don’t read this, it’s shit and self indulgent

when i want more than what, with hindsight bias, i should allow myself the pleasure of
, i feel guilt.
i skulk into the shade of pseudo-shame and consider the question;
is it a reinforcing or destructive drug?
i wonder if i’ll ever know for sure, or who to ask.
these days are coloured by a solemn-blue sun, but eyed as grey
, and no-one knows
, and i don’t care that no-one knows
, until much, much later, when it’s too, too late.



i get a face full of stank and staleness, from the silver and flashing-by-graffiti 6:02,
with it’s unforgiving squeal and early suits.

please can i come home (no, i don’t want to go home)
maybe they still love me (no, they never did love me)

more eyes linger on me today than yesterday
those conceited eyes divert back to their iphones
and their twitters and-

“hey, what are you fuckin’ lookin’ at!”

i don’t know what else to do, but endure this bench and it’s solitude and
cold comfort
far from the bed where i endured his hands and
cold comfort


twelve years her junior, he led her beyond the stairs.
does anyone dance in the rain alone?
his garnet breath had coloured her mahogany lips, and freed her inhibitions.
(hold me tighter)
the rain, the stars, and their eyes; lit up.
she forgot everything that never should have mattered,
and remembered how to glisten again.

these right places

when i look at you, i see gorgeous and crazy in all the right places.
i could sit and stare at your completeness for hours.
we dance in silence, in a safe-haven of moments.

i don’t know what to do with myself.

EDIT : This piece was shortlisted for publication in Seventeen Magazine, Issue 7. Close, no cigar, but still pretty cool.

naught [draft.01]

the Muse forages, and ruminates beneath
anything grey you can describe,
rain clouds, and
self pity.

the Muse knows the depression that comes
from submission to words as common
rain clouds, and
song birds.

the Muse tinkers at the edge, with altered
receptors, saved from naught’s grip
rain clouds, and
double ristretto.


when it comes to memories, these are made of maple-sweetened salt and youth.
i can barely remember sowing the seeds for this dream,
or sewing the threads of Her delicate intrigue.
but i’ll always recall how monarch wings dance.

migrate me,
from the hush in Her falls,
to the thrum in Her sea,
and back.

liquid words wick from Her lips to my ears,
engraving upon me a divine blessing.
i dare not share them, to risk lessening Her question-less gift
but to say this;
Her fibre is intricate, and Her timbre is vintage;
and with my senses swimming this story folds
and multiplies, with a warble and a setting sun.

southern sojourn

i have a secret, private, and likely to be common fantastic image of you in my morning nap.
the story goes something like,

/with hope-brimming, and a mixture of seventeen flair and twenty seven confidence and thirty seven been-there-ness /

i take your hand in mine
, you blush

i smile into your emerald-streamy eyes
, you bite your lower lip
, and bravely hold your line
, until i lean with intent to brush
, my lips upon yours

you speak
, my name is rain, and i love you
, kiss me again under this venture-found
, southern-cross lit night

once i wailed

during the most vacuumous days of my depression, the eels would form gangs and circle; taunting me, then would bite my trembling hands.  my faithful grip would fail me.  my vision would become blinkered, and time would creak to a two-thirds pace.  curling like a ravenous child, i would wail; feebly attempting to bear the brunt of a cyclonic fear.  it’s beating and it’s battering and it’s breaking  pervasiveness would force itself over and down and into me.

shrilling please, please stop!
pleading please, please stop!
crying please, just please.
please. stay away.


there is a thumping of sweet
gin in my ears;
it’s pressing back and blocking
these dead mules
of almost business almost men
in their almost suits,
almost living their impossible
miserable lives to an end that will never come
to pass for something as real
as the deception that drives them

there is a thumping of sweet
whisky in my seat;
my eyes are musing and closed
but the way is clear
through skies of cotton clouds

there is a thumping of sweet
rum in my words;
by my side, share this lode
be rich for only the cost of a step and desire

saving clutter, there is no more
to say, but to sing
this melody, thumping and sweet


thank goodness for the pressing white
blouses; sharp and pressed and matching
the porcelain precious
veneer of sincerity,
framed by gloss and ruby
wax lyrical smiles

thank goodness for the wink and the naming
and the swagger of softness and suppleness
with defining black, I imagine, lace lines
that would snap and slide and make mine
pressing on lily white, I imagine, virgin
five mile thighs

Our Mother’s best

Then the Wind shall not be blamed, but rather, our Mother and her seasons,” replied the poet.  “Her Autumn was a test for the Winter that awaits. Your boughs have not yielded to the best She has thrown at you.”

The poet placed his hand on the earth where he sat, and looked up into the winking sun through the branches that shaded him.

Looking back to the tome in his hands, the poet thumbed through what seemed to be a thousand pages. Finally stopping, he placed his finger to the page, and read;

“May you rest well, and your sleep be filled with the most luxurious dreams,
May this soil shall sustain you and allow you to return with new life,
May the Winter be mild and the Spring come early, with vigour and mineral abundance, and
May your bloom be vibrant, with more colour and perfume than you ever imagined.

With that, the poet leant back into the warmth of the sycamore, closed his eyes, and smiling fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.