for
you.

I have a
dream where I
run towards
figures that
look like
you.

I have a hole in the wall of my heart
in the shape of
you.

She spreads her legs for any **** with a fat wallet
then ***** with their heads when she’s done.
She sits on her pedestal and feigns character
when she is just a vapid sack of empty atoms.
She’s a maneater through-and-through
and deserves nothing out of life.

She phones you to let you know how she’s doing
and laughs at all your problems and lack of luck.
She flashes her **** and wears skintight trousers
but the ***** in her won’t come out for you.
She’s a maneater through-and-through
and deserves nothing out of life.

She spits venom with the devils in their dresses
then acts all nice when you’re around.
She feigns being a princess who just wants love
but throws your affection back in your face.
She’s a maneater through-and-through
and deserves nothing out of life.

She will wrap you around her littlest finger
then flick you off without hesitation.
She will use your skills to her advantage
then abandon you when they’re not needed.
She’s a ******* ***** through-and-through
and deserves **** all out of life.

“I walk hand-in-hand with darkness,” he began,
the man with no eyes.
“You have no idea of the horrors I have seen,
of the fears that have touched my soul,
the hurt of a love lost in a dark night.”
The children sat still.

“Death is the only guarantee in your lives;
she is the only thing to bet on and win every time.
I have seen her carry away so many lives now
I become convinced I will be visited personally next.”
The children fidgeted, uncomfortable and unsure.

“If you want happiness, **** yourselves whilst you are still children,
when you are naïve to the ways of the real world.”
A parent attempted an interjection.
The children stared, confused.

“The meaning of life is obscured by sorrow.
You are learning in the kindergarten of woe.
Insecurities run your engine.
Prejudice snuffs your fire.
By peering into the gaping maw of that tarry, endless black,
you appreciate how easy it is to
Just
Let
Go.”
A child began to sob,
more at the tone of the eyeless man’s voice
than the syllables and interpretations of those sounds.
Parents gathered around an imaginary fire,
faces facing faces facing faces
and shadows hid a smile on one.
A devil always hides in a band of angels,
“…blood-stained angels…”

The knives cut and sliced and soon
the next-generation abattoir housed but two.
A storyteller and his demons
laughing at the wolf moon,
young bones breaking under foot.
Wine glasses full of young blood
and shards of everlasting death.
The man with no eyes embraces his demons
and slips silently into the paralysing void,
his laugh spilling into the still of the night.

Here I stand, a monument to my own destruction,
carrying on the work of an ancient construction.
Hands made of callouses designed for moving rocks,
seconds pass to minutes to hours on the clocks,
and life flows downhill through the roots of a Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

Yggdrasil weaves its trunk through my history,
how it knows my life is its greatest mystery.
Its leaves reach to the heavens and caress the clouds,
through its xylems and phloems travels the worlds crowds,
and life flows downhill between the roots of this Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

The gods of dark places fight their battles in the light,
and all the eyes of all the folks turn from the murky night.
Yggdrasil stands tall like a black tower ‘tween land and sky,
where the hearts of the bravest men climb towards a lie,
and life flows downhill by the roots of the Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

The ship docked on the small jetty by a beach of white sand
lining the front of a jungle full of horrid noises and every shade of green.
There were a few huts that had been constructed by the natives
in anticipation of our arrival in this hot new land.
We were informed by the ship’s captain that they had been paid
with small gold coins that they would likely trade with other natives
for exotic fruits and sharper weapons and a few weeks’ peace.

The first night was a struggle, the air was as stifling during the day
and I don’t think any one of us managed much sleep.
The morning came as cold comfort as the sun blazed unobstructed,
beating relentlessly on our heads, feeling much closer than it did back home.
Gloria Noone, a middle-aged woman who had boarded in Cork,
had a look of perpetual fear on her face, the look of someone
who had experienced nothing but ultimate terror during the night,
and I had assumed it was just because of a lack of sleep,
but she soon informed us of something far more sinister than dreamlessness.

After a couple of hours of nocturnal turnings and curses,
she left her hut during the night and walked along the beach,
away from the jetty and out of our makeshift village.
Not long out of the village, she had the unnerving sense of being watched
and expecting to see a native by the jungle’s edge
she looked towards the mass of trees and saw horror.
An unearthly creature stared back at her, she told us.
All black fur glinting in the moonlight, teeth as large as great knives.
She swears it spoke to her, in English, repeating her name
with a deep, gruff voice that seemed to come from the whole jungle.
She ran back to her hut, silently, terror paralysing her voice.

Gloria stayed in another hut owned by a couple who had an extra bed
due to their only child dying of disease just before we set sail.
I could not sleep, as I assumed correctly that others could not either
because when I left my hut in the night, others were on the beach.
A man called Ivor, a giant from Cardiff, called me over
and said that he and a couple of others would walk down the beach
to where Gloria had spotted the creature and they would wait for it.
He invited me and I agreed, four of us leaving the village behind.
Ivor, Daniel the ship’s captain, Robert, a forester from York and myself,
a former teacher from a small village not far from Edinburgh,
sat down on the sand in silence waiting for horror to arrive.

We did not have to wait long in that tropical heat for terror to invade our hearts.
We heard the growling of a jagged throat and snapping branches,
all turning our heads in unison as two blazing orange eyes scanned us,
a tongue licking its nose and an almost human smile spread across its face.
Hello, it said.
Lovely night, it said.
I am hungry, it said.
Ivor, it said.

We jumped to our feet and ran as fast as we could,
screaming for everyone to get on the ship, and hurry.
I could hear the muffled steps of the beast behind me
and although I could not see it clearly when I glanced back,
I could make out just how massive the creature was.
Its shoulders were at least as high as a thoroughbred’s
but it was built like a massive cat, like a panther I had seen in a zoo.
It laughed and kept repeating Ivor’s name, putting in little effort
in keeping up with us, toying with us as cats toy with mice.
I could make out the others in the village running for the ship,
and as they reached the gangway that entered below deck,
Ivor screamed an awful scream as the creature brought him down.

The three of us stopped and turned, unsure what to do.
Ivor had already gone limp as the creature crushed his skull
and bit through his spinal cord, launching the top half and his head
into the air as the creature turned his attention to Ivor’s legs.
He chewed the meat ravenously, occasionally looking up at us,
standing completely still, mesmerised and horrified at the spectacle.
Run, it said.
Run, they said behind us.
We ran.

As we reached the ship, the captain unwound the ropes from the bollards
as the rest of us ran into the ship, grabbing the gangway,
ready to slide it back in as soon as the captain was on board.
He came running in, shouting at us slide the gangway in
as he continued up to the deck towards the whipstaff.
The hatch closed, we all went to where the captain was
but I left the group to keep an eye on the creature.
It was standing on the jetty, next to the hatch,
the top of its head so close to the railing I was leaning against.
It looked up at me and the smile returned to its face,
the blood of the Welshman smeared over his huge teeth.
No wind, it said.
I am hungry, it said.

I turned to face the captain and the rest of the group,
tears rolling down my cheeks as they creature jumped over my head
and ravaged the rest of my friends and villagers.
Legs and fingers and heads and arms and bones and meat.
All over the deck.
All over the deck.
All over the deck.
The creature stared at me, smiled.
Run, it said.
I am hungry, it said.

It’s hard to let
go when you
forget what
it was you
were holding
on to.
Was it a dream
that captivated
my heart or
was there something
greater at
play?

I’ve forgotten
all the names
of the characters
that have graced
my stage over
the years but
I never forget
how each one
made me feel.

Forgetting is
the
only
journey worth
taking
now.

I’m old,
stuck in my
ways and I
won’t be
making
friends
anymore,
too long in
the tooth
to let new
eyes see the
fire still
burning in my soul.
That is
for me alone,
it might come
out to
play sometimes,
when it’s dark
and no other
fires are visible,
I’ll let out a
little spark and smile
in the way only
someone who has
lost everything can.

The problem with being
guided by starlight
is that even the glow
of a thousand stars
can’t shine on your path.

They have a look of eternity about them,
but their collective light is so weak.

Sometimes I think my gaze keeps them up,
if I look away, the magic gives way
and they fall to the ground and leave
their shards for us to cut our feet upon.

Tread softly, they loved having our eyes
conjure beauty from such a distance.

I shall sweep up the pieces and rebuild,
the sky looks so much darker without them.
Maybe the poems one day will mention my task,
how much I toiled to battle the dark.

I will arrange them to form new constellations
and each one will possess one of your qualities,
a constellation that flows like your hair,
a constellation that shines like your smile,
a constellation that doesn’t dim when you feel sad,
that gets brighter and brighter, lifting your spirits.

Look up at the stars tonight,
you’ll see me up there,
flitting here and there,
repairing the damage I caused
when I looked away for but a moment.
This isn’t my punishment,
this isn’t my curse,
this is my reward,
surrounded by light that allows you to dream,
allows you to wish upon a star once more.

Wish for me and I will come to you.
Wish for me and I will rescue you.

There is a man with a grave in his head
and he wanders from town to town,
singing songs of crows and death and God.
Some say he is an undertaker,
some say he is a vessel of the devil,
but they all agree that he means them harm.
There is a man with blood on his name.

A child of six finds him by the mercat cross
with a stare that chills his brittle bones.
The sun rises up with a limp
and casts his shadow long and gaunt
and fragile and black.
He offers out a smile
but it grimaces
and forms a dark, crooked sneer.
There will be death here by noon.

Church bells and raised voices
gather above the rooftops
and descend as black rain,
like tar, sticky and oily.
They have made their choice.
Weapons are gathered
and war songs penned
and faces painted blue and red.
There will be death within the hour.

A confrontation of silence and conflagration.
He sits there, still, momentarily lost
in the warning call of a fantasist
with a pen too small for his ideas.
The crowd before him swells even further,
nervous anger and shaking knives.
He stands up quick,
and the villagers twitch as a single entity.
He holds up one bony finger.
One body.
One is all he needs.
There is a bloodbath.

He sits alone surrounded by people,
blood forming patterns in the grass and gravel,
like Point de Venise.
He clicks an impressed tut
and takes his belongings off his cart.
It is too small today.
He will have to make several trips.
And all the while,
hour after hour,
day after day,
that smile will never leave his scarred face.

Just where did your black heart go?
I look for it in cupboards, it is not there.
I listen for it in the wind
and hope it beats inside my walls.
It is not here,
it is not there,
it is not anywhere.

Depression is a horrible little creature
that sits in your brains and eats away
all the bits of you that make you feel good.
It ***** out all the colours of your memories
and even turns your most beautiful dreams greyscale.
When you are alone and all about you is dark,
that is where it comes knocking at your door,
inviting itself in and sharing horrible stories with you,
about how you aren’t worth anything in this world,
about everything you love will leave you in time,
about how you don’t know yourself anymore.

You can fight it though, but it will drain you,
you just need to find someone who will listen
and not judge you for being broken and afraid.
I don’t have anyone who does that for me
so I just write, and I keep writing **** down,
to the point where it will annoy people
but I don’t care because this is my outlet,
my therapy, my paltry little coping mechanism.
I’m drowning, but no one can see me struggle.

Depression is feeling like you’ve lost someone
then realizing that you lost yourself,
but there are people out there who can help find it.
Maybe you are one of them, drawn to these words,
suddenly realising you are not the only one,
because that’s why you read poetry, isn’t it?
To connect to the words of another human being,
being able to tell friends it isn’t just you,
there are millions just like you, but you don’t realise,
depression doesn’t allow you to connect.

I don’t write because I can, I write because I need to,
to let things out into the open and hope I help someone,
and when they reply and tell me they feel the same,
whether they realise it or not, they help me, too.
Acknowledgment that my writing is not in vain
is the greatest feeling in the world right now,
and even if you don’t realise, it is probably yours, too.
Why else would you open up so much
if not to have people tell you how good you are at something?
So, this one is for you, my readers, whoever you are,
wherever you call home, whatever you do to cope.
I am not here just as a writer,
I am here also as counsel, I want to help,
to dance amongst your verbs and adjectives,
to let you know, even if you don’t entirely believe it,
that you are not the only one with a cross to bear.

The bass fades in, nice and slow,
fading out again for a moment of silence.
The flash of a flute in the distance,
a slow cymbal shaking into existence,
cellos driving out a deep and quiet rhythm.
The tin whistles of frightened seabirds
fly for shelter from the rising and falling
of bassoons floating in the dark sky.
The conductor unleashes a mighty roar
from his orchestra and gone again,
the violins with their staccato
carrying on for a bit longer
before the orchestra erupts again,
playing a few more notes than before,
the oboes constantly playing.
Drumsticks beat down steadily
on a cymbal held in a gloved hand,
rising up in crescendo and accelerando,
harder and faster they fall,
harder and faster they strike,
the orchestra blares again
as we in the wings start to get unnerved
but the storm has used all its power,
the players are tired tonight
and all that is left
is the tambourine man
shaking his hand as he walks off stage.

The water was so *****, I couldn’t see the stones sink to the bottom,
but I knew they did, stones always sank, like hearts but more often.
By this river I know so well, I watch as the water flows to the sea
like so many lives that have come and gone without leaving a mark.
Lives don’t leave valleys like rivers do, they stay until something bigger
comes rushing in, landscapes almost always unchanging and true,
just every now and again a life comes flooding into your own
and you can’t help but marvel at how much that life changed your valley,
now there’s so much more room for you to grow and cultivate,
even long after that life that carved your home has left and died.

By that great river with the castle overlooking my domain,
I wonder who made my valley bigger, which nameless face
that has graced my life allowed me such room to grow.
The valley exists, so that means she has already passed by,
maybe I have missed her, not realising who she was
and how much of an impact she would have on my landscape,
now gone, leaving behind a shadow of a scent,
a vague sense of awareness of having been watched but now no longer.
Come back to me so I can at least give you thanks,
come back to me so at least I can see the face of you.

I saw you from across the room,
perfect strangers, eye-contact,
palpitations and trembling knees.
You saw me shake and smiled,
a reassuring one, not judging,
not mocking my silly reaction.

Your eyes glow with new universes.
Your hair burns with a million candles.
Your skin shines like full moons.
Your heart beats to a lost symphony.
Your soul radiates tranquillity.

You became my sweetheart, my darling,
my soulmate, meine liebchen.
Your eyes close with the coming night
and I lay you gently on the bed.
I sing a lullaby as you begin to dream,
nos da cariad, sleep tight.

I can feel the riptide of my blaggard blackheart
drag me soulless to an ocean current
that whisks me away without explanation
and you wave from the shore
on sand that used to be yellow,
under a sky that used to be blue
and I wonder where all the ******* colour went,

as I spin in an eddy and everything’s blurry
and I can’t tell where you are anymore
and I try to hold my head above the water
but the surface tension breaks
and it’s so cold and dark in here,
filling my lungs with ice and fire

and still I spin around and around
all the way to the bottom,
walking on seashells as the current
tries to push me somewhere else
but I must overcome and try to push back
but it pushes back harder
and harder I try to push it back
but harder it pushes back at me
so I push harder and harder I push
and it pushes harder and harder it pushes

and I realise that this is my life
and it’s all a dream and I wake
in a sweat from the bottom of the sea
and my room looks the same
and there’s colour and life
except for my blackheart,
that blaggard is mine.

If you would create something,
you must be something.

The poet sits at his desk, his head empty of stories,
the inkwell running dry and the quill motionless.
He used to write about heroes on deadly quests,
rescuing stranded maidens from castles and forests,
always slaying a dragon or two along the way,
but heroes are surprisingly hard to come by these days.
He must adapt to the shifting paradigms in his culture,
all the heroic stories have been lapped up and forgotten,
now people demand some originality in their reading.

He scratches his head and muses on a dream he had,
an actor in a play suddenly consumed by stage fright,
freezes mid-performance as the crowd grows confused.
The audience mutter amongst themselves if this is part of the performance
but those who have been before assure them this is something new.
The actor is covered in flop sweat and his mouth quivers,
anticipating his next line but time is escaping him.
As audience members begin to stand up and shout at the actor,
the memory of the dream fades away and the story goes unfinished.

The poet slams his hand on his desk, knocking the quill to the floor.
He slams his hand down again and the blank piece of paper
sticks to his hand and he cannot shake the thing off.
A moth flies in through the window and attacks the candle flame,
burning its wings and shedding its dust upon his desk.
He thinks maybe he should write about this evening,
the lack of inspiration and a fight with a leaf of paper,
but no one wants to hear a story about that,
the readers demand action and intrigue and mystery,
all of which is lacking for this poet at his desk.

Men’s best successes
come after their disappointments.

This old house, made of the bones of memories,
sits on top of a dark hill
overlooking a river that runs black.
The lawn is yellow, patchy,
even the weeds don’t grow well.
I’ve heard of the stories about this house,
that it’s inhabited by the ghosts
of bitter words and the starvation of hope.
I used to live in this old house
on top of the dark hill.
I’m the only one who escaped.

The kitchen is fully stocked,
boxes of cereal on the counter
covered in several years’ worth of dust,
cobwebs crowding the top of the windows.
My brother died in this room when he was six,
choked to death on a sweet,
I having left the packet unattended.
Don’t know if he’s still running around
in the memory of this place anymore,
I can’t feel him here causing mischief.

The living room floor is covered in old books,
Dostoevsky, Dickens, Bierce and Wilde.
The Devil’s Dictionary sits proudly on the coffee table
but I doubt even the Devil has a word for what happened here.
My father hanged himself from the ceiling fan,
after work, his tie round his neck.
I had caused the death of my brother a few weeks before
and I don’t think my father could take it anymore.
He never left a note, never attempted to absolve me
of any guilt I may have felt, he just threw his hands up in defeat.

Up the old staircase, creaking like it always used to do,
so out of breath for something so stationary,
exerting tremendous energy keeping us upright and upward bound.
The bathroom door is still open, the light not working.
No window in here, feels more like a prison now.
This is where my mother, after drinking a glass of wine
to wash down a few too many antidepressants,
drowned as she listened to my father’s favourite song.
I could hear the music through the door
and heard her submerge beneath the gentle waves of her swaying foot,
but I made no attempt to stop her.
You fight a losing battle if you try to halt the passage of time.

Into what may have once been my bedroom.
The Batman sheets still on my bed,
the smell of night terrors still clinging on
to the musty thick air of fear and tragedy.
This is where I knew I would die, beside my family,
at peace with all the universe could ever throw at me.
This is where it should all come full circle,
where I caused so much pain and grief through a minor mistake.
I have heard the rumours about this old house
on top of the dark hill, ghosts of memories,
flocks of dead birds swarming overhead.
The crying heard during the night in a room no one can find.
The splashing of water in an empty bathtub.
The man on the bed staring down infinity.

Don’t come to this old house,
there is nothing here.

I don’t deserve a friend like you,
but there you are, always listening,
always looking out for me.
You give me shelter during the storm,
a safe port to anchor my leaking hull,
a big oak tree to protect me from the rain.

I look up at the stars sometimes
and hate them for being
so beautiful and far away.
Then you walk by like a supernova
and suddenly the stars don’t seem so far away.

You lie in the sun radiating grace,
and I am mesmerised by how
your eyes collect the sunlight like they were miracles.
You calm me with your words,
and I throw them back at you
because I don’t learn, but I will.

I don’t deserve a friend like you,
but I appreciate that you are.
Despite all I say and do to the contrary,
I will always be your friend,
never far away, wishing you all the luck in the world.

I want to fly somewhere,
a Mediterranean beach, an ancient village with a plaza.
I want to watch the seabirds dive for fish
and scuba dive through a coral reef.
I want to sit in a hut on an atoll
and relax in front of a calm blue sea.
A Greek island with bright white houses
or a Cypriot villa on a barren hill.
There is a world out there undiscovered;
a map only shows the outlines,
I want to see what lies within.
I want a holiday and share the experience
with the only person in the world I love.

If I could get you out of my head I surely would.
These sleepless nights are worrisome;
those dark walls cave in, relentless,
jagged spires and grotesques
and stained glass malignancies
crumble upon me;
I am not calm.

I see your face in grey clouds and windowpanes.
Somewhere, sometime, I think of you;
do you think of me? I think
not. Not
now not
never ever ever. You are not the first.

But you've taken a seat, made yourself at home,
and I smell you on the air;
I taste you in the food,
fresh and young and lively.
You make me dream
and I hate you for it.

I have no time for dreaming when my heart flutters so.
They are false prophecies;
I do not dream at Delphi
and I have no intention to do so.
Do you dream there?

I imagine you would respond with a particular kind of silence,
the one where the words are there
but do not need to be heard.
Your eyes would speak.
They would look at me with a peculiar pity;
and I would know in that fatal glance
that I would never have a chance
to gaze into them again.

I would rather you were a friend than nothing at all,
a tired acquaintance,
a deadlock of emotions;
I do not want to checkmate them,
just let them know they have another move,
towards me, foretells that particular prophesy.
Ha
Ha

I see your face in grey clouds and windowpanes.
I would rather you were a friend than nothing at all.
I imagine you would respond with a particular kind of silence.
I have no time for dreaming when my heart flutters so.
If I could get you out of my head I surely would.
But you've taken a seat, made yourself at home.

Fall in love with a soul
that plays well with yours,
and the flowers of spring
will grow in your heart.
There is no thunder
without rains of August storms,
there is no silence
unless it is heard.

Walk the path you choose
and allows others to walk with you,
sometimes their own paths
join together with yours.
Hold hands with your darkness,
the sun will rise again.
Embrace the silent nights,
that’s when your heart speaks loudest.

Whatever you do in this world,
make it a story worth telling,
future people will look back
and grant you immortality.
You are at your strongest
when making peace with yourself.
Our souls are all connected,
everyone feels the pain.

Your life is blessed with persons
of every colour and creed.
Love each and every one of them,
we share a home together.
We are of the universe
and the universe is of us.
Shine bright like the sun
and reflect light like the moon.

We are our own universe,
made inside the furnaces of exploding stars.
That is more profound to me than clay.
Clay is of this earth, bound by gravity
to this tiny speck of dust.
We are more than that,
we are made of suns.
We don’t just live within the universe,
the universe lives within us.
Let that starlight out,
let the universe know we’re here
and that we’re good,
we’re kind,
we’re worth having around,
we’re deserving of our place here,
we’re gentle
and calm
and happy
and loving.

We are more than the sum of our parts,
more than empty vessels of atoms,
more than hateful,
spiteful,
jealous,
war-mongering little creatures.
We have hearts that beat
to a rhythm the universe provides.
We are our own gods,
our own devils,
our own sacrifices
and our own dreams.
The universe is waiting with open arms
to welcome back its lost children.
We are the universe observing itself subjectively.
Put on a show worth watching.

Open your eyes in the middle of the night
and catch a glimpse of the shadow from
the streetlight outside your window run for cover.
Listen for its footsteps as it creeps down your hallway,
taking shelter in the cupboard at the top of the stairs.
You want to get up and investigate,
but that fear you feel is immaculate.

You slip into your dressing gown and open your bedroom door;
the creak of the hinges tumbles into the darkness
as you try to catch your breath from escaping into a scream.
The door of the cupboard is ever-so-slightly ajar
and you know there is nothing in there,
just a bunch of towels that have never been used in years,
but that little whisper rises in the back of your head
that something else has made a home in there.

You put your trembling hand on the handle,
trying to avoid looking into the black coming through the gap.
Do you open it quick or take it slow,
allow what might be inside a chance to escape?
You don’t know what to do and tonight you’re alone.
The low grunt of a floorboard behind you.
Old hands as ancient as the universe rest on your shoulders.
She turns you around and you stare into her eyes,
your life reflecting in them.
The door creaks open behind you.
There is no point struggling, there is no subtext.
Take it in your stride.
Take it in your stride.

The bombers buzz overhead,
angry bees ready to destroy the rival hive.
We run for cover, through the mud and filth,
into our shelters and wait for the silence,
wait for the bombers to leave,
wait for the bombs to stop,
wait for the distant screaming to die,
wait for the thoughts of the mountains of home.

The land here is flat
but I reckon in the future the craters will live on,
the landscape pockmarked with disease.
There used to be a forest here,
but all the trees are long gone,
the timber lining our trenches
keeping them from collapsing.
Through the noise, a daydream appears,
the forests at the feet of the mountains of home.

The wait is over,
I climb the ladder and peer over the edge.
A bullet whistles past my ear,
ricochets off my helmet and I lose my balance.
I land in the mud and filth,
a thin rat scurrying into a hole.
Someone shouts an order
and I have the strange sensation I’m floating.
As I’m carried back into the shelter,
I dream I’m flying over the mountains of home.

Unfortunately, I live,
ready to die for my country all over again,
fighting for something called freedom.
I wonder if the enemy fight for the same thing,
if they know its meaning more than I do.
I do not stand alongside those who sent me here,
I am here with my brothers,
singing songs long into the night,
elegies and soliloquies to the mountains of home.

Idaho, above her, mistletoe,
she had to stand up on her tiptoes
to kiss.
The mountains look so far away now
and the lights from the next town
look too dim.

Days and nights are getting longer
as I lay here getting no stronger
to fight.
Can I make one final request?
To feel your heart beat in your chest
one last time?

These old eyes are getting heavy,
this time I know I am ready
to die.
You can wrap me up in paper
and tell me you will see me later
as I die.

Idaho, give me one last something,
words to let this voice sing
one last time.
Idaho and I don’t care
when I saw your jealous glare
as I died.

The only friend who shared your bed
was the one who held your head
as you died.
The only friend you ever had
was the one who held your hand
as you died.

We’re dancing beneath ancient stars.
You and I, we’re just a heartbeat in their lifetimes,
how insignificant a few decades is
to something that lives thousands of them.
Do they know we’re here?
Do they know we wish upon them?

Whenever I stand alone beneath the dark sky,
without your voice to tell me stories,
to come up with your own mythologies,
I feel the weight of silence on my shoulders,
but you don’t hear the apologies.
Do you know I’m here?
Is this the cost of my mind?

{I wished upon a star; I wished upon you; my Ariadne but I cut the thread myself, watched helplessly as it was pulled back into the dark before disappearing and I was lost, not even the dim glow of uninterested stars offered as a guide, so instead of looking for a way out, I’m standing still, hoping you send a search party to find me, right where I lost you, clinging on to the horrible hope that, if you do find me and we can’t find you way back to the day, we can at least be lost together, sharing the nightmares, sharing the fear, dancing beneath ancient stars that grant no wishes.}

There’s oil pooling on the streets,
and I’m on my way to some dive bar
surrounded by the glittering lights
only success and fame can afford.
Neon signs threatening epileptic seizures
hang like 21st-Century gargoyles
above the heads of my brothers in harm.

There’s girls in neon everything,
halter top, hot pants, fishnet tights.
They’re calling out for a good time,
but they haven’t been seen here in years,
the nights are too long to appreciate
the memories in the short days.
They never give up hope, though,
that’s why they’re so beautifully broken.

There’s a kid on the street covered up
with an old jacket left behind
by another societal failure who died
last winter in a doorway lined in snow.
Next to him, a musician plays a guitar
that plays no old blues notes,
no idea it’s playing by a grave.

I find a quiet little street, no life,
no blinking lights offering salvation
from a life of complete boredom.
I’ll take the boring and the quiet,
I’ll take screaming into the air,
lost syllables and juxtapositions
flung up into the dead air
of a dark and silent LA night.

We don’t deserve to be lonely,
but being alone all the time is fine,
it’s perfectly healthy to keep
your own company but not healthy
to not enjoy the time to yourself.
Extrapolating meanings from last night’s dreams,
finding comfort in fractured scenes,
looking for answers to our selves
in the morning smog of repression.

But I still beat these same paths,
still see the same sorry faces
illuminated by those awful neon signs,
garish intrusions into the neighbourhood,
fake happiness and promised sorrow.
The homeless kid is gone, stabbed for dimes,
but traffic keeps moving, drinkers keep
gambling away their little pay checks,
and the cold dark of these LA nights
keeps holding on to my echoes.

It will be summer soon,
just another week or so
where you will rise each morning
brighter than the sun
and you will smile at the wide blue sky
as it keeps you calm and safe.
Your stress will vanish
as the world offers itself once more,
letting you explore her hidden treasures.

It will be summer soon,
just another week or so
where you will sing to the wind,
a song only you can hear,
where the words don’t matter
because you’re too relaxed to care.
In another week or so,
things will be pretty good from then.