Tuesday, 18 September 2012

Good morning

Waking from deep sleep nine,
                            Phone too tired to remind me the time.
               I pick up a six string drum,
And strum along,
  To old melody and rhyme.

Monday, 17 September 2012


 A familiar taste sits in my throat as I walk home at night. Letting my mind wonder as the streetlights stretch across my vision in a blurry orange beige spectrum, I contemplate on what the taste might be, but it is too unnatural to define as something organic. I let my legs stagger forward as my senses smelt together a complex pattern of ideas and thought. I hear myself groan as my feet kick the curb of the road, but the sound is detached, an automatic response to environment. The utterance is nothing more but dust on the skin of my independent society; My unique brain complex that leaks colour onto the road. Hallucinations of music vibrate kindly, entertaining my thirsty mind, bored of walking.

Wednesday, 12 September 2012


Nation down!
Story uncovered and
Media drown.
Flood the wooden gates
Fragile from decay
Tear down the streetlights
Shinin' on old grey:
(The squares with the statues
Remind of old history
A memorial misery
The burden it weigh.)

Old meaningful morals and
United damnation
Of a tower of lies.
Everything falls-
Wasted bricks
As debris flies.
Battered homes lay
Under the siege.
Blocked roads, homeless people
A chorus of hunger, a screech.
Like a dying body
Body erodes to bone
City erodes to ruin.
Nation down everybody.
Down, down, down and gone.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

Rising fumes against smiling shadows

Rise Rise Rise!
Why is it always this?
Gret sparklins arrive from the floor
And beckon
Whispers, in agrar husks.
Mist, aloft, the mist,
In lingers within large space,
In transparent, different volumes,
Harsh points in great intensity of feelings,
They drift,
Drift among me.
I am never alone.
The coldness intensifies as I relish that statement,
Everything I am familiar with dulls,
As I am pushed hard into a different world,
Fingers around my shoulders,
Scales around my arms and fingers,
And flashes.
Flashes are the things that catch my eyes,
The scythes swinging at my vision,
Cutting me from my understanding of this trance.
Is it not a game I can receive clear,
Nor deliver commuciation,
But just feel that coldness,
Wrap me round,
What if it takes me,
What if I am no longer, myself, found?

Monday, 3 September 2012

Smooth face

My best exhibit is a blank canvas.
No colour, no shape, no stroke
Just a void of final acceptance
That nothing I could paint,
Nothing I could create,
Would reflect the prince's smile.


Brush marks parchment with a slap of ink
Staining like a permanent burn,
Shades of nothing become embroidered into a new harmony,
Lively symbols
Of entangled symmetry.
Painter smiles,
Daring to curve and sweep his brush wildly
Fulfilling his need to deliver
An honest message
In a fury of passion.

Sunday, 2 September 2012

Wounds of love

Teeth snare
Encoding data
Into the apple.
Pulse of sound
Teeth snare
Into apple.
Then withdraw,
Dividing flesh
To attack core.
On bitter sweet sour
Green blood.
A thirst, a devious hunger,
For another taste
Of a broken structure.
Teeth snare
Into apple.
Fangs dig
Into apple.
Lips kiss leaking apple.
Remains discarded
Deep, dark bin.