rightly or wrongly

conceived as a kindness
until your heart has emptied itself of this he
your clenched fist bled out
to dull those sharp words that, hastily scribed,
might leave a need to be counting fingers
once drawn from your mouth
until the when that words might be found
as friends once more

runes cast both as truth and lie,
I always seem to choose those least pleasing to the eye
while my obscure wakefulness bounces divinity
through these streets of calculated faith
weighted towards a less than delicate death

not poetry

Oh the delight of Englsh summer storms, those all you can eat deluges that deposit a quarter’s worth in an hour. The utter joy of returning home to find the bay window springing leaks like the hull of the Titanic as it meets its demise. The unfettered pleasure of dismantling 20 metres of vertical drainage and rodding the remainder, to end up wetter than you could on any Yorkshire Dales spelunking jolly and smelling of 57 different varieties of shit.

I’m writing this from the bath 🙂


baked upon the concrete steppes

I contemplate striking out into

the feather slicked, wide lime ditch

that rolls

liquid coal on raven wings amongst

the folds of molten silver

beneath the iron and stone footfall

today it displays no sign spit and hiss

you’d think it almost docile


yet still not worth the risk


I saw a kingfisher this morning

though it saw me first

the difference between us

couldn’t be more acute

it a brilliant shower of bejewelled light

me the stale crumbs

at the bottom of the bread bin

passed midnight

I declined, and then I pressed “play”, regardless
and now here I am, miserable beyond sin
even further passed folly
smitten and bitten to the core despite
passion being routed by an attack of good conscience
yet I remain in this sorry state of combustion
the lonely midnight king, stateless and queered
every portrait of my moist adherent geometrically destroyed
whilst I have been left naked everywhere but the bedroom
I invited myself where I wasn’t needed so why am I surprised?


words from 2012 that each day grow more prescient

are those parameters
that define relationships
any longer
fit for purpose?
where we back into
a self prescribed severance
withdrawn from nature’s forces

we should beware
the isolated dependency
that suburban solitude
of stagnant submission
that stealthy ruin
of a virulent paralysis
cock withered through commission.

the catatonic
frigid fucking a diarised
lowlight shoring up the façade.
what chance that the narrow
confined preoption of youth
can withstand the discernment
of a wider world?

cutting onions for cover

never, ever, mine to want
never, even, mine to take
but a fool, as always, thought
in that intersection,
where solitude overlapped suffocation,
two used hearts could run smoothly
if only for the briefest while
but now, as all I can do is peep
through the smallest crack of a closing door
I feel the stall, and slip back
into the sexless ordinary

damned before we even begin