Who the ****
was me in a
past life?
Who deserved
this on
their record?

I’m running with the wolves
tonight.
Standing on the rock and howling at the
moonlight.
Wish I had more than
hindsight.
It’s cold and my claws have
frostbite.

I’m chasing after a dream
today.
Might not meet you there but we can meet
halfway.
I saw your silhouette in the
archway.
Smoke still rising from the
ashtray.

I might find time for you
tomorrow.
Today I’m busy chasing after a colourless
rainbow.
A dream offered itself but it was a
no-show.
Finding solace in the sadness of a
willow.

A different sky unfolds itself,
this one dark and full of stars,
the blue making way to red
making way to black,
and I am still awake,
finding new constellations
that tell new stories.
One I name for you,
whoever you may be,
hoping you name one for me,
whoever I may be,
and I am still awake
as the black makes way for red
that makes way for blue.

The wild cats
howl
and mew in
the forest,
and you’re in the
trees dreaming
you’re the tallest.
This is the
sound of your
heart’s love
and affection.
This is the
view from your
soul’s deepest
connection.

As soon as you go online,
your entire being becomes
nothing but a series of
ones and zeros.
You become inanimate,
you become digidull.

I need a love that burns like fire,
turning me to ashes like a funeral pyre.
I need a love that kills me so slow,
feeling the heat from the firelight’s glow.

The storm came quick, the first sign of it
being no more than an hour before it made landfall,
the three lighthouse keepers scrambled
to reach the west landing to secure everything down,
but as Thomas and James headed out,
leaving Donald inside the lighthouse to check for passing ships,
the wind picked up, a tempest of biblical scale,
and the two were soon forced back inside.

The storm made landfall, whipping up the sea,
huge waves as tall as the tallest buildings ever built
hurtled towards the island and battered the cliffs,
washed away the sand and shingle from the beaches,
and quickly the seawater rose, hunting down the lighthouse.
Inside, the three men stood by the light,
keeping their eyes on any distant ships,
but all they could see was seaspray and darkness.
A wave rushed into a geo and at reaching the end,
shot up like a geyser into the cold, dark sky.

Fear and panic found themselves a home in these three hearts,
and death was waiting nearby, suspending in the clouds
as the howling wind continued unabated
to pound and destroy this otherwise uninhabited island.
They told stories of the mainland to pass the time,
talk about loved ones back home, like soldiers do.
Sharing photographs with each other, love letters,
the names of their children they feared they’d never see grow up.

James was the first to spot them, as he checked on the light.
It had gone out whilst they were chatting in the communal room.
James called on the others, and as they came up the steps,
he looked outside and saw the unmistakeable shimmering
of the distant lights of a ship through the spray and the gloom.
Those were not the only lights James spotted, though.
Another light, green and filmy, shone on the path
that wound its way down to the rising waters
crashing against the west landing as if it had to be destroyed.

James ran down the steps as the other two quickly followed,
calling out his name but James was transfixed on the light.
How it shimmered, how it danced, no reaction to the storm.
A will o’ the wisp he was sure of it, and follow it he must,
no man could ever resist the call of her beautiful light.
He made it out the door just beyond the grasp of Donald,
the storm, a hurricane for sure, nearly ripping the door from its hinges.
Donald and Thomas threw themselves outside
and nearly straight into the back of James, standing stationary,
leaning into the wind, as the wind slammed the door shut behind them.

There it floated, the light of lights, beautiful emerald, viscous,
the wind flowing straight through its etheric body.
Three pairs of eyes, transfixed, mesmerised, at this floating orb,
and it slowly started backing its way down the path
and the three men followed, their minds dreaming of nothing
but what beautiful sights the light had waiting for them.
Down the path they stumbled, oblivious to the wind now,
the storm something that happened in a former life.
A wave, the biggest so far to hit the island,
came down upon the three men and dashed their bodies on the ground,
and as the wave receded, it took their bodies too,
to a place no one since can summon up the courage to imagine.

I need you, I want you, I must have you,
every which way I truly must.
To have your naked flesh on mine,
succumbing to my inhibited lust.

I browse the selections on dark street corners,
hoping to find one that looks like you,
but it doesn’t feel the same, with the wrong name,
this lust is false, this vice is true.

I dream every night of you moaning my name
as the sheets get heavy with midnight dew.
The art of ******* makes way for silence
as I realise I may never get to meet you.

Are you as real as you are in my head?
I seem to know your most intimate curves.
I know all your hopes, your kinks and your heat,
the way your ****** energy electrifies your nerves.

I need you tonight, make love in the moonlight,
make you howl at the sky like a wolf in heat.
The wind on your breath fanning the fire in your eyes,
leave you so breathless you need to take a seat.

Come and be mine, I call your name now,
land on me gently, we can be rough in a while.
Lie in my arms so I can savour your scent,
your *** is a bonfire, my lust a woodpile.

I live far beyond the mountains of madness,
where the snow of winter gathers year-round.
I live in an ivory palace decorated with sadness
by a rushing river where many souls have drowned,
and as I gaze upon those stormy waters,
hostility arises from these old bones of mine.
A body came here from beyond the borders,
and left so soon, leaving neither mark nor sign.
How my heart aches for that tempest to return,
how my heart aches for a love lost and spurned.

But other thoughts begin to weary my mind,
her love was false and red flags were waved,
her claws in my heart, I was in such a bind.
There was no one around, I could never be saved,
a monster dressed in colours of summery weather,
a monster created from the depths of resentment.
She had anger in her wings, a blood-red feather
heralding my forthcoming discontentment.
The pen is mightier than the sword, so they say.
My pen will spill more blood than every sword in history.

All I ever was to her was a stepping stone,
“Chew on this for a bit while I search for myself,”
saw this old dog and threw him a ******* bone.
I have a suggestion, have you searched the bowels of hell?
You’re a ****, you see, that’s where you all come from.
***** like you come and go like days of the week.
Now you’re off getting your fix of another guy’s ***,
I hope he’s all you’re after, malleable and meek.
The Queen of *****, hell, the **** of *****,
always on the prowl and always on the hunt.

This is my love poem I dedicate to you,
a carousel of black lies and words that meant nothing.
I hope you find the time to read this, I really, really do,
but you don’t have the ***** to reply, to say a thing.
You’re a coward through and through, always ******* running,
handing out dreams and hope, snatching them back,
but that karmic wheel up there is always turning.
Karma has her eyes on you, you’ll get thrown off the tracks.
******* and all your dreams, your family and life,
my words are here to slice you like a very sharp knife.

This is me, this is who I am,
a talker, a chatter, interested in all whom I meet.
These are my flaws, these are my questions,
to know every soul I interact with.
Some of you respond, some of you remain silent,
but this is who I am, singing each day away.
I might be too much, might look a bit nosey,
but my intentions are honest, don’t presume my mind.
I will not change, no one changes for me,
I just have an interest in all things human.

One day I will
find my home,
and I hope
I meet you there.

Sunrise here,
sunset there,
and the distance
seems to shrink
each day.

Here comes the
morning light,
breaking through
my curtains,
waking me up
with colour.

The birds sing
your name to
the dawn, each
more beautiful
than the last.

I have a
black heart
in a black
cage
in black chains
and I am
the happiest
person you
will ever
meet.

I only
go out
at night
with the
****** and
the drunks
and these
are all
the
friends
I will ever
need.

Summer is
just Winter
letting her hair
down,
prancing around
in a bikini
with those
come to bed
eyes,
but she
will freeze
you solid
and take everything
from you.

At this
juncture,
I hope you
find some kind
of meaning
to allow
the clocks to keep
ticking,
to let the days
keep tumbling
over each
other,
one after
another
after
another,
never ending,
never ending,
never ending.

Lake Red Rock in the winter,
what look like waves frozen on the shore,
the bare trees look like the old hands of the earth
trying to scratch scars in the heavens.
It’s quiet here, even the water is silent,
not even the whisperings of the dead
can be picked up amongst these trees.
The path cuts through them in a straight line,
but the sun set half an hour ago
and I can’t make out where the path leads.
A good metaphor for life, I think to myself,
noticing I’ve begun tiptoeing for some reason,
maybe the shock of my footfalls will wake
whatever monsters my overactive mind
has created beneath the twisted trunks
of trees that have been dead for years.
There is nothing here for me to fear,
just silence and all its consequences.

I want to run my fingers through your hair,
breathe in your thick mountain air,
and love is love, I do declare,
my heart lives in your doleful stare.

Your sweet voice I have yet to hear,
imagining it’s tinged with hope and fear,
but I will hear it by the end of the year,
sweet and sultry distant and near.

It’s your face I dream in darkest night,
when all is lost, this blinded sight,
but soon will come the dawn’s fire light
and illuminate again my world so bright.

I have never felt this content before,
even reading those mythologies and lore,
for no longer am I begging for more,
I hear you knocking at my door.

On the other side of an ocean blue,
people celebrating, that’s true,
of independence from my lands,
ancestors killed by my ancestor’s hands.
They sing songs of ****** glory,
stories told, allegories.
Flags unfurled, fluttering high.
Sunset, a red, white and blue sky.

Did you know the heart glyph ♥
is meant to show two hearts together?
It may have once felt like myth,
but now it glows like summer weather.

Here I stand,
shouting at the sky,
waiting for an answer,
nothing, not even an echo
echo of my anger.
Oh whywhywhyWyoming
do I still sing
at the sky?

When someone tells you they love you,
hold onto them for dear life.
That kind of person never appears often.

Look in the mirror.
Look at that vacant stare.
Love everlasting.
Currently fasting.
Dream of salvation.
Killed by discretion.
Sing at the moon.
Sunrise too soon.
Swim in the starlight.
Holding you so tight.
Dream of a forest.
Dream you’re the tallest.

Hold me again, love.
Mountains loom high above.
Dance with me now.
Show me again how.
Sleep on the sofa.
Creeping closer.
Night-time desires.
Starting forest fires.
Cry for an hour.
Let it blow over.

Sing with your heart.
Sing us apart.
Hold your notes long.
At the end of the song.
Start it again.
Until the end.
Breathe into me.
Insecurities.
The sparkle shines.
In your precious eyes.

Come lay beside me.
I’ll sing your lullaby.
Hearts everlasting.
Fed up with fasting.
Stare at the stars.
Never too far.
Name one for you.
Call me a fool.
Say it together.
Say it forever.

The cigarette smoke burns my lungs,
but the glow is my only light
for the coming dark.
I have the cough and the slack
in my chest tortures my breaths,
but I persevere,
the relics of a healthy body turning black
until all that is left is the wheezy
breathlessness of detachment.

I am performing the slowest suicide possible,
cancer not far away now,
soon to have my heart in its grip,
holding tighter and tighter
until it squeezes all life from it,
and I am left cold and broken
in a grave of my own digging.
My singing voice is raspy
and my voice breaks at the high notes,
so now I sing sad folk songs
and breathe out broken veils
of mist into the cold air.

My throat is dry, coughing up consonants
and vowels growl with the voices
of smoke monsters.
I have just had a smoke
and now I think I may have another,
fed up of breathing easy tonight.
Create gothic cathedrals of fog
and let them hang foreboding
in the cold night air.

the grass is brown
the chirrips have stopped
a lonely
cricket
    l              
                 e
                                       a
                                                           p
                                                               ­        s

                                                              ­              a
                                                 ­                           n
                                    ­                                        d
                       ­                                                    s
                                                               ­          l
                                                               ­     o
                                                          ­    w
                                                           ­  l
                                                        y


   ­                                              d
                                               r
                                         o
                                   p
                                 s

                d
           o
     w
   n

d
e
a
d

how your
body looks
so beauti-
ful absent
of all
colour

play me a
springtime
melody one
last time
for me

There’s this fly buzzing
around in my
apartment, divebombing
my head and
generally annoying me.
He swoops and flits
and bounces off
my cheek but
he never flies into
my rolled-up
newspaper.

He seems to be
enjoying himself,
the cheeky little
******
making faces at me.
What do you have
to smile about?
A hundred eyes
and **** on grass
still looks sweet
to you.

What is his purpose?
To annoy everything
else on this
planet?
If so, he’s doing
a **** fine job
of it, better
than anything else
wallowing around
in this hell.
Better than me,
that’s for sure,
shown up by
a ******* fly!

Later on, I find
him dead on the
windowsill, his little
legs sticking up
in the air,
his wings spread out,
ready to fly off
into the afterlife,
heaven-bound, if such
a heaven exists.
I hope not,
I don’t want an afterlife
that I have to
share with
him.

I flick him out
the window
and wonder if there’s
someone up there
with his thumb
and *******
in a circle
ready to give me
the same treatment.

Bring
it
on,
old
man,
bring
it
on.

Dear mother, it’s hell here.
The trenches are full of mud and rats,
bullets whistle above our heads constantly,
and they keep dropping the bombs,
we can hardly get any sleep.
This is not war, it’s a game
rigged for both sides to lose
and no one seems to realise.

Jimmy died a couple of weeks ago,
out in no man’s land scouting the German trenches,
he got too close, they saw him,
machine-gunned him down.
Took his legs clean off above each knee.
A couple of other guys dragged him back
and when I saw him, he was still alive,
loose skin and tendons sliding through the mud.
He didn’t recognise me, too delirious.
They left in on the ground by the medical tent,
the rats taking the meat from his legs.

I miss you, mother, I miss father, too.
The farm in the valley, green fields,
the brook babbling away at the foot of the garden.
Millie singing songs about those faeries.
Nothing I miss more than the Sunday roast, though!
Fresh-cut beef, three Yorkshire puddings, thick gravy,
carrots on the side if they grew well.
They don’t have any of that here,
enough bread for a couple of sandwiches a day,
just enough cheese, butter, jam and pepper.
How can we fight when we’re all this hungry?

I have to finish up, it’s my turn in no man’s land.
Don’t know if I’ll make it back,
to the trench, never mind the farm.
I love you, mother.
I will see you soon.
I just want to come home.

We all have our own paths in life,
and most of us think we should be on other ones,
better ones that are bathed in sunlight.
But, just like people, the most beautiful landscapes
are composed of mountains and valleys,
and our paths will lead us by both.
These are our paths, the ones we need to travel,
because they will always lead to greater things.
Sometimes, you will find yourself on the mountain peak,
looking down at the world feeling elated.
Other times, the path will lead you into the valley,
and although it might seem to stretch on forever,
the path never-ending winding through the shadows,
it will always pass the mountains and can walk
in that beautiful sunlight you crave so much.

Blank canvas, no shape, no weight,
a world to create, no pain, no hate.
Purple sky, evening cloud, no rain,
hope and tranquillity rules this domain.
Evergreen trees, a path, a cabin,
a lake of green to forever swim in.
Darkness is needed to appreciate the light,
heavy blues speckled with white.
Valleys so low, mountains so high,
there is no colour for the shape of your eyes.
The weight of a life, let it all blend together,
hidden details, a wave, flowing forever.
A soul is bled, hope, no lies,
stories to tell, words for the wise.
Your own little world, framed in a painting,
your own little world, free of explaining.

Tell a soul how
beautiful you are; go on,
do it, say those words
that open your
heavens wide and
shower your world
with the
love you deserve.
This is your
moment,
your turn to stand
in the spotlight
and
feel
love
like you have never
felt
before.

We’re all scared,
fear of the unknown
or something like that.
Not knowing what’s coming,
not understanding what’s been,
standing on the beach,
feet sinking into the hot sand,
wondering why the sunsets
don’t make you marvel any more.
Can’t see forests for trees,
can’t see constellations for stars,
can’t see fear for love,
can’t see love for fear.
Round and around we go,
playing and replaying,
time and time again,
what does it mean to hope?
A new future,
a light to cast the past in shadows,
or just an ember to light
a small speck of the path we’re on?
We’re all afraid of something,
all scared of nothing,
we’re strong and weak-willed,
heads held high and shoulders slumped,
ghosts in the architecture
of our mind palaces
we’ve built on past experiences.
The foundations are shaky
and the walls are close to collapse,
but this is our home, **** it!
Spread some joy,
speak to strangers,
learn about everyone,
question everything
and good heavens be kind to yourself.
This is your universe,
it cares about you.

You made a home in my heart
only to move out and take
everything with it.

I’m not a millennial so why have I started writing like one?
I asked myself that last night and now I realise;
every poem I seem to read is whining *******
about how the world seems to be out to get me,
please listen to me as I complain about being human!
Everywhere I look, existential angst riding high,
held above all else like some messianic dictatorship
demanding to be loved obediently without discrimination.
All you write is the same everyone else writes,
just fancier words, slight change in diction and emphasis,
but all the same pseudo-philosophical *******
peddled three centuries ago by a philosopher
whose name you could never quite remember.
When did originality make way for contrived nonsense?
No, no more. Ask yourself if writing helps
and answer with complete honesty as if no one can hear you.
It gave me the illusion that it helped, a friendly placebo
to place under my tongue to slowly dissolve.
If it helps, why do you keep writing, spewing trivialities
and wording them in a way to fool people into empathy?
Why don’t you write the story you always wanted to write
instead of writing for the notifications on your screen?
Why be a populist when you can be a fabulist?
Do not think for one second that you write for other people,
they don’t care about what you write,
they want to cling to a belief that what they feel is not human,
something far too profound to contemplate fully,
so they lap up every little word that conforms to their delusion.
Wake up, people. You are human, not sick.

My mind is my universe and through it
I see all that there has ever been
and all that has yet to come.
There is hope and fear and tragedy
still waiting their turn to knock on my door,
and I will receive each one graciously,
the perfect host and the haunted victim.
The body on the floor is mine,
and I am one of the suspects
and one of the investigators.
I know who caused my body to lie there,
dead and cold, lifeless and formless,
but I also don’t know who did it,
only one part of me witnessed it
and that part of me is forever silent.
There is no communication between my other selves.

Have I fallen to my own hand
or has another stepped in to make me bleed?
There is no weapon, no apparent motive,
just a body and a lot of head scratching.
I know it was my heart that died last,
we could all hear it thud against the floorboards
long after the thump of my body hit.
Could it possibly be that it just happened,
a natural end to an unnatural life?
No, it doesn’t feel right, I can feel the magic
in the universe and it is drawing us elsewhere,
so we split up and look for clues.

Sometimes, mysteries appear and everyone tries
their hardest to find a solution to it,
much like watching a magician perform the perfect trick
and you just have to know how it was achieved.
Of course, he will never tell his secret, it ruins the fun,
and maybe this is another example,
a cosmic joke, the explanation of which ruining the performance.
There are no clues to be found anywhere,
so we all shrug and leave, never to complete the puzzle,
but we all love mysteries, we can’t leave things unsolved,
it just doesn’t feel quite right, you know?
Something awful took place this dark night.
Something terrible happened to fate this night.