I'm out here on the periphery
a ghost of a voice
barely heard
except in the extreme
of silent screams
if you listen carefully
you will feel my words
fill your silence
as tears start to fall
desperation creeps
to the top of the hall
by the stairs
to the bridge
dark water below
the rope tightening
before the chair fall
and thoughts of lights out
game over
do not pass go
flicker across a fragile mind
I am out here
on your periphery
I can break your fall

You cannot touch me here,
In the land of dreams...
Suspended between death and reality
By a slim thread of consciousness.
This is my space, my refuge
Where I can re enter
My embryonic state,
Before thought,
Before sight,
Before emotion;
Just the warmth of existence,
Not having to belong
Keep up,
Shape up,
Shut up,
Make something of myself
All I had to do was exist;
I was precious once,
A pearl in an oyster
Not a stone in your shoe.

Unabashed by sexuality
Untied by chains
Of commerce;

Such a shame
The line stops here,
Queen of soul;

No young prince
To claim your throne,
A talent entombed
In your own,
Strange Love.

a hard man doesn't need to shout
threaten or front it out
a hard man can crack an egg
without breaking the yolk

You could see the scars
where coloured ink sank deep,
making patterns in his flesh;
deeper than a love
which prompted the first cut,
one drunken night on shore leave
in some long forgotten port;
when Stacy was his girl,
decorated with a rose.


Then a panther leapt to mind,
embedding its image into the skin
of his back;
a dark shadow to protect him
from danger of surprise attack.
But its blind eyes
never saw the knife,
when he lost his life
in a bar room brawl.


The world had gradually
coloured him in,
etching out a journey
from Far East to Babylon,
across all the oceans.
The devil sat at his shoulder
so he knew where to find him.
A dragon on his right arm,
snake and dagger on the left.
At night in fractured dreams, they’d fight,
breathing fire and spitting
reptilian venom.


It seemed a shame to bury him,
he really belonged in a gallery.
But the sea accepted
without any fuss,
the man whose imagination
was for all to see,
drawing attention to himself.

everybody wants you dead
bad guy
villain
in every tale
told to children
looking under beds
for nightmares
disease ridden vermin
universally hated
no more than fifteen feet
from any Londoner
on the street
above sewers where little feet
scurry among excrement
waste from those above
what did you do
you furry little **** faced
******* to obtain the moniker
of the embodiment of all evil
looking almost cute
oversized mouse
who missed out
on the distribution
of love among creatures

I will try to write
as often as I can she said
sounding as though some grand letter
would arrive through the post
in her best copper plate script
but she actually meant
that she would text
an off the cuff half arsed
comment on the state of her life
at that actual moment
accompanied by pictures
if I was lucky
I almost told her not to bother
but then if I did
I'd probably never hear
from her at all

He gives her the butterfly as an act of beautification
Hoping nature can exemplify his feelings; A fragile life,
Balanced between death and existence in his fingers
Making sense of all the nonsense in his head.
He gives her the flowers in an act of affection
Even though they both know they are dead,
Only water prolonging the inevitable demise
Of colourful blooms returning to the earth
From where they once grew, like their love
Beautiful under the sun, natural and charming,
Until you told them that love is shown with silver
And gold, diamonds and pearls, chocolate and cards
High octane fast cars, exclusive meals in top restaurants
Theatre tickets and front row concerts, but the butterfly
***** it’s wings and somewhere in the world,
There is a hurricane.

we spent three hours of my life
on a takeaway
watching a further hour
tick away on a film
bought on Netflix
that I'd half already seen
through my eyelids
an hour wasted on a book
before bed which I'll
finish reading even though
I lost interest in the plot
early on but feel obliged
to see how it turns out
then sleep, one of my few
free pleasures before alarmed
awake by Alexa who I spent
nearly a whole day on
just so I could get up
and do all this **** again
so I can afford more stuff
to fill my empty time

We dip our toe into life's pool
and watch the ripples
affect the lives of those around us
hoping not to offend
but fit in, without too much disturbance

we may even walk a little way off shore
considering ourselves brave
to have come this far

but there are those who
regardless of how cold the water may be
will plunge head first, screaming
into the blue

I watch them, jealously
hesitating in the shallows.

I lay me down
to rest
the words enter my head
pushing and shoving
like children in a lunch queue
tiny scary voices
with an utterance of an idea
I feel compelled to put
pen to paper
I've either written
some great words
or wasted a lot of trees
I'm still clueless
but the nightmares continue
and I keep talking
inside a head
as empty as a warehouse

I've fumbled
dropping my dignity

it's not a lol
slapstick moment
more foolish tragedy

I am your clowning glory
in the circus of our life
the wheels are falling off again
as I'm travelling too fast

it's always so ****** funny
in a sad pathetic way
you laugh your stupid face off,

even though I get your sympathy
it's from the height of pity
not emphatic in any way

I can perform all night
though not the way you'd like
struggling with the *** thing
to satisfy your cravings
while trying not to cry

am I here to entertain you
my mask a tragic farce
looking like I've got it together
But I'm dieing on my ****.

the bread you gave us yesterday
was warm and smelt of home
it tasted sweet and comforting
our stomachs full to bursting

the bread you gave us today
was mouldy and hard to swallow
it tasted of bitter memories
of how you loved us once

the bread you'll gives us tomorrow
will be hard and cold as stone
it will taste forgotten like ashes
when the fire has lost it's soul

when you're on
the window ledge of life
people tell you
go see a psychiatrist
(get yourself some therapy)
I've been here a while
haven't drawn a crowd yet
but people are starting to notice
(I'm pretty unobtrusive)
even my own mother
didn't recognise me once
(she's part of the problem)
but that's another story
as I say been here a while
and I'm starting to enjoy
the view
if you don't look down
where all the problems are
but take in the horizon
crazy isn't a bad place to be
I see sunsets
flocks of birds
cloud formations
moon phases
starting to go ancient man brain
starting to cure myself
all that **** below me
doesn't matter
the cars, the people, the noise
pollution, war, ******
I've started to make
the ledge my home
moving in
I can jump any time I want
but find myself needing
another sunrise
blinding light of today
gradually illuminating a world
that really doesn't deserve it
people want me to get therapy
so I can live in a crazy world
how does that
make any kind of sense

the screen is shattered
the fourth wall crumbled
a brave new world
we have to be part of
lost in a sea of brands
wants and needs
that give us identity
blurred lines between
reality and dreams
they have us and we don't
even know, sleep walking
into their life show

I have danced the dance of this flame
Been lit in my own despair,
But my shadow put me to shame
A beacon that found me in a darkness,
I thought no light could penetrate
Shared my anguished heart,
Then stole my love away.

I have read the story of a life
Lived on the edge of existence,
Let down so much by those
Professing only love and acceptance;
I know that the end is the end
For history tells me so,
This is the end, my beautiful friend

And the darkness envelopes you.

Kurt Cobain has died again
Whoever reads must live this pain,
The truth has helped to shed some light
But Curt Cobain must die tonight.
Last chapter by my bedside lamp
And I live again with the consequence.

A kid makes a finger gun
With hammer thumb
To fire at passing traffic,
From the cover of his bunker bus stop;
In America he’d be an active shooter
****, they have names for it over there,
Here he’s just a ******* nuisance;
His shelter advertises a deodorant
Shaped just like and called bullet
Perhaps some subliminal message
Has entered his head
The power of advertising, the power of death.

For a deodorant that advocates love and attraction
It’s a strange message.

Poetry is the open wound
From which the **** of our minds seeps
Infecting the world with it's vitriol
Spreading it's disgusting disease
A scab that never heals, as we pick
And pick away at an itch, letting the injury
Ooze and weep, always there to remind us
We can never resist perverse temptation
And rid us of the addiction that will always
Cause us pain, so open your minds
Let them breathe and pen.

You cannot control the power of the sun
Far less try to hide it behind lies
And reassurances that everything is fine,
While it burns into the retinas of thousands
Who thought they had jobs for life.
The sunsets just don't lie, our life giving
Star sent messages to it's progeny
Writing out the truth across the sky

Pripyat holds the secrets of the apocalypse
Now we know what happens when our world
Ends, nature carries on, regardless, unperturbed
Even after we have done our worst, we go
The way of the dinosaurs, leaving a vacancy
For the next apex predator to ***** up
The world will never stop, but we will
And I think you'll find we will not be sorely missed

Just because one man broke the rules
Causing a reactor to blow it's cool
All so the 'Woodpecker' could listen in
A wall of surveillance powered by nuclear
Fission, now it is a tourist hot spot, everyone
Can go to visit the moment this world stopped
But will we learn from the devastation that's left
History says otherwise, you can't fix stupid

I follow the slow funeralistic parade
Too late to escape, warning came
On the radio, way past my last exit
I wonder who has died today?
Cars pass what were once shiny projectiles
Such as they, but are now soulless wrecks
Burnt out, like X-rays.


Who fell asleep at the wheel
Or made that last telephone call
That just couldn’t wait, while
Still chasing time in the fast lane,
To catch up with a schedule that now
Is as redundant as the chunk of metal
He was still trying to pay for.


Flashing lights mark the perimeter
Of some executive’s last stand
An accident? Perhaps, but maybe
Life just became that bit too quick
And caught up with him
An overdose of technology, leading to
A breakdown in human capacity.


We, the survivors, look on with grief
That could’ve been me! But not
Thankfully today, speeding on our way
Soon forgetting the graphic lesson
Someone gave their all to paint
But we have to look, just to see
If anyone has really died today.

I can feel the purr
in his throat
as my fingers pass
across a trusting exposed neck

He lies, Panther like
across my branch leg limb
where we demonstrate
our approximation of love
between two species

Lost in translation sometimes
a little nip to remind me who's boss

We look into each other's eyes
I blink
He blinks
we have our connection.

Painted red lips
Blusher'd rosy cheeks,
Make pallid complexions
Bleed.
Life’s source courses
Through hot veins;
We are all vampires
Attracted to circulation.

Our fragile souls
Mere wisps
Trapped in aging shells
That one day will no longer hold
Substance
Released, where do we go,
To dance among the stars in heaven
Take our place in it's mantle
With the constellations,
Or do we disappear as though
We never existed, mere dust
To blow across the earth
And never settle,
Reincarnated perhaps
To right the wrongs of previous
Existence.

When the night is long
And sleep evades me
I wonder
What fate awaits me.

We sit in manicured silence
A sterile, germ free environment
But still we share the air
In this room,
Breathing and rebreathing
Our own and each other's fumes.
I can smell your eau de cologne
With a hint of toothpaste,
Though not enough to disguise
The lingering fug of cigarettes
In hair and on clothes,
Unchanged since yesterday, telling
Of that drink on the way home in the pub,
Your hands shake a little, yellowed fingers
Giving away your nicotine addiction;

So doc how's the state of my health.

I want to go to bed but my daughter is in the bath again; we're gonna have to pay on a meter soon, (it seems it's a privilege not a right), so I wonder how much all those drops will cost, I'll just have to cough up, baths are an essential of a girl's life and I couldn't stand the whining if I said it's showers from now on; I don't get baths, immersed in hot water, gradually turning cold, swimming in all your own sweat, (human soup), "They help you relax" she says, RELAX! she's not the one paying the bills, stressing over where the next meal is coming from; all I'd think of is the things I could be doing instead of wallowing, old people die in baths, some even drown in them, some husbands take a bath with an electrical appliance (plugged in, courtesy of the wife), John Haigh dissolved his victims in the bath in sulphuric acid, showers every time for me, wash away the dirt down the drain, with all the stress of the day; bath bombs, what's that about, not some sort of terrorist threat, it's smelly stuff that sort of explodes when put in water, impregnating the skin with smells and potions, (human potpourri), I just want to go to bed, I'm tired and have work tomorrow, what the **** does she do in there for hours on end.

I lit a candle
to finally say goodbye
it felt better like a pill
had cured me
of all my anxieties
you burnt down the wax
like another life
one small light
in the cavernous space
of a church
no more room for blame
no more room for remorse
I've let go of the kite string
like I wish I'd let go of your apron
ties are cut
heaven awaits
I am at peace
and you are at rest

they reported my passing on Facebook
all most people could manage
was a sad emoji

Member of the 27 club, too young to die
Too fast to live, only lent to us
A break in the clouds that let some light in,
Original flash of inspiration jumping
From my radio to shout, music isn't dead
Too soon to leave us only wanting more

disposable breed
cogs in a big engine
they'll never know
the size of
infinitely replaceable
vending machine
of humanity
missed for a day
memory fades
with morning coffee
new recruits to train

****** dropped bombs on him
It was nothing personal
There was just a war on
He came under the heading of enemy
Blew the ****** front door in
His mum got shot at by a Messerschmitt
In the middle of the street
So he had to do the shopping after
Its dangerous out there send the kid

Served his country in the Royal Fusiliers
Made it to sergeant teaching squaddies
How to read and do their sums
Posted to Germany as army of occupation
Did his bit as the saying goes
Then back on civvy street worked in the city
Steam train took him every day
From the market town where I was born
To smoke and smog and daily grind

Now I am teaching him the iPhone 6
At eighty seven he’s doing great
From a socially acceptable distance
Of course so we can keep in touch
Face to face and he won’t miss us
Now by himself rattling around
The big old house where I grew up
How times have changed
Still he should be used to queuing up

We go about ordered lives
No waves, ripples, just surging
Tide, not noticing undercurrents
Disturbing depths, interfering
With our status quo, dragging
Under, the unwary who are tugged,
To where disturbance manifests.

They swim, fools, against
All odds, knowing they'll drown
If they once show weakness
But something drives them,
Until they surface for breath
showing themselves, rebellious
Causing foaming surf.

Mexican waves follow, courage
In numbers, crowd not individual,
Becoming the storm that has always
Been Brewing, flooding into the comfort
zone, telling the truth becomes a
Revolutionary act, that we know in the
End brings still waters again.

eggs
jug, broken shells
in the sink
Radiohead wails OK Computer
from Alexa archive
Jack glugs from a freshly
unsealed present from my wife
am I hip like Motorhead
or just another tipsy old dad
I wonder what Urbex explorers
would discover if they
crawled through my letter box
into this mess of a kitchen
onion makes me cry
something I never did
as a child
cheese and ham
how much **** can I cram
into this frying pan
an alchemical cupboard
of herbs and spices pervades
my sense of smell
am I brave enough
should I have beans
I’ll only eat half a can
people are starving somewhere
out of date packets call
do you feel lucky punk
but sliced beef for **** sake
who can resist that
a forgotten sandwich
never made
the truth in the pan
unmixed ingredients
never mind says bourbon head
it’s all the same
gas ring ignites
north sea pipelines
fishermen risking their lives for
for Brexit quota lies
the fiery grill, another bourbon
once you pop
small one in a big glass
carnage of packet autopsy
for the morning after
waits

sat on a park bench at noon
he dressed early charity shop
other people had already made
his fashion decisions for him
cast aside like they cast aside
his son, his visits less and less
frequent now, his name is
uttered as a mere whisper
except in anger and in war
he has less strength than when
faith supported his mental health
shouted from the fortress pulpit,
blending in on the seedy side
of life where the real people are
when asked about the second
coming, he said I gave you all
free will and look what you did
tell me, would you send your
only son to a God forsaken
place like this AGAIN.

I throw more words
into the emptiness of the ether
like a whale calling for home
an unheard song
one day forced
into extinction

You make me feel awkward
Your beauty a weapon
Rendering me speechless and helpless
I am one of the waifs and strays
Standing in the shadows
Observing the game, looking for losers
Potential friends.

I'll bite and snarl at your wheels
rumbling past me up that hill
I know you'll never stop
leaving me stranded
a mad dog.

Afraid of our own shadow, but
yearning to be free, searching
for our utopian ideal

life's a beach
gravy, easy street

scared to loose the chains
with which we bind ourselves
break free from obligation

our 'destiny'

into chaos

open the door of our life cell
of order, routine
step through the veil
live the dream
but all we can do
is complain and complain

A lonely soul, looking for inspiration;
Balanced on the edge of life.

Words penned from a dark mind,
With occasional flashes of light.

A loser in the end, but brilliantly -
And everyone missing the point.

Sly looks and sly smiles
Sly remarks on points of style
A little slip, a little quip
And you could be the **** of it

Laughing behind hands, they stand
At the corner of the bar
Each victim carefully selected
Each remark perfectly directed
A ***** of a time
A little jealousy, a little crush
A little misplaced love and trust
You can almost feel the knife stab
And as you go down, they laugh

Sly looks and sly smiles
Behind each others back as well
Laughing behind hands
Looking out for trusting friends

Come and love me
I am out here on the periphery
writing poems
to the earth and sea

a ghost of a voice
barely audible
except on the breeze
if you listen carefully
you will hear it whispering
as sun touches sea
as rain starts to fall
as seasons change
as you lose your way

I am here
out on the periphery
listen carefully
I will not let you fall

driven by some unseen hand
the pen travels across 80 gsm
sometimes I manage to write things
even I don't understand.

hammer click
whip crack
cordite burn

God
the power to take
or spare life
in the palm of a hand
lay down the law
terrorise
oppress
destroy

no returns
no time to apologise
a decision made in haste
regretted for life

loneliness
is a misunderstanding
of what together is
a feeling we need someone
to complete us
in truth
people are a pain
in the ****

Your muse sits on the draining board
Swinging her legs like a child
A quizzical look on her face
As you make yourself a coffee
Eyes follow you round the room,
You haven't spoken in a while

Pen and paper lay where you left them
Since the last time you were inspired
Writing words to shake the world
Simile and metaphor straight from your
Soul, but even though she whispers, nudges
And cajoles, you continue to ignore her

There are other poets in the world
Screaming out for inspiration
Begging for the right word to guide them
Bring them to the ****** of creation
Don't leave the door too long open
She may slip away without you noticing.

take up valuable real estate
live in their own ****
birthing in their own faeces
we call them vermin
and hate them
because they are so much like us

my mother always cleaned
it was her thing
more than hobbies
more than friends
erasing every previous day
it's accidents
it's happenings

little hand prints
adorn my walls
pencil scribblings
from budding Leonardos
and when I pass the second stair
a stain on carpet
from God knows where

I live the past everyday
making new futures
along the way.

Let us all rise for the birthing of Earth's new life
Stirrings from her womb bring forth daffodils,
To have intimate relations with buzzing bees
Stirring wooly heads from their winter cluster,
As the yellow heads Mexican wave with
A warm blustery scented breeze, birds sing with
Renewed gusto, dancing across the garden fence
Making nests, making plans 'cause they just can't
Help but feel born again, so lets have an ovation
Spring is sprung, give me more, encore, encore.

A room devoid of life
no less bland
than a hole in the ground,
but with a little more light
functional, bed, chair, table
and an intangible fear
of something it has (in abundance)
time, and plenty of it

my constant companions
are worry
with her sister
fear
dark angels
that clip my wings
so I cannot fly
cannot believe
cannot rest
they can leave
any time I want
I just have to have the courage
to let them go
but how I would miss them
those soft doubting voices
whispering my imprisonment
with the very best
of intentions

I have worked out small talk

two people ask questions
of each other, neither
want an answer to
and without listening
to what the other comes up with
think of the next manoeuvre  
until they are locked
in meaningless conversation
that no one can break
like music, a symphony
of nonsense with the guy
on symbols waiting
to crash out at the end

Until the knife is removed
the wound will never heal