I have never felt worthy
to put your name to page
yet my hands are tied, tangled
caught up with strands of hair
that once collected like tumbleweed
and even now
it refuses to leave.

Half a lifetime ago, the light was fading
the ferry and the old beat-up wharf
lit up with orange and white
your lips tasted like vinegar chips
and that hair, it knotted in my grasp
binding sugar sticking fingers
whispering long good-nights.

Collected by birds to make their nests
or swept into spiders’ webs
wrapped around filters in the washer
the dryer, the vacuum and dangling
in clusters down every drain
there’s something of yours in every room

I can feel my heart ossifying
with every obfuscation
foggy headed on a clear day
stoned before lunch drunk before dinner
with a brain like birthday cake batter
I shall never be worthy
to put your name to page.

Manic Pixie Xmas Tree

A rainbow of diodes strung across the wall
illuminated your room with subtle warmth
as I collapsed like molten wax, wick extinguished
pooling limpid in a fold out bed
eyes wired inward, replaying the escape
our desperate dash
along unlit back road rat runs
turning me inside out on the roundabout
in your car spilling my heart like a tin of beans
all across the passenger seat.

Each recall had me jumping with electricity
as you began hurling pillows to centre my reality
and with each tectonic impact, the earth shrugged
side-slipping by another degree
“Did I speak or was I loudly thinking?”
your laughter enveloped me
and I basked in the joy of shared company
yet so delicately I balanced on the precipice
-that curved edge between consciousness
and the dark ravine of sleep-
that I wasn’t even aware I had fallen.

Pathos is a Ladder

Leave behind the chaos and lies
woven multidimensional schemes
that could only be perceived
in the rear-view mirror
from a safe distance
and with a hollow heart.

Rise above the thoughts composed
abandon reasoning to the stream
conscious in appearance only
outwardly twitching
binding a puppet with string
stuffing straw into your head.

Strange are the creatures who reach across the barrier of time
fumbling shadows confounded by the experience of becoming
corporeal beings
flashing claws and daggers drawn
every well chosen word intended
to grip and grasp with flailing clasp
to seize your hope in their talons
and to dash it and damn it
to water cold and memory forgone.

Confront yourself.

Turn the blinding white on your life
and burn your shadows with the light.

Fight yourself and win.

(Insert Idiot Pun Here)

There’s a white wine waiting on the kitchen bench
collecting humid condensation
and attracting wandering nomadic beetles,
there’s a moment I was trying to grasp again
and instead I squeezed tightly and crushed it
to an awkward mess, there’s very little left
to remind anyone of the life time of nonsense I lead,
inhabiting an old memory, complete in my futility
conceited and concealed
silence is silver in this garden of gold.

Hermit Memoirs

Nicotine and Thorazine speaking through your nervous gaze
hooks in your skin from decades of song, and nothing
holds you closer than these thoughts, you are treasured
on this battlefield, my mind smoking and ravaged
under an artillery barrage lambasting with prejudice
extremities aching with a four four beat manifesting
as the music swells and washes over us, becalmed
patience as we wait for the words that will condemn us
to pushing up daisies and pulling down empires
a dead weight of piled nobodies, zero sum sons of bitches
scattered like confetti splattered like pancakes
sweet and colourful and broken with precision
eliminated and expelled with a last gasp, rasping
as your voice breaks on the words you hoped
never to utter and yet always rehearsed.

Rack & Ruin (Gone Fission)

Long years have passed
like water under the bridges
since I traveled up my final river
woven between those green reaching arms
and bulging white cliffs every turn of the way
leading deeper into the somnolent embrace
of the thrumming cicadas among swaying trees
and the steady throb of a four-stroke scream.

In that heat-sink sun-baked basin the water curled
like a blue green vein running right through
recalling the place where the sun lays down to rest
beyond the red sand expanse
a hidden furnace
that burns those lands to cracked and shattered clay
sandstone and fossil bones hidden underneath
a layer of dead white leaves and carbon ash
a compost heap midden steaming in the Summer heat
spontaneous ignition and vague recognition
speaking for itself and yet forever mute
those broken lands
with mountains like scabs and valleys like scars
so dry and yet the river runs so deep
brimming with serpents
deceptive currents
and submerged tunnels.

I suppressed all impulse and surrendered
to the rhythmic waves
slapping the sides of our boat
metallic footsteps vibrating
through the rusted hull like tap dancing
to the circling bull sharks
pulling on lines of invisible string
hooks and blades awaiting either way
whether fallen overboard
or netted and dragged to the surface
struggling like a baby
emerging into the sunlight for the first time,
white grey with stained scales
and mouth caught in a voiceless wail.

And then I fell.

I descended into a trench filled with the living dead
meaningless and mindless
no place nor purpose
no structure nor statement
no sense and low rent
swaying with play of the delta tide
where snow-melt dissolves in sea salt
wearing a crown of waving weeds
the coming going ebbing flowing
a vow of silence in the wake of violence
I was crucified but I have forgotten why.

I became the submerged man
the sinking feeling in the pit of your being
that lurching sensation when your line snags
and your hook bends
and you wonder what lay hidden
by layers of sandy sediment and sand
where I have rested, festered, and suggested
many thoughts to the fishes and hawks
scrambled with the brown swimming crabs
and got wrapped up in the details
with lampreys and eels
and those monstrous fantastical forms
without name or shape or thought,
or slumbering in numbered boxes
arranged in a row on a metal shelf.

I yearn one day to return
to the river’s familiar embrace
to supplicate myself
and prostrate myself
and expel my last breath
and even then I shall continue to exist
as a conduit, a broken circuit, a closed loop
or a torn up book, my words remaining
by the order that compelled them
but the structure that animated
the context that gave meaning
are lost in those obscure depths
and without I am bereft.

Fighter’s Sock (Rhymes with…)

You don’t want to be written, do you?

Must we fight at every step of the way?

Locked in contention
concealed detention
blocking up the windows and pushing
shirts under door frames
air thick with artificial mist
thumping that one song from years long gone
thrashing every line with a doubtful mind
pulling words apart
and stitching together abomination.

And so if you labor under that same hateful yoke
take my love and my silent respect
as you attack your blasted craft and slowly carve
the world inside your head.

Spanner of the Gods

Getting pensive over my expenses, I’m a spent force
a dead horse flogging outside odds and uneven spots
retelling stories that grow taller every year
harvesting a garden of home-grown emotion
digging deep for foundation creep
encasing the past in insta-fossil concrete
creating a strata of wire frames and week days
holding it together with white knuckle strength.

In a lonely chord you find the middle note
the point where major slips to minor
where a scrap of holiness may be snatched
from the chaos of those subliminal depths
sacred smoke and a perfect tone demanding
nothing more than an eternal loop
repeating unbroken until the sun returns
and mumbling your words in my sleep.

As the sky turns to egg yolk, my scrambled head
hangs heavy over dry retching toast crumb collections
wondering how I can slumber yet never awaken
with dawn fresh made and breakfast just broken
letters begin to align in awful designs
and I can’t remember which tablets I’ve taken
until you find the middle note
and pluck the strings of my heart.



This would be easier
if everyone would stop writing songs about you.

I hear your name in every refrain
sodden with barfly sentimentality
paralysis grasping with uneven hands
(blackout is still the fastest way out of town)
I see your shape among the crowd
or a glimpse of faces not-quite-wrong
looming from induced-stasis dreams
and sometimes nothing
can turn the volume down.

If the musicians would only resign their craft
and the poets forget their dreadful tasks
(and the novelists all give up and go back to accounting,
if the painters were blinded
and the sculptors were broken
and the actors were all forgotten)
every song would still be a story
told in your voice
and every word a piece of yourself.

A Crisis on Infinite Earths

Thoughtlessly under my breath
dripping constant consonants
of crippling discontent
in loving reciprocation.

In disguise and on fire
towering abyssal wrath
fierce and insurmountable
or cowering crushed in misery
one moment to the next
splitting hairs and mixing drinks
seconds apart
and then collapse.

Under the influence of excess she begins to digress
no longer sure what to suspect
shifting the scales of the serpent’s tail
hitting the hammer on the head with a well placed nail,
and as the cosmos compresses into the dressers
and the zeroes win at noughts and chequers,
she folds up the heavens into the kitchen
and sings as she stacks the satellite dishes.


(note- this is a repost from some years past, title is ‘borrowed’ from an old comic)

The Glitching Hour

Clearing skies confound the eye with diffusing light
wet highway glaring with tiny rainbows
dancing white pinpoint galaxies rising
as the late and fading day gilds the road before us.

One last glance contains all that sustains
one last moment reclaimed against time,
only to plunge once more into the flow
heavy traffic heady static automatic
clamped against one another, jostling
for jockey’s rankings among freeway bandits
or bagging bragging rights on the old highway.

Cracked brake lights loom, encroaching night
as the shadows gather and grow taller
the road winds down by hidden waters
restively nestled between stone cliffs
and dynamite drifts, hacked through ridges
with nail and claw and diamond saws
“A new way to waste time in every lane”.

Ascent at last, through the mountain’s veil
a cotton shawl of clinging mist
plunging into soup-thick ignorance seeking
the enticing mile-stone, the eternal next bend
around every corner, another barren stretch
where nothing changes and nothing remains
brushing dust from the final page.

Forever and throughout the night, driving in silence
over the horizon and into the shrouded distance.

Enticing Disaster

I had attempted to learn
from your efficiency with words
yet bewildered I found myself
unable to progress
torn to shreds by four walled cement
I left home no direction in mind
aimless and caught in silent alarm
as streetlight split through perspex frosting
made shattered shadowed flashback patterns.

I walked into the street
crossroads squared
“You’re beyond compare,”
words snagged by the wind and left trailing
caught by the eaves and in the falling leaves
your voice was clear
even as your expression clouded
you shimmer in plastic and nylon
gone in a moment no more.

As the evening settled I found my path
back towards my concrete nest
and the vision faded, so quickly spent
yet I sought words no longer
for they had found me
and tonight there would be no rest.


Rise! Animate and replay, one more time
I summon you, spectres of years gone by
by song and solemn contemplation
I call on you, remnants and revenants
with lasers aligned to invisible designs
pulses of electric messaging
popping and fizzing into existence
fragments of spirit and lighting in a jar
momentary perfection transcending time
and forever again on the rewind.

Rise! Through technomancy and insolvency
I demand of you, death cannot let you rest
while your songs play in Celtic knots
I command of you, colour my lines
fill my life with your being, your lovers
your sad ballad of spent sentiment
captured in codes of ones and zeroes
your soul compressed and exported
across every ocean, you live in the sky
you are wired into heaven’s hard drive.

Rise! Return all those moments
that I had thought were lost.

Rise! Bring me back in time
that I might better the past.

Rise! Download! Shuffle! Rinse and repeat!
Sing you bastard, you belong to me.

Time Does Not Fly, it Plummets

Waiting for that animation to arrive
the slight currents that bring us to life
creating a tap dancing clattering that fills a small hazy corner
bordered by books, surrounded by artificial light and colour
and there it was, or maybe not? And they’re off again!

Chasing dust mites and gathering starlight seems easy
in comparison to hunting these metaphysical beasts
through a labyrinthine forest in the deadly night
binding a dragon with a ball of twine
or drowning the Kraken in a bottle of wine.

Silver mottled blue bottle submarine creatures deceive
swarming schools of basking shark stealth bombers
sixty four humming hulks of black invisible oblivion
small scale tactical obliteration
casually parked on a tarmac
or hovering backwards and upside down
swimming in the watercolour seaside sunset spectacle
as the lemon flavoured rays surrender to the taste
biting without teeth
bitter and yet sweet
graceful in victory or beer battered defeat.

Since we last spoke the world has burned
my friend what were we ever going to do?
Against this tide of foul aggression and self-possession
besieged on all side by mutants of every degeneration,
I know you would have fought well,
I pray that somewhere you still do,
while my coward heart writhes in shame.

Devour the memory
starve the soul.

Particle Bombardment Leaves Subatomic Scars

You walked out with barely a glance, muttering my name with hesitation
taking with you all the silent appeal of long glances and concealed intent,
smiling with the light of the youth I had forgotten, voice sweetened
with refined sugar and tooth-whitening paste, half-formed ideas
littered around your head like my bedroom floor, a labyrinth
of discarded skins and a maze of mania, my face hangs like a door frame
unable to process the regrets that have hardly boiled to the surface
unknown affairs heavy in the air, codes and signals and crimson flags
and nothing to show for all this angst but for the crumpled raffle tickets.

A crucible bubbles in my shrinking chest, indigestion and infestation
rattled by a rat nest backyard shed made from rust and iron and spite,
I resumed my contemplation of nothing and nowhere, dislocated
and percolating like a volcano, roiling discreetly and falling completely
I looked upon you like a sign from the divine, a message from on high
only scattered when the mirror shattered and I beheld myself in truth.

You have my number, you have my cash, you saved me at the very last
as my heart paused and my head crashed and my sight went black
you rebooted my brain with an electric jolt, a word never heard
and a thought never spoken, just wordless eyes and sweet surprise
you’re gone, I’m forgotten, and everything is as it should be.

Ron’s Old Ray Gun

Boredom settles like a layer of dust, gradually accumulating granules
specks and spicks and discarded cells catching late morning light
appearing to dance to the whispering speakers, low muttering tunes
shuffling from one decade to another, all unheard in my waking slumber.

Sick again, betrayed by mortality and the fading illusion of youth
every sip of silver tequila shines inside like a holy light, revelation
on the bathroom floor, deep contemplation of a sacred sign
hidden faces in the blood stains, salvation on a slice of toast.

Seeking allegories in the algorithms of this vast uncharted land
finding only clickbait and cocksure bluster, blockbuster head-shots
and finely crafted lies, so abject and imperfect and yet revealing
depths to which we can all sink, one more drink, just one more, please.


As a humble humming scrunched up loser
inwardly focused and blind to the outside world
as a hermit crab apple flake seafood salad
I crawled under a rock and never came out
covert and safe pressed against the earth
rotten leaves and decaying trees held me
obscure and true to myself.
And yet the noises still found me
the pounding pavement resonance
rumbling through my stone skull
my rock and rubble strewn shale pile shaking
with the bass notes of heartbeat jumping feet
mosh and muddle and moss-addled rambling
saturated by a tide of metallic sound.

To escape still further, to hide still deeper
I ceased using my ears, I no longer heeded
the intrusion and the confusion of music,
I cursed musicians major and minor
and dug and crept and lurked further down
making silent abode in my rental rat nest
no note of triumph or world’s end whimper
could disturb my holy dirt, my sacred pit,
no word was spoken and no relic nor token
could inspire me to listen to those old sorrows,
no harmony nor melody could move me to rise
no rhythm to impose on my movement,
years slipped past without a note, a thought
or shared moment, my life became a blank score
no voice could disturb me
no words could unearth me
my heart slowed and at last
I believed my thoughts could be still.

And yet there was no peace! Despite the blessed calm
the quiescence could not comfort me
nor would darkness abide me,
the silence would not be golden until I forgot my sight
until I closed my eyes and blanked out the brightness
until my head exploded in stars and spots and fire,
even as the light yet pursued me
and flashes of day confused me
with circling twirling fragments
scattered like dust and clinging to us
debris from the slow death of our solar parent.
I no longer opened my eyes, I shrouded my sight
with my own hands and then, as I got better
with my thoughts and my haggard hopes
I sheltered my gaze a little more each day
until mornings became indistinguishable
from an eternal clouded twilight.

And all was happy in my blind burrow deep
no words could deceive or strike fear into me.
And yet there was no rest, despite the dark
swaddling me in a blanket black and warm
no darkness could contain me in safety
no blank canvas plain stretching out before me,
close my heart and perish the thought,
and my brain popped and sizzled
like a reheated plastic box food
the impulses and the nerve endings tingled
firing with bad wiring and itching all over
with the tremendous effort of remaining sober
every tickle and every twitch rippled
across my skin and throughout my being
a torturous exploration of my psychic expanse
twiddling my thumbs in the old stone tombs
scratching my thoughts down to the bone.
I no longer opened my heart, I closed my soul
and the awful stimuli, the bane of my head
my ears and my eyes, my own words
turned back upon me as a belated curse
and yet I was, at last, safe.

I rolled over and the stone held me close,
I sank into decay and decomposition warmed me,
I wallowed in seclusion and mellowed in solitude
I buried myself in my now-empty mind
and in this palace of blackness, this hall of nothing
I lurked and lolled and limped about
content in the compression of deep depression
hollow hillsides and blank-eyed caves
echoes unheard and unseen sunrise
I became less of who I was and more of what I knew,
I became a worm, sightless and deaf
heartless and without purpose,
no grief could reach me with tendrils cold
no relief from the burrowing in frozen rock
no truth could awake me from slow hibernation
no hope could raise me from complete dejection
no words could reach me in the depths of degradation
no touch could release me from this secret labor.

Squirming churning mud puddles on the termite highway
unable to perceive a path back through the mind
only deeper to dig and further to slide
only loneliness and another thought to digest
eating my own head
feeding myself
and turned always within
nothing but darkness and touchless binding
not a sound not a sight not a thing on my mind,
clay closing around and holding me close
my home, my hole,
my hollow hidden self.

Song of the Inventory Manager

I looked in the back of my mind for the words that I had piled and discarded,
the momentary fragments of fractured text scattered across a dusty floor,
I reached for the thoughts I had once grasped with fiery intent and pride
only to find nothing, handfuls of grit and powder, scraps and off-cuts
a great wrenching absence, a lack of expression and explosive decompression,
my head caving in from the pressure and the emptiness
as I grasped for those sentiments never expressed
and nightmares barely repressed, my great heap of discarded discord
rotten food for uneasy thoughts, my last salvation and my past division
it’s all gone, stolen, pilfered and despoiled.

The Gambler’s Paradox

Cursed lover, long lost and always unforgotten
does your slumber tumble with rumbling turbulence?

Does your head clamour with these same hellish bells
or resonate in piercing silence, heavy
with regret and sick with anxiety
don’t-look-back mentality
consigning everything we shared to flame?

Are my sad sorry songs and pathetic paper poems
now just more kindling for setting bridges afire?

In the entire known and unknowable world
there is no price I wouldn’t submit to
in exchange for an afternoon of conversation
to hear your stories one more time, your voice
(the part that is most elusive to recall), your thoughts
mysterious threads woven into spectral mandalas,
and you show me the world once over
and I step into the same river once more.