december 2016


                                   (i) it not right to test

the strength of every halleluiah


to wonder wherefore and why

these millimetres of naked jelly


this incessant cortex

have gone and inseminated the sun


seen its grave

and moved on to touch greater suns


why then does this vast, gloomy charm

still burn in my throat


twist my back

and thread its wherefore-dreams through my eyes


it is Saturn again, yelling at me

conjuring his benign infernos


we, he says

we are the shadows of comets


fragments of children chasing life

seedlings destined to spice


the one last sexual narrative

the last, last supper


a breathless farewell to all halleluiahs...






...last night the deep earth ceased to spin

and this morning the sun did not rise


instead the horizon itself

buckled and threw high over our heads


a glowing, limitless canopy of faces

each and every one of which


beamed treachery

it was a grim, unforgettable mosaic


pieced together with the icy love of the narcissist

no wonder the earth had stopped spinning


there was, it seemed to say, no time left

for solidarity with so many useless strangers


best to let one half of the unseen world

boil away into space


for why should human love even pretend to exist

in this nondescript corner of nowhere


it is a strange treasure

as meaningless as it is meaningful


a beacon, an urge to kiss the darkness around us

to expiate the darkness within


love, the only signature of humankind

the only edict ever written


to demand the sun keeps on rising...







...the sound of the rain falls through my mind

and immediately I am in chains


manacled once again to this old, filthy leviathan

this angel, this tormenting methuselah


who squats down before me

and opens her little bag of mirrors


swallows dog faeces

and waits for inspiration


immediately I panic

because although my heart


wants avidly to cut into the infinite

when I try to speak


my mouth becomes the stinking

leechy mouth before me


and my ears begin to leak

 fat, greasy jingles


desperately I throw the mirrors into disarray

and shun the faeces


but the rain defiantly squats in my head

refusing to let go of its immortality


I am therefore bound

by the crime of too much and too little


fragmented insight

a torment like no other


my words are my chains

and this imprisonment is my freedom...







...the beginning of prejudice starts in a mirror

the one and only place


the future can stare back at us

as the needle draws blood from the arm


the truth’s fatal certainty

that the bite of passion is finally over


that the hard, forbidding logic of eternity has arrived

to oil our dry sex


our love overrun

by the slow, strong bitterness of age


the needle now draining prejudice from the heart

spilling yet another million years across the floor


the civilised fascism of simply doing nothing

because the sun is out


and could go viral at any moment

another of truth’s fatal certainties


that even if fraternity is over

logic must in heaven as it must on earth


reign supreme

before the mirror finally slips from reach...




                                  (v), as everyday, I will remain the black sun

the squalid outlier that rises


trying to filter my life from the universe

to disentangle my soul’s meticulous code


from all the tricks and creeds and junk distractions

that rhyme death with immunity


but to reach any semblance of myself

I first must speak in tongues


to the solitude around me

the fly struggling in a web


the skin peeling from my feet

the jets bonded to the sky


these are all conspiracies

patterns in the nameless, black dust


that cloaks the universe with zeros

for although I have loved the man in woman


and the woman in man

I have loved my own mystery far more


the squalid sun

the web bonded to the sky


my solitude

always struggling


to disentangle dust from dust...






...suppose it needed only strength

could I really stop the wind’s fantasies


the chiming shadows

and the colours feeding on my eyes


it is always too late to pause a life

especially when there are thousands of images of yourself


rising from a cliff

and the free air simply cannot hold nor see


the creative pain

that accelerates you upwards


crushing and harvesting your body

a mix of merciless harmonies


pressed hard against your throat

and yet when all these spectres take my hand


and slide their stylus between my fingers

I know there is nothing more


no premeditated ecstasy behind this wilderness

which bears my name


just the nightmares feeding in the shade

nervously waiting for their turn


to take off into the wind...