Who falls too far from the tree?

The unlucky,
The unwelcome,
The misfits,
The free.

So save your broken wings.

You'll never know
When you'll find them
Whole again.

Sitting next to Father Time,

Warm in comfort,

Tucked up in memories.

I can hear the ragged breath

Fading like a sunset,

Slow but sure;

The unthinkable

The inevitable.

A gentle hug

Of mortality

Reminds me

That nothing lasts forever.

Waiting for the endless train
With all the other frowning statues,
Eyes to the floor,
The others ignore
The cracks in my feet
And stems in my toes
As I weather the patience
Required to wait;
A typical feat.

You don't see me in the night,
My ears pricked for every sound I hear
In the dark, like a stag poised for flight,
And my conscience seeing surgery,
Each sound a cut to my ear.

Guarding your thoughts with my warmth,
Enclosing you with my poised embrace
In the dark, barely breathing by your ear,
And waiting for night to end
Its careless gentle march
Before your breath must cease.

Staying up til morning to see you safe,
Knowing you won't see me standing over you
In the dark, fighting the sickness with my eye,
And hand gently stroking your hair
Until our fragile bodies fade
And your wishful dreams hold true.

New words in old styles

Tracked on a canvas of brick

By a precocious kid

Sneaking on the lines;

The little *****.

My morning art show

Laid out in illiterate words,

Scribbled by artists

Who failed art at school,

Then shat on by birds.

An exhibition of names

Written worryingly wrong,

Evident to the system

That failed before they

Even joined the throng.

We pause at one piece

Daubed in indelible paint,

White streaked on black,

A chaotic sprawl of letters,

"**** al saintz".

I've been there before;

A nice school I thought,

Catholic of course;

I doubt the child gave

The saints a spare thought.

And what about Al?

Does he care at all?

Does he pause here,

On his way to work,

And dream their downfall.

It drives me up the wall

To see tracks filled with art,

But are they to blame?

We let them loose

And they play their part.

Like tigers scratching over scraps,

The fat cats posture and hiss

Over who gets the favoured meat

From the cows nervously

Chewing the cud, scuffing their hooves,

Pacing the green and pleasant hills,

No longer fooled by the purring soothe.

Each tiger takes a swipe,

Claws trailing blood lines

Over fatted flanks of meat

Of the cows hiding

In their homes, in their fields,

Pacing the mud that replaced the trees,

Not picked for need, instead for yield.

The fat cats grow full on our flesh.

I hope they choke on it.

Get it while it’s fresh.

Lifeless stones in peace,

How many more tears to fall?

The mountain shudders.

When you went to sleep today,
I counted all the steps
That sat between you and me,
Like miles and miles of roads,
So many twists and turns;
The path was lost without a trace.

Is it strange to think
That we judge our love
By distance to our hearts?
Or do we choose to use
The ground between us
To fill that empty space?

So explain these tears
That fall together,
Sliding down my cheek
To join my other fears,
Of romance and careers,
As we drive this finite race.

We thought we had the vampires done,
Cornered as we raised the stakes.
The fiends were caught against the font,
An end to this for all our sakes.
How foolish to believe
That the stake would push itself,
How blinded must we be
To think we'd help ourselves.

We fell back in confusion
As their eyes lit stars of blue,
Our fiery brand burned red in fear
But the flames sputtered out on cue.
We faced the devils in their line
But they withstood our empty threats,
And took us off one by one;
It was time to pay our debts.

They laughed at our misfortune.
And gave us back our forks,
They pointed at our dampened brand
And sent us back to work.
They drank from tattooed necks
And supped from elder veins,
And bled the middle dry
And fed upon their brains.

They tore up all our rights
And placed death upon a throne,
Who drove out justice in the night
While Liber's throat did moan.
They sold us all as slaves
To merchants draped in skin,
Cut from children's backs
As the devils slowed their spin.

So now we work until we drop,
Exhausted in our penury.
We're fed from blood banks on each street
While we think that we're still free.
The vampires grin within their church
And play at pious once a while,
And watch with glee as all they cut
Divides us up in our denial.

Tired and tied tight
To the unyielding plough,
I scream myself hoarse
Into the silent field
Of endless toil.

Knee deep in the sludge,
Shackled and blind,
A waning force
Too stubborn to yield,
Too proud to kneel.

At the last pull I fall,
Too weak to climb up.
My health they endorse,
Their intentions concealed,
"Come back when you're healed."

The carriage arrives
To take me away.
The knacker's draught horse
Bought from the field,
Naught but bone meal.

It’s another lonely day

Washing clothes. I might stay

In as the weather’s so cold.

Breeze blowing through cracks

And gaps makes the house

Sound so old.


I tell myself I feel fine;

Bones ache upon the line;

Hung out to dry with yesterday's shirts,

And bleach spotted sheets.

Shivering becomes the norm;

I take it as a sign.


I wrap up as warm as I may,

Cloth upon cloth,

fold upon fold.

It’s not enough I sigh,

As the heating starts to lie.

I crave warmth, but heat

Escapes and meets the outside

With a smile and starts to fade.

It’s another lonely day.

As Mars ascended,
One split in two;
The mitosis of fact
Splitting right through.
An anaphase ritual
Lining the floor,
Where I wanted mine,
And you wanted more.

But Venus was kind
When last she was here
And gave us a gift
Of temporal fear,
So we’d done this before
And the God was decried,
Yet out of the darkness of space
He cried:

‘Oh come to me Father,
I shan’t be denied.’

And Saturn, he heard
As he fought with Rhea,
And looked at his mother
And the remains of Theia.
A plan came to mind,
A clever time trick,
And we were caught fast
By the Great Malefic.

As Saturn ascended,
We split up again,
With no time to heal,
Our love was in vain;
For Venus had long since
Bored of our space,
And our love had begun
The sad telophase.

What have we here?

A shy boy who wouldn’t swing

When all the other monkeys played,

Who didn’t like to speak

In case the others laughed and brayed,

Who didn’t quite fit in

With the other boys in school,

And ducked and dived

And hid from sports

When he couldn’t grasp the rules.

The boy who missed the girls

While he hid within his room,

And couldn’t speak when they were there

In case they spoke his doom

And wished and dreamed

For something more

Than others would assume.

The boy within the man

Who argued to the end;

The man of right and wrong

Who fought the standard trend,

And stood up for

The little things

That no others would defend.

The sad pathetic loser,

The one who had no friends,

Fought the fight for all of us

While we scrabbled to ascend,

And, at the last, the misanthrope,

When he could do no more,

He stood beside his principles

That he learned so hard before.

He watched the so-called good

Sell out their souls for lies,

Either to themselves

Or the devil in disguise.

He stood for truth and honesty,

And was typically despised,

But now he’s gone,

We’re all alone;

Slaves we realise.

You might think you need a tailor

But here's the only one you've got:

A poor choice of cloth

Married to a poorer thread

Spawning knock-offs

Over budget shops.

So you may as well invest,

For it matters not a jot

What you think you choose to wear,

It never really lasts.

A tear here, a cut there;

With cheap cloth,

It does not take much

To turn your life ragged.

The boy ran through the fields,
His kite blazing like a comet
In the hot summer of yesterday.
Flying through the tall grass,
An open mouth, a smile held fast,
He danced, and leaped, and span away;
Safe in youth and come what may.

The day moves on.

The wind swept hard across the fields,
The kite bucking against the strain,
A twist and tear in the summer day.
The boy turned, distraught,
To watch his youth fall in thought.
He frowned, and wept, and turned away;
The kite lay broken amongst the hay.

The day moves on.

He turned to home, a sad retreat,
Replacing his steps along the path
He carved across the summer day.
A bird flies across the run,
Feathers flirting in the sun.
He turns and runs, a smile again,
And doesn’t see the hidden pain.

The day moves on.

A flying foot is sliced and pierced,
A scream of pain splits the fields
And the bird flies so fast away.
The discarded wire, the ill placed thought,
With no care for what it’s caught,
Leaves years of scars for a man to pay
And dream the loss of yesterday.

The city breathes in,
A rattling wind of dusty smog,
Desperate in earnest,
Filling up the tubes and chambers
Like bellows on a hot furnace.

The air is pervasive, insidious;
It sticks to your skin and burns
Like holy water flicked from Jordan,
Downstream from the chemical plants
And pipes that lead health a merry chase.

It chews up the lungs with carcinogen teeth
And spits out the bits leaving holes of black
That spread through the organs like fire,
Immolating thoughts of hope and dreams,
And constantly whispering give up the race.

The city breathes out,
A rattling wind of corrupted fog,
And those that escaped the ill in the dark
Race like the wind away from its lungs,
Before the corruption spreads to their heart.

Words spill like an avalanche down a mountain,

Swamping out the message in a flurry of exposition.

The plateau crumbles, dropping great sheets

Of icy statements down like old guillotine blades,

To shatter against the cold rock in tears,

Too frozen, too brittle to pierce.


Such noise, such ineffectual destruction,

Laying snow on snow on piles of snow;

But the mountain stays still beneath the weight,

Its stony face unmoved for yet another day,

Knowing it will soon abate.

As the tide drifts to a halt,

The mountain slowly, contemptuously,

Turns away.

I don’t want to talk to angels,
Not for me, the bleeding priest.
I want my ****** doctor
So I can find some peace.

I want a ****** expert,
Not a hippie with some tea,
Charging excess for the karma,
And no money guarantee.

I can’t take ****** ginger,
It brings me out in hives,
And you can take the Echinacea
And stick it with the chives.

I want the ****** doctor,
Tired eyes and cynic smile,
Who’s seen it all before
And has my details on his file.

Pull out your cold machines,
Test me to the hilt;
Try to find what’s wrong with me,
Before I ****** wilt.

I don’t want to wait for callback,
I’m not interested in online;
It’ll only tell me that I’m dead,
Dying,
Or I’m fine.

Is it odd that I hate tree stumps?

I mean, really, is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
I walk past them on the roadside
And something seems to break free.

I feel tense and taut;

A green branch pulled tight
On the saw edge of a gardener’s knife,
Peeling back one fibre at a time.
I can’t stop it to save my life.

It makes my skin crawl

To see the corpse left jutting up
Like the last tooth of a diseased crone,
Like a tag on the skin of the earth,
A drying scab to make the mother moan.

Couldn’t they just dig it up,

Or is that too much to ask?
Not enough to slay the ancient tree,
But to leave it lying on the ground;
Like leaving the foot of an amputee.

It makes me so mad

That I wonder I don’t complain,
But then I know a letter will be ignored,
As the death of such a mighty sentinel
Is a thing our conscience can afford.

It’s not like it was alive…

But the sarcasm doesn’t matter,
And the funny looks I get while I weep
Sink like the teeth of a saw,
Cutting through the body at my feet.

Am I the only one who hates tree stumps?

You sit gathered in

Robes wielding knives

From your sleeves;

How determined are you?

Did you agree this death

Behind closed doors?

Assassins in closets,

Knives in their craws,

A ****** of crows pecking

A dying wolf's paws.

How calm you lie

While you hide the knife

You used to slay me;

How calm and sure.

Did you hesitate

To put me in the ground?

Was it hard to push it in

Without a sound?

The children, dark and light,

Skipped through the sands,

Laughter amongst the stars,

Running gently hand in hand.


The first built a castle,

Using sand for the walls.

He declared himself king

Of his star-peppered hall.

The other thought hard

And then with a cry

Kicked over the castle,

And roared to the sky.

Now I am the king,

The other declared;

Now fall on your knees

And try to look scared.

The first stood straight up

And waved with his fist,

The castle is mine,

He spat, growled and hissed.

The other looked down

And saw his mistake,

And for a moment was sad

At what was to break.


A war broke forth,

A fight in the sands.

The children still fight,

No more hand in hand.

Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.

Insanity is like
Trying to eat salad
With a hammer.

I'm tired of waiting,
Just ******* die.
Too harsh?
Perhaps a delicate massage
Before I snap your neck,
Like wringing out a mouse
The cat dragged in,
Its poor beggar body
Broken in the cat's sin.
Perhaps a drink,
Spiked with hatred
Distilled in glass warning
Skulls and crossbones
Tucked behind the tray of biscuits
And endless chocolate ice cream cones.
Is it so hard to do?
Just stop breathing, shut it off,
Stop the heart.
Perhaps you can hold your breath,
Like the countless times I held mine
When I was forced to breathe in yours
While I swabbed your chin,
Dabbing up a dinner
That should have gone straight in.

Just die and get it over with.

I don't mean it.  Not really.

No I don't want you in a home;
They can't care for you like me.
Who will give you all the hugs
That you would give for free?
Its not that they won't care for you,
Or wipe your chin from drool,
Or even change your dress at night
After you had laid a stool.
It's just that they don't love you
And it's my curse to repay
All the love you gave to me
From birth through night and day.

Don't be mad at me,
I don't want you to go,
But I'm so tired of waiting;
No, I know that you don't know.

Time, said the bird,
As it flew through the bay,
Catching the wind
On that fine summer’s day.

Alone, it flew by,
As I watched from the sill;
Its feathers so white
As it flew past the hill.

Stop, I had wailed,
As his storm hit my shore;
But the damage was done
As I lay on the floor.

Sky, you and I,
We’ve been here before;
Sharing this tale,
Perhaps more and more.

Clear was the glass,
As I stared through the pane,
Wondering just then
If the sky was to rain.

Done, said the sky,
With a wink of its eye;
Time to get up,
here’s no need to cry.

Peace, he did cry
As he stepped on the boat;
I watched with a smile
As he settled afloat.

Dark, warned the sky,
As the boat set its sail;
The warnings were there
To live through this tale.

Listen, dark sailor,
The sky is no friend;
The boat tried to help
His friend in the end.

Hell, she will send us,
If you carry this through.
But the man would not listen
To the boat who held true.

Wild, called the storm,
As it blew through the hall,
Tearing and shaking
The paint on the wall.

Hope, I did feel,
As the sky fought my cause;
Smashing and banging
The air without pause.

Break, cried the storm,
As it picked up the boat.
The man and his friend
On the water were smote.

Death was his lot
As he sailed on the sea;
I waited ashore
For my life to be free.

I've got a prayer for you, my Lord,
It's not quite fleshed out, that's true.
I wonder if you can brandish your sword,
And cut us down to the few.

I know it's not the most popular
Or practical idea I could say,
But, let's face it, there's far too many
Of us to squeeze into heaven today.

Also, begging your pardon, my lord,
Most of us really are ****.
We could do with a culling,
Before we take off and split.

You see, we're spawning like maggots
And spreading from pole to pole;
Slaying each other in your name,
With oil and land the goal.

Evolution was really quite clever,
A red herring for white-coated nerds;
Genetics our new religion,
As dinosaurs turned into birds.

We forgot your purposeful message,
To do onto others your will.
Instead we shoot the innocent,
And send their families the bill.

We buy and sell gold in our temples,
Our banks our churches of greed;
We care not at all for holy prayers,
Crosses, or rosary beads.

So spare us your soul-searching piety,
Leave off your crown of thorns.
Pick up your sword, strong and mighty,
And sound from your terrible horns.

Is it too much to ask for apocalypse?

Is it really that hard to do?

Or maybe you're far from omnipotent,

Or maybe, just maybe,

Not true.

I turned up on time today;
Washed, and dressed, and brushed.
Taking my time, not in a rush.

The clock struck as I walked in;
Calm, and poised, and steady;
My plan's drawn up, I'm ready.

It's been a while since I walked out;
Hours of rage, and hate
Vying to make me break;

Clutching at friend-shaped hands
Too sad, too helpless to
Help me make it through.

The clock strikes behind me;
Tension, and trapped fears
Ascend to bring me once again to tears.

I...
                                       [slow to a crawl]
I...
                                       [come to a halt]
I...
                                       [a nervous tick, tock.]

As time screams at me to run;
I'm frozen, statue, stasis,
As I stare into the abyss.

I'm back to myself, I think,
And not much more, before
Smashing my day on the floor.

The clock
Continues
Regardless...

I want a lot of things.

I want to travel the world,
See skies on distant shores,
Sun dipping in the water
For an early evening swim.

I want to climb a mountain,
Make myself seem small
As the giant looms above me,
Glaring at my soul.

I want to feel extremes,
Cold chills dragging at the bone,
Warmth from fire I created,
Survival on a knife edge.

I want the world beyond this;
Dragging my feet to another's tune
While dreaming better things
Is no life at all.

I want to not be old in the head;
Fear and failure vying for the years
Like family after the funeral,
Bitter words and onion tears.

I want a lot of things,
But that doesn't mean too much.

So what do I think,

When wandering through

The hordes of armoured advice

That is offered in chains

Of expectation

That can close like a vice?

If they go to war

When you ignore

Their oh-so-nice

Advice,

It’s no advise at all,

But an order, a command,

A carefully concealed demand.

You can listen to it, sure,

But I’d sooner bed

the enemy.

Advise should be a gift,

Nothing taken, only this:

Remember what the Cat said,

“If they were right, I’d agree,

It’s them they know, not me”,

A fundamentally

Self-serving

philosophy.

Isn’t that the point?

Or do our friends think

We’re no longer free?

Keep your own council,

And leave my wars

To me.

Breathless,
Wondrous,
My soul is gripped in awe.
She twists and writhes
Beneath the sheet,
And dreams a little more.
I'm sure she dreams of me, you see,
I feel my soul aflame.
When she sleeps
And sees me there,
She smiles and feels the same.

My spirit
Was consumed,
In death I found my bane;
Twisted deep,
And borne from sleep
My soul was lost in pain.
For in my sin, I died, you see,
While she did cast her spell.
My soul was
Tore asunder;
Cast feet first into hell.

Bound by
Chains of love,
Made from another's mold;
She speared
Me through the side,
And locked me in her fold.
The love she cast
She didn't know
Had caught my soul
In death.
But now I haunt her dreams
Life unending, without breath.

Demons in khaki suits
Stand with baited breath,
Smoked glasses held high,
As God shows us all
What He means by death.
Disintegration
By starlight.
A fire of heaven.
Oh, bow before his might;
Blasted by wings of angels
Back and forth,
Left ablaze in the wrath of the sword,
Until your atoms are shriven
Of their bonds to this earth.

The demons clap and cheer,
Red eyes grinning as they smoke.
We grovel in your glory,
Piteous wails stopped in silence;
Choked.
A spherical void
To turn our tainted air to traces,
And leave a newly cleared path
Of charred stone and empty spaces.
The vacuum fills to receive
Guests with the promise of your blessing;
A half-life prayer,
Good for a thousand years
Of deformed children
And cancer tears.

Do ya feel that?

The rough scratch of air scraping over skin,
God’s calloused hand running over heaving shoulders.
Outside, the wind never stops for a rest,
It just changes pace.

Do ya feel that?

The frantic shedding of desperate sin,
The chains of Tartarus falling like feathers;
An eaglet free of the nest,
Kicking the straw into the gaolers face.

Do ya feel that?

When the prison is broke from within,
And the fields are skies to beating wings,
Disappearing into sunlit clouds,
Lost in the storm of long sweet yellow grass.

Do ya feel that?

The rising wind carries the sound;
The horns of blind men bearing fanged arrows.
The long grass beckons in the breeze
And I’m running, flying.

Do ya feel that?

The stalks brush against my legs,
Weak hands fumbling for a grasp.
I hear my despair in my head,
A stumbled scream caught in the act.

Do ya feel that?

When the prison is broke from within,
And the fields are skies to beating wings;
Ware the fangs at your heels,
Arrows in the long grass.

Do ya feel?

The dogs sniff at the feathers,
Bloodied maws dripping with spite.
A crow takes the eagle’s eye,
The final irony of freedom is chaos.

Vocal silence
Does for an
Argument make.
You hide behind your belligerence;
With mortar of icy rage and
Stones of cold indifference,
Laid with trowels of denial,
Lobbing nothing wrong
Like fury-fueled firebombs
Then you run a mile.

It's not a war,
It's a conflict.
I'm hunting through a jungle
Of stone-walled edicts,
My defensive guns laying ammo
On metaphorical trees
Guilty of hiding the dead.
A bunker deep enemy,
Safe in their concrete head.

Hunting a deserter
Who spent a lifetime
Learning camouflage techniques,
Sulking under cover,
Lining up their gently angry shot
For when the cross-hairs meet.

I would call you out,
But you would only go in.
It's like fighting a shadow,
My silent twin;
Naturally nurtured
To hide behind benevolence
And fight a cold war.

I warn you, it's growing thin.

The river of ink flows dark cozened blue,
Flowing so smoothly from a source made of true.
It carves out a path with many a turn;
O! To see how those ill waters churn.

But the river drys up as the ink feels its age
And the lies begin to fill up the page;
Steeped in sepia, fading to sight
As the river of ink drys up in the light.

So we mourn for the river that told us the truth,
For the source we knew held the fountain of youth,
And we curl up our bones in the dust of our ink
And cry for the truths that taught us to think.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

My eyelids are glued shut. This can’t be right,
It’s not like I had much to drink last night.
Just a glass or two of much needed blood,
A sip to stop the ever-growing flood
Of bills and work and more bills and more work.

Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.

The soft bed digs gravestones into my back;
A dull fire, a gentle kick, a boneless crack.
An itch starts on my side and crawls down low.
My fingers claw where my shoulder can’t go.
Left and right and left.
Stop.
The pain again.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

There’s a monster in the mirror.
Canyons of worry crease a trapped youth
Too tired to care
About the red-eyed, bearded, fat demon
Caught in the glaring stare.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Spits of blood and white ocean spray
Strike the porcelain, scrubbed away
By the force of released denial;
A genie leaving a white plastic bottle.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Tingly.

There’s a lie in my mouth.
A denial of advancing age,
A bulwark to encroaching disease
Set against rotten cores.

There’s a lie in my mouth.

I try not to care.

The waterfall washes away the ache
In a cascade of warmth. The lake
At my feet fills with white foamy hills
Surrounding a naked giant’s ankles.
For a brief time I forget about
The bills and work and work and bills.

My clothes are tinged with sadness,
Their misbegotten brothers don’t dress
With them anymore; so set in their way
They can’t see their youthful crimes today.

I try not to care.

My chain smiles at my dress,
Approval sits smug on her face
As I pass the test.

I try not to care.

Boxes tied in bandages for a wounded ego
Are passed piecemeal for a so-so
Attempt at gratitude.

I don’t care.

Where’s the gun?

I retreat to work, laden with gifts unwanted
That make more bills more work
And drift through the day.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.

Thirty-five.
Happy birthday, you’re alive.
A filled cake I don’t like.
Presents for my dad.
My son bought me my dad’s socks.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

The scars on the moon were there for all to see,

Wounds cut deeper than any wound should be.

I don't need a lens to see her savaged form,

I see it in the way she looks at me.

There’s a guy I know
Who’s into spirits,
And not the liquid kind.
He stares sidelong at the world,
Twists his head from side to side.
Imagine what he might find.

Vampires drink wine in Soho,
Sipping from fluted necks
In late night **** stores.
Werewolves run Hyde park ragged,
Robed in riches turned to rags,
If only in the lunar mind.

Police pigs snuffling
Through street trash,
Hunting for him shaped treats.
Televisions watching
His living room and recording
Names and faces of all his kind.

The media he scorns,
Puppet masters pulling strings
For their puppet masters.
The government and the media
Are in it together he opines,
Waving a rag with that in mind.

Aliens control the government,
Sinking sinuous senses
Through simian skulls;
Prodding, poking, pulling
Political factions to provoke
A return of the fleet they left behind.

Codes in hoods hide in churches,
Linking mathematical shapes
To chain centuries of history;
Statues wink and leer at
Myopic armchair men and women
Hunting for the doom of mankind.

Millions of rubes bought over
Shop counters using nonesuch
To sell their souls for trinkets;
Illuminati design adverts,
Flashing commercials;
****** for the public in mind.

Big name pharmaceutical
Selling death at a point
For the sake of profit over parent;
Buying stats to lie to the mass,
Doctors demanding dummies
Despite the way the stars aligned.

Taken for a ride,
We queue with tickets in hand
Waiting for our turn on the rails.

Lie on lie on lie.

He sleeps with one eye on the sky.

Tracking cameras on a road sign.

This guy I know,
He thinks too much.
I don’t mind.

I’m moving through rooms,
Restless and roving
Searching for something
That I know I won’t find.
Not under the sofa,
Or under the rug.
Not in the vacuum,
Or tucked in the folds
Of my wife’s throw
In subdued forest green.
It remains unseen.

It’s not in her vanity
Or the basket wear our clothes
Would wind together like lovers;
Sweat-soaked and bitter-sweet.
It’s not in the cupboard with the dog’s treats
Maybe it fell from a kitchen drawer
To lie with the spiders
Hidden in the floor.
It’s not in our great wide bed
Where our sheets lay flat and wrinkle-free,
Future dust-sheets all.
Let’s face it, it’s not in the hall.

It’s not in the garden we planted
Or the shed we built.
It’s definitely not in the garage
Where she never went,
Not even for a minute,
Which I thought heaven-sent.
It’s not on the porch
Or the patio bench,
Where we spent many an evening
Trying to learn French.
It’s not in the car,
That’s my one you see.

Hers is not there...

The thing that I’ve lost
I won’t find today,
Tomorrow,
Next week or in June.
She may as well be on the moon.

O’ Death be gone from here;

I refuse thy sad affection.

Thy grave mouth offers no console,

Ne’er a cure for mine own affliction

Unless a cure means but an end;

For all thy promise a grant of life a lie

Thou hast no life to lend.

I name thee false friend,

And cast thee from mine side.

Find thee another fool to soothe,

For I am bound to life abide.

We were tied to the oar,

Many miles from sight of shore;

The ship wallowing in miserable waters

As the dank sea split the hull and poured right in.

So fast, so violent, so unexpected;

Like a shot to the chin.

The ship tore apart

While the sea took its heart;

And the oar wasn't much but we grabbed it.

Drifting, drowning, holding on for life;

A poor ships counterfeit.

We floated for years,

Fighting the weight of all our tears;

Each drop lost in an endless ocean.

Floating, heaving, chained fast to our oar;

A lullaby of relentless motion

Leading us gently to the shore.

Sometimes,
I can't help but feel
Dumb in a room full of ears.
The mouth moves
And nothing comes out,
Nothing but threadbare breath,
Wasted and worn
From words of small form,
So when the word counts,
No substance comes out.

Sometimes,
I can sit and talk
Without saying a word.
The eyes flit
And fold into slits,
A nod here and there, moves
As if I agree
With their trending theory,
An attempt to conform
With this act I perform.

Sometimes,
I run out of words
To share to the room.
I don't move,
Just stand there forlorn,
A husk of myself, caught
In the act
As I run out facts
That I can recall
To look quite normal.

Sometimes...

Sometimes...

Sometimes,*
Friends are strangers
Who know your name.

There must have been a thing in the night
As my tongue and brain mated
And tamed the words that sated
Their need to notice I’m bright.
Hi, hot and me hit home,
And words fly like swords,
As add and dad impress my wards,
Now I’m more poet than proteome.

I would pull your halo down

And fling it like a discus

Into the olympian clouds

For it to spin unending;

A fiery sun,

A sight to see

For the credulous crowds.


I would pull out your nails

One by one and stack them

On the blood slick cross

And watch you fall;

A dead weight,

So loaded with

Dogmatic dross.


I would see you fail

As we retreat from you

Into evidence

And truth from fact;

Intellect

Separating

Hope from sense.


I would see you gone

Like all you are or ever were

Is naught but

A memory;

A ragged

Child's blanket

We'd rather not see.


I would see you

Gone from me.