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.

Sometimes, you find yourself standing on the battlements,
bows drawn, arrow ready, waiting for the enemy to appear.
You can sense the presence, hidden within the fog of war
that creeps its way, serpentine, across the battlefield,
but you wait and you wait and no monster comes forth,
no harbinger of death and evil assaults your position.
The enemy, your greatest foe, is inside you.
The fog of war is a smokescreen, a green screen,
that can allow you to project anything at all.
The realisation that the monsters aren’t out there,
that your greatest foe is actually in here,
that’s true fear,
that’s true horror.

All that is lost will be returned
on white waters a storm has churned.
Carried away on a river of hope,
finding comfort at the end of a rope.

Blinded by the sudden rush of decibels hanging on expletives,
lost in a labyrinth of your own making, your own Minos, your own Minotaur,
and where is your Pasiphaë? With Prometheus on the rocks?
She cries out your name but you only hear the shredded echo,
a solitary syllable full of emotion but the meaning is gone,
carried away on another zephyr, entering the useless canal of a deaf ear.
Unsung heroes climbing mountains to find the source of a myth.
Erstwhile, your devils dance in your heart, beating their own tattoo,
leaving bruises and clots where those things should never call home,
and the realisation that they are too severe to ever be repaired,
that’s true fear,
that’s true horror.

An echo reverberates across every land
                                                    And?
Searching for your heart in the clutches of Calypso
               So?

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

Bartz Field in the July heat,
pretty girls in their summer dresses
singing songs of Woodstock and American dreams.
My dream lay beneath a sycamore,
motionless in her island of shadow.
I left her there to dream of cold beer
and headed up to Red Hill.
The sun shone with less ferocity up there,
a slight breeze cooling the air,
and from my vantage point,
I could make her out, sleeping gently,
the calm point in the hustle-bustle
of the students playing games
and chatting over cold drinks.

On the horizon, a thunderstorm was brewing,
promising the relief of cool rain
to wash the heat from the city,
for at least an hour or so.
I scanned the city, the McDonald’s
directly across the road from
the Museum of Natural History.
I wonder if there was some irony in that placement,
or sheer luck that made me smile to myself.
The distant brontide of thunder applauded
and I looked back to the sycamore tree.
She was sitting up, looking around,
and when her head turned towards me,
I waved my arms above my head
like I was signalling a helicopter for my rescue.
She didn’t see me and she stood up,
confusion written in her body language.

I stumbled down the trail and when I reached the park,
she was back under the tree,
fingers of one hand wrestling with those on the other.
I called her name and she spun her head around
and leaped off the ground and embraced me,
then chastised me for leaving her
without telling her where I had gone.
I laughed and she laughed
and I kissed her and she kissed me back.
We sat down on the burned-out grass,
her head on my shoulder
and my arm around her waist,
as we watched and waited
for the thunderstorm to wash away
the heat of a glorious day.

That was the wind knocking on my door,
passing on the message you won’t be round no more.
The whirlwind lifted me up off my feet
and landed me in the middle of the rain and the sleet.
You said you ain’t gonna be my girl no more,
but that wind just keeps on knocking on my door.

That was a cloud passing by over my head,
sending me a message that to you I’m as good as dead.
It took my light and left me with this shadow
clinging onto my soul and blocking my view of the show.
You told me I was to you as good as dead,
but that cloud just keeps on passing by over my head.

That was a bird whispering in my ear,
that everything will be okay if I cast off the fear.
She sings in my dreams and gives me solace
and sits in my caged heart behind my gladiolus.
You said I will be okay if I cast off the fear,
but that bird just keeps on whispering in my ear.

This
is my
bane, my
dear, lover.
Restless night
syndrome, dark
and pitiless sleep
as the blood rushes
through my ears like
cascades, torrents of
floodwater crushing my
eardrums and deafening
me as I try to dream a
little dream to find
some solace and
comfort in an
old world I
used to
know.

Fall
into a
void of
my own
making, I
clamber up
the stairs to
my dreamland
and dance with
your heart among
stars that refuse to
let their shine diminish,
and I will see you in
that void, the dark
and lonely rooms
that sit between
my happiness
and the love
that you
provide.

I am
yours
and you
are mine and
mine alone and
together we will
conquer all that we
see, every speck of land
in every single dream we
dream, universes dancing
together, minds melded
as one, and even they
who cannot be but
jealous may look
on with those
green eyes,
we will be
strong.

But the
alcohol dims
the effect and I
find myself talking
to the walls as if they
really did have ears, but
we all know they are dead
things, dead as you are in my
head. Someday I might find
the talent to create some
creature as beautiful
as you look in my
dreams, but I am
unable to find
appropriate
words to
describe
you.

I heard stories of you, Romania,
lying far in the east,
communism and beaches side by side.
I heard of the bullets
and families hiding under tables.
The women were beautiful, so I heard.
Turns out they’re nice to look at
but peel away the layers
and you’re left with a rotten core.

Romania, I would wipe you off the face of the earth
and plant cancer in your soil,
AIDS in your rivers
and watch every one of your people
die in exquisite agony.
They don’t really deserve the sun on the necks,
the wind in their hair,
friends to call family.
Romania, I would watch you bleed to death
in some dark alleyway as a thousand men
have their god-awful way with you,
I would watch you drown
and hold you under just to make sure.

I have a very large box of hatred
in my head set aside
specifically for you.
Dare me to
open it?

The hotel sits just off Main Street,
between the hospital and the *******.
It’s walls covered in ivy and the front gates
held together by rust and century-old bolts.
The wind whistles through the broken windows
when it travels north from the cemetery.
The old folks in the town tell tales
of curses, witchcraft, devil-worship and ******.
The young folks don’t believe in any of that any more,
old gods forgotten in time, but none venture inside,
the building giving off a sickening feeling.


The grand foyer is overgrown with nature,
the slick walls nurturing the flora.
Rain drips in from the holes in the ceiling,
neglect and time exposing the beams and rafters,
a man-made cave unexplored for decades,
wiped off the map and replaced with a blank space.
It’s dark in here despite the valiant attempt
of an early afternoon sun bursting with light.
A grand staircase rises into darkness
and seems to split in two directions,
to the east wing and the west.
Most stories told about this place were set in room 77,
follow the hallway into the east wing,
at the end take another staircase on your right,
into another hallway, sixteenth door on the left.


The second number seven on the door has fallen off,
leaving behind it the memory of the gold,
that missing number not on the floor, long gone,
taken by a brave soul on a dare.
The door is warm to the touch,
the door to room 76 is cold,
as is 75, 74, 73, 72.
The hallway smells of abandonment, that sickly wet smell
that a gravestone gives off after a thunderstorm.
Maybe it’s the lichen and moss growing on the walls
that gives off this horrible smell of not-quite-dead
but it does not drown out the quiet laughter
coming from behind the warm door of room 77.


The door creaks open, silencing the giggling;
it sounded like children, perhaps, or bats disturbed.
The curtains are drawn so everything within
is hidden from the view of the living.
It smells different in here, like a forest
that hasn’t seen rain for weeks.
It is stifling in the room but the radiators are ****-cold.
Water starts running in the bathroom en suite,
the giggling starting up again, definitely children.
Floorboards damp with the moisture in the air
crack underfoot and cause the laughter to stop again.
In the en suite, the hot water tap is running,
water splashing out of the basin and onto the floor.
The water in the toilet bowl is green with algae
and the smell of ozone is burning hot.


Back in the room, an old photograph of a crossroads
hangs above the bed and it feels uneasy,
as if the photo is telling a story of this room,
that deals were done here as they were there,
selling souls for a gift, cheated out of a raw deal.
Dust swirls and spirals in a vortex in the air.
The door to the room slams shut.
There is a dressing gown hanging on to a hook
that barely has any strength left in it,
and just then, the hook falls out of the door,
sending both it and the dressing gown to the floor.
The mood in that room swiftly changes.


Drawn on the door in chalk is a pentagram,
a crude representation of the Sigil of Baphomet.
Beneath that, an inverted cross with Yeshua written beneath it.
From near the window on the other side of the room,
a hot breath materialises and the curtains close.
In that darkness, footsteps heavy and slow approach
as the laughter rises and fills the room with raw terror.
A deep, gravelly voice grinds its way through the air
and speaks in a tongue not heard in millennia.
יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע
The floor opens up into an abyss and the world falls away.


The old folks in the town tell tales
of curses, witchcraft, devil-worship and ******.
The young folks don’t believe in any of that any more.

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.

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and today you’re waiting for death to come
in that ******* hearse with your name
written in flowers and wreaths.
Make him fight
Make him fight
Make him fight

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and now you could leave at any moment,
leaving me alone in this cold grey world
to fight both our battles.
I’ll do you right
I’ll do you right
I’ll do you right

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and now the beach doesn’t seem like such a lovely place,
the laughter of children now sounds derisory
as it melts with the roar of the waves.
Sweetheart goodnight
Sweetheart goodnight
Sweetheart goodnight

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and seeing my queen unresponsive and calm
with wires in your arms, part of the machine,
the sounds of beasts in my head.
Follow the light
Follow the light
Follow the light

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There is heartbreak on every corner,
a worn-out poet in every home,
a fairytale seamstress in every room
and they are all decidedly human.

Every busker sings songs for glass hearts,
every street magician infuses some magic
through the pain and hardship of another day
and we all appreciate the little things.

What meaning is there to life
other than the meaning you give it?
Show me the proof of a master plan
and I will show you how wrong it is.

Rise up to each day’s new challenges
and laugh when everything wants you to cry.
Live the life you want the world to know,
not the life the world expects you to live.

The streets are cold, filled with icy caricatures
of empty bodies longing for soullight.
They walk hard, as if they just learned yesterday,
their heavy gaits trespassing on the freezing stones,
leaving shallow footprints embedded in the frost.

An orb of bright light appears and moves through the crowd,
darting here and there, and I can hear it call my name.
The orb hurries past me and I turn to chase after it,
but my feet are frozen to the pavement and I cannot move,
the orb zipping away as I my name disappears on the air.
And there, as I stand in the biting wind clawing at my bones,
the heaviness I feel of a life I could have lived,
I realise with growing horror that that was it,
that was my one chance of having my own soullight
and it passed me by and it was tantalisingly close,
and they say that your soullight only ever visits you once
and it sticks inside you and lights your path forever.
Forever yours, it would say to me in the dreams I had,
can’t wait for us to be together it would say to me.

I guess I’m going to be an icy caricature forever,
walking hard like I just learned yesterday,
no longer longing for my soullight to find me.
Heavy steps in the frost of a cold and lonely world.

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.

I’m afraid to die,
terrified of the vast nothing
creeping up on me.
Lie with me, supine,
on the living room floor.
Hold me close
and tell me it’s ok to be afraid.

I’m afraid to love,
terrified of breaking my heart
when I open it up.
Lie with me, supine,
on our bright green lawn.
Hold me close
and reassure me that love is good.

I’m afraid to live,
terrified of never finding my place
in this huge world.
Lie with me, supine,
on the bedroom floor.
Hold me close
and let me know nothing is in vain.

I’m afraid to die,
terrified of the great darkness
just around the corner.
Lie with me, supine,
on the roof of our car.
Hold me close
and tell me it’s ok to be afraid.

It’s ok to be afraid.
It’s ok to.
Be afraid.

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.

Inside you, there is a treasure chest I need to open,
full of diamonds and jewels that glisten in love’s light.
Clutching your heart like a key, unlocking the chains,
dazzled by the unfettered beauty of all that is you,
your smile the answer to all of my silent questions.

You are the reason my trees bud back to life,
why the sun rises each day with the moon lighting up the nights,
why the distance an ocean covers becomes a pond in a park.
This is why the Earth revolves in the deep unsettling dark;
so I can write you a little poem and know that you will read it.

I want you to know just how much you mean to me,
but the words haven’t been coined yet for the feelings I have,
even other languages struggle to give me the lexicon I require,
so these little words arranged in no order in particular
will have to serve the idyll of the beauty that is you.

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.

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

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

I stop at the castle and marvel at the centuries of history
consigned to a ruin, the ghost of architecture,
and I realise that I only have decades
and when I go, I will leave no ruin for people to see,
for people to know that so many things happened here,
that I lived and conquered and died the good fight.
There will be no stories written about me,
no poem written by a lost passer-by
who has stories of his own to write
but with no direction in which to travel.

The dungeon is dark and I imagine all the suffering
that took place here, but my suffering has no coordinates,
no determinable point to travel to,
no signpost showing the way.
At least the souls who ended up here had a location
for people in the future to know they were here,
even if their names and faces and lives have been forgotten.
It’s dark and quiet in here, such a difference from long ago.

The castle stands utterly alone as the deep sky
pushes down and chokes what’s left of the life out of it,
leaving behind a construction deconstructed.
It had stories I will never have,
it had bastions and bartizans and brattices
to defend itself from invaders.
I had a broken brain and a ******* pen,
no wonder I suffered,
no wonder no one remembers.

My only ruin is the body I inhabit,
but that will decay and vanish into the earth
long before the castle ever goes.
My monument is my future, what I do from now,
the lives I will connect with,
the hearts I will make whole
and the hearts I will break.
That will be my castle if I so choose,
but a castle is never meant to be lived in alone.

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.

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.

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.

Dance with me a little,
let me feel your hands in mine,
your hair brushing against my face.
Speak to me a little,
let me hear an angel’s voice,
your plosives giving way to silence.

But the dead don’t sing like they used to.
All the movies are black and white.
All the women look like Greta Garbo.
All the men look like James Stewart.

I ran down the stairs faster than the laws of nature allowed
and ended up tumbling down most of them,
but when you come face to face with a demon such as that
you cannot help but propel yourself full force in the opposite direction.
Limping from a sore knee, I ventured into the jungle once more,
branches scratching at my face and snagging my ankles
as I tried to run beneath the giant limbs of ancient trees
and the antiquity and vastness of a starless black sky.
There were sounds behind me but I did not if they were echoes
calling back for me to tread along the same path
or that creature fed up of his game, baying for my blood.

I wonder then if the natives knew of this creature,
if the beast had promised to leave them alone for a while
so he could ravage these peculiar animals from beyond the sea.
The natives could not speak my language and me theirs,
but some rudimentary picture drawn in the white sand
would have been enough to get back on that ship and find somewhere new.
Dimly lit, the faint shape of the path had all but vanished,
leaving me to run blind through a land I had never explored,
thoroughly alone with nothing but a nightmare for company.

It appeared in front of me, a mirage at first but suddenly solid,
taking me by surprise as I veered right, though the undergrowth,
foreign plants with giant leaves swatting at my bare legs.
I could feel welts rise up on the skin of my calves
but panic had taken over, steering me betwixt trees,
lianas trying to grab my throat and choke the life from me.
Instinct grabbed a hold my reins and forced me to stop,
not a second too soon, the ground giving way to a steep drop,
hundreds of feet down, to a new kind of landscape, utter darkness.
I could feel its breath tickle the hairs on my nape,
could feel its teeth cleave the clammy air in two,
could feel its tongue lick my scent from the moisture.

I ju   m        p              e                      d
and lay in mid-air in the foetal position, motionless,
with just the vague sensation of pain in my neck,
holes along each side making the air whistle as I flew.
Another sensation became apparent, one where
it felt
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I opened my eyes but there was nothing, no trees or earth
speeding past me to give me closure that I was indeed falling.
I spun round to where I presumed was down and an orange glow
began to materialise slowly from that great void.
Still falling, I thought, as the glow began to brighten more and more
and soon I was tumbling through deep orange clouds of smoke and ash
and as I broke through them, I saw a landscape of red rock
and molten rivers of volcanic origin flowing into steaming dark seas.
A city in the distance loomed large, covered in a thick smog,
the chimney of a factory poking out of the top,
pumping more dark smoke into the atmosphere.
Then I fell into a trance where I stood within that factory,
opening my arms wide like a Messiah praying eternal thanks.

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

{Holograms and oracles; separate times, same structure}

Slippity tippity toe-scraping up the trunk,
hands finding owls’ hollows, no hoots,
just a dark eye staring at nothing at all.
They hung a God here, didn’t you hear?
They say he lived but lost most of his power;
you ever hear a sadder story than that?

                   {A cell-phone capturing a photo of an ash tree}

The insects buzz weird here, kinda metallic,
like little dust-mote-sized robots hanging
in the air like a million shards of that God;
but that’s silly, I mean, come on,
7th-century nanorobots?, and what’s a robot?
That’s not one of our words but are ours ours?

                                                               {Chewing}

Sweepy-sliding all the way to a heavy root,
and all suddenly so very very misty,
like a dragon with a tobacco addiction,
but we don’t know what tobacco is either,
it hasn’t been brought over from the New World,
wherever that is, and besides, no Boncalo yet,
another few centuries, another few plagues.

       {And the world is destroyed, and they had not a clue}
                                       {Such a shame}

they came from the woods equipped with vindictive teeth
and they ripped my skin off and my internal organs
they scattered ubiquitously and left me for dead
but i am no mortal, i am a god of my own design,
and i will take my retribution on them from the woods.
i drag my body through the thorny bushes and sticks
and up the hills and down the valleys as mountains tremble
to the ground and fall as pebbles from the stormy sky
and my claws dig deeper into the soft belly of the earth
and she screams in agony at this **** of her soil.
i drink from the river and find shelter in a dead horse
and lay its still warm organs where my organs were before
and there i sleep until the sun appears and again i drag
this useless body as forenoon becomes afternoon becomes e’en.
a starry sky offers itself to me but i cannot navigate
with this pallid tepid light illuminating nothing of this environ,
so morning again i drag and i drag this sack of skin and bones
and my teeth chatter in the cold and my breath becomes angels
and they dance for my amusement as i continue up broken hills
and there before me is the city of a thousand lights
siren calling me towards her open arms and seedy *****
and i roll down this steep escarpment and paralyse my hands
as i grab these rocks so jagged like mica or quartz or flint
and now my hands are gashed wide open and blood
smears the path i took but that does not matter because
my enemy lies before me in this city of a thousand lights,
a city that refuses to sleep to man or beast or godlike dead.
i slide unseen into a school and wait in a closet until the morn
when all the children fresh from adventures as robin hood
and his merry men running wild and rampant in the woods,
who found me sleeping and with their army of vicious teeth,
they ripped my skin off and threw my internal organs away
and now i lie in wait for them so i can cut off their skins
and i can disperse their internal organs everywhere
because you don’t disturb the gentle slumber of a tired godman
and don’t expect the godthing not to succumb to blind rage,
so as i lie here and imagine all the horrible things i will do,
i cannot help but laugh a laugh of a beast on the cliffedge of death
but i will always get my requital and **** what needs to be killed.

These used to be windows that kept the cold out,
that frosted over and made the harsh winters translucent.
Now they are nothing but the staring eyes of the dead,
offering the hope of a view but there’s no one behind them,
no child blowing breath on the glass and creating new shapes,
one pane now smashed and if neglect needs something to be broken.
The lives of so many fractured minds found their fate here,
it’s little wonder the ghosts don’t walk down the hallways,
there’s nothing to see but the decay of unreliable paint,
nothing to hear but the silence a building like this once craved.
The dead do not dwell here, the darkness is too empty,
the beds are empty and echoing footsteps do not pass the doors.
So much sacrifice went into the destruction of every dream
that even the living find the atmosphere repulsive and vile,
that even in its history, this building wails like its occupants
once did when the typhoid was bad and the madness set in.
A grave without a body, the loneliest place in the world.

Pining for a soft impression of a beautiful description,
wanting to let you in but you need the inscription
lying in the abstract of my mind’s hurried construction.

But the rivers keep flowing,
and pretending I’m healed
doesn’t really solve anything.
Finding more excuses to lie
when the evening draws near,
but no one’s here to disagree.

Gothic spires scratching the sky,
stained-glass windows opening
in the dark jaws of eternity.
People gathering at the doors
expecting the light inside
to shine each path they lead.

To shine each path they lead,
expecting the light inside,
people gathering at the doors.
In the dark jaws of eternity,
stained-glass windows opening,
gothic spires scratching the sky.

But no one’s here to disagree
when the evening draws near,
finding more excuses to lie.
Doesn’t really solve anything;
and pretending I’m healed…
but the rivers keep flowing.

Lying in the abstract of my mind’s hurried construction,
wanting to let you in but you need the inscription,
pining for a soft impression of a beautiful description.

The birds stopped singing a long time ago,
long before I ended up at the shore of the lake.
The water is a single shade of blue from black,
trees hanging limp and mournful around it,
drooping branches of dead bark and dying leaves
skimming the surface, debating whether or not to fall in.

I swear the silence is so loud, the voice of the universe
reverberating through the molecules of the atmosphere.
I can feel the vibrations through my feet,
rising like the creeping ivy on a dead house,
long ago forgotten by the hands of its creator.

I’ve heard tell that the lake goes down forever,
that it fills a void of limitless proportions.
If I threw myself like a stone into that wet darkness,
where would I sink if the lake has no bottom?
Maybe it flows down into the sky of another world,
my darkness their vacuum of space and light.
Further I sink, the blue begins to brighten
and I fall into another world where I am important.

I take a step into the cold dark water of the lake.
It wraps around my foot like the gripping hug of death,
that feeling you get when you close your eyes at night
and focus on your heartbeat slowing down as you rest,
and the panic you feel when you think it will keep slowing down,
sinking into your mattress and saying goodbye to nothing at all.

I’ll find out where I will sink to,
there is so little left to explore in this vast world
but I have found one more place to go.
The water envelops me and down I swim,
and the current moves around me in a circle.
I take a deep breath and my heart fills with heaviness.
So this is how it feels to finally let go.

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.

We’re blind to any possible pain to come,
punch-drunk on the intoxicating words of love,
an entire lexicon reserved for a slice of life,
a new language that must be learned and studied.
Love is a passion that must be suffered,
tiptoeing over broken glass to find a clear island
where all your dreams are waiting to come true.

Some people are lucky and find what they seek,
others choke on the herring bone when they try to speak,
but love is a drug and it must be taken with precaution,
there are too many side-effects to ignore the overdose.
Don’t fall in love with a pair of blue eyes,
don’t fall in love with a cup- or dress-size,
fall in love with a person because they mean something,
a personality that produces flowers from your dark well.

The most beautiful part of a person is their mind,
how they perceive the world about them to be,
how they see themselves, not as a person,
but as a living entity who can breathe a universe into being.
Fall in love with that, not an image or a genie’s wish.
Love is not something that can be taught in a classroom,
it must be experienced, for better or worse,
and if love knocks you down and you find yourself in the dirt,
pick yourself up and **** well have another go.

Love doesn’t **** you when you get rejected,
love kills you when you don’t even bother to try.

The night is immense tonight,
the dark stretching further than I’ve ever seen it stretch.
The gaps between the stars I named for you
are bigger than I ever realised.
And I know all those stars are slowly drifting away,
all those beautiful little points of light will soon be gone,
and one of those stars has gone tonight,
evaporated away because I longed for it too much.
That was the most beautiful star I had ever lain my eyes upon,
but it was always out of reach, no matter how hard I tried
to reach up and pluck her from the night sky
so I could hold her close to my heart and say I love you,
the universe will never let you disappear from my view,
I will protect you and keep you safe in this dangerous place.
But I couldn’t, I left it too late,
and now all the other stars are following suit.
I try with all my strength just to grab one,
but they twinkle and flicker and vanish too quickly.
Soon, the sky will be fat with darkness,
and even the moon will leave,
trailing off into the void of a universe
that never cared for its inhabitants.

I want to feel the wind in my hair one last time,
wave my hand in the currents,
recite all the words to all the songs I know.
I want you there by my side
to share the experience,
share the journey,
racing the sun for the horizon
one last time.

I want to tell you all the things I never could,
kiss the breath from your mouth
and touch you in a way I never had the courage to do.
We’d drive forever and a day,
running from nothing,
chasing everything,
all the dreams we had
that we never asked the universe for.

How I wish you were here allaying my fears.
Instead, you’re somewhere just out of reach,
beyond the limits of my eyes,
dancing to a song stuck in your heart.
I must drive without you,
listening to every song but yours,
as that mantra keeps playing in my ears.

Nothing like the open road.
Nothing like the open road.
Nothing like the open road.

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.