january 2017



...every spring the swallows arrive

screeching sex and hunger


later the jacaranda’s lilac blossom falls

taking with it a thousand hearts


maybe, just maybe

true freedom is knowing exactly


when to unpick this stunning, repetitive beauty

that real enlightenment is asking


how can this raw, exquisite colour

co-exist with a night sky


that shimmers with timeless insanity

but then, just how are such words even possible


for invariably the dark stanza

is only sent to harass the soul


and its music is certainly easier

to see than to hear


the rich, tight symmetry

of waves, claws, algorithms


each with its own way

of conveying the scent of its sex


across the violent, empty fragments of space

but so much blossom


and so many hearts have now fallen

our words


have become the exquisite colours

both of paradise and of hell...






...how can I ever be reconciled

to the implosive loneliness of sound


to these unbearable, ghostly elegies

that predictably tear my mind to pieces


better to be deaf

or to have all five, uninhibited senses severed


than experience this contraceptive solitude

they call reality


it is an indelible nonsense

a pact with chaos


a battlefield so foul and deceitful

it bruises my blood


causes mountains to stampede

and ice-sheets to groan and spew


with devastating, ridiculous noises

gods, sirens, fists


devices, IEDs, blitzkrieg

apps, codes, currencies


this, this is the long, grey breath

of monumental isolation


the long, grey breath of ghosts

singing in unison


a sound that must never be heard...






...with no warning a tension begins

to stretch and dominate the air


phrases start to rise from the ground

and words to drip from trees


an old, cold alliance is renewing

the soul’s blind kiss is again out


searching for yet more answers

for the finest of all certainties


the forensic trail to absolute zero

a place of trust so solid-cold


the future may well finish

with our lips sewn together


and vowels cemented to our eyes

as we rush to write humanity’s


last ever poem, remember

we are merely the light’s intuition


the tongue within these blinding clouds

whose myths invoke judgements that invoke murder


the old spiral that dominates the air

the cold kiss of solidified men and women


the old, cold kiss of absolute zero...






...standing alone at the very edge of a web

carefully I lean out


and in the motionless dark before me

I sense the city’s raw night


slide down my throat

its intimate honey


and a feeling of surrogate dread

of the spider’s purple blood


enters my heart

have we, I wonder, become what we fear most


the sorrowless extinction of all love

a tenderness transformed into hunger


it is possible

too easy in fact


to roll dice around our mouths

for some brief, tasteless passion


or watch an undiminishing ocean of secrets

and yet see only water


in my throat the honey spider sits motionless

I dare not breathe


love with all its brilliance and menace

is surely the final risk


when we stand at the raw edge of the night

leaning out...