Life is labour.
All is entropy.
From the moment
we're born,
we decay.
We must feed
to renew,
we must breathe
to energise.
We strive to prolong a life
we never asked for,
living inside a machine
needing constant maintenance
against built-in redundance.
What an existence!

‘They’

Who are ‘They’? You know,
the ones who said it would rain
today. Are they the same ‘They’
that claim a glass of red wine
a day is good for you? Or are
they the ‘They’ that decided
quinoa, blueberries and chia
seeds needed a superlative?

‘They’ said the pandemic would
change everything, ‘They’
promised a new normal. But
then again, ‘They’ promised
to be carbon neutral by 2030.
‘They’ say mental illness is on
the rise yet ‘They’ are spending
unprecedented resources on it.

Which ‘They’ is it who are
calling for Peace? The ‘They’ that
call for ceasefires? Surely not the
same ‘They’ that are profiting
from arms sales to rich warlords
and using hateful speech on
‘Their’ platforms?

[Oh, you mean the ‘They’ who raise wages?
Or the ‘They’ who let inflation spiral?]

These are the ‘They’ who hide
behind a pronoun when
delivering news of death, poverty,
corruption and failure. The same
‘They’ who suddenly personify
when plaudits, praise and
popularity are the order of the day.

Is it time that ‘They’ took a back seat
and ‘We’ became more responsible?
But who are ‘We’, if not just not ‘They’?
Whether we ignore it or not, there is a thread
which connects each ‘I’ to each other ‘I’.
There’s no unity in ‘We’ and ‘They’.
Realise your ‘I’ in someone else’s ‘I’
and maybe we can start to reconcile.

Woken at 07:45 hours,
this day as every for the past
God-knows-how-many mornings.
He stopped counting months ago.
Familiar shouts and clattering, steel on steel.
He’s never been in such constant company.
If he can’t see them, he can hear them.
If he cant hear them, he can smell them.
Two hundred and fifty God-forsaken souls
bouncing off the concrete walls.

And yet, never has he been so lonely.
In the middle of this swirl of
doing, coming and going,
he plays the game of acquaintance,
unpleasant pleasantries exchanged
on the landings when custom,
advantage and survival says he must.
But he dreams of solitary, a box just for him.
A place of quiet, or quiet as it gets.

Lonely for solitude and spiritual guidance,
gently closing the door while all others slam.
Lonely for recognition, his currency no use
where his is now, he trades in
sensitivity, not noise and bravado.
Lonely for connection, the true self
hidden, protected by ever thickening
walls of stoicism and cynicism from
which the heart may never escape again.

Bells ring, doors open.
Saturday association, and solitude
wishes will have to wait.

Woken early by my black dog
growling at another rabbit hole,
pulling at the leash to
dig out some sorrow or fear
to bring back home
and leave at my door.

And there it would stay,
if I were in charge.
But today my Ego stands
waiting for His treat and
carries it into my mind.
And there He starts his dissection.

Pulling apart the fresh, raw,
sinewy emotions, Ego searches
for what disgusts and repels Him,
what challenges His very existence.
Where He finds it, He creates
suffering that wasn’t there before.

He relishes this for it is his
life force, this is the stuff of
anxieties, hatred and misery
which He pushes onto me as
the proof of why I should be
what I should be.

He points to where I’ve been wronged
and stokes my fires of self pity,
anger and indignation. Whipping up
within me what He needs to survive,
an identity different to ‘those others’,
so its me and Him versus the world.

But its not. I want no part of His critical
joy, the self-satisfaction and justification
for his continued being. I work
to see his tricks and machinations
so I might see Him coming and
expel Him and his ever-present hound.

I’ve seen miracles happen before my eyes,
witnessed empty souls become human again.
More than human, I’ve seen them struggle
and fight against an invisible,
yet all-consuming, foe. One who is
dark, deceptive, relentless and cruel.

I’ve watched them grow with a determination,
grace and humility unknown to the masses.
They have found new depths of consciousness
and understanding worthy of any monk or mystic.
Dark eyes once sunken now lifted and bright
and skins pallor now blushes with hope.

And, yes, I’ve seen them fall and flounder
but never fail because once they have seen
how it can be, it doesn’t leave them.
We may be pulled back under, time and again
by our demon of choice, but each time
we resurface with precious lessons learned.

Recovery is not just change,
for change is too small a word.
It is not merely putting down the bottle,
ditching the pin or putting out smoke.
Its not just quitting.
It’s starting again.

It is renewed vitality, a different outlook,
a spiritual kick up the backside.
It can allow you to find what it was
you felt you were missing in life.
It is learning to let go whilst
knowing it’s going to be OK.

I put my head on the pillow and drift off….

But in the night, someone from somewhere
Hits the reset button on my mind.
My emotions, strivings, fight from the day before
Deleted in one action.

Shiva sweeps aside the remnants of yesterday:
Gains, strivings, losses and ambitions
Clearing the table for tonight’s game
Flanked by greater and lesser angels and demons.

I’m lost in dreams while a silver ball spins against the
roulette wheel of my soul.
Each number an affection, a state of being
randomly selected for the next day.

The silver blur slows
Jumps, flicks and rattles from one bay to the next:
Happy, blue, angry, drained, joy, sorrow, hope…
Each have an even chance.

The crowd around the table leans in
Waiting to see it fall, to claim possession.
The fate of the following day rests on this outcome.
A day of peace or another of battle?

But they wont know, I wont know
Until my head lifts and my eyes open
And I feel it saturate my body and soul
Ready for another day of starting again.

I know I’m frustrated.

I know I’m angry.

I don’t know why.

I know what to do

To try to quell it,

But for one reason

I don’t want to let it go.


I surround myself with

Loud noises and angry voices

Ride a wave of my own

Feather spitting.

And still I don’t know why,

I just am.


A vigorous scribble scratched

Inside my skull,

No end to pull at.

Just gritted teeth

Tense shoulders

Clenched fists

My feet stomping one

After the other.


Feeling if I lose this feeling

I’ll never get it back.

This is my fire, but

Its uncontrolled and unfocused

I revel in it as I

Blister and burn

Tightness in my ribs

Dare you cross me now?