october 2019





...there are no sounds, no names

for the words that leave our eyes


yet they speak with such searing rage

that scars are left hanging in the air


but we ourselves are the madness our fury brings

we are the true book of eyes


of sonnets left rotting in a ditch

we are the heroic, hostile ones


the soothsayers wandering through

the vast, statuesque geometry of space


asking – is there nothing more out here

but blood and syntax


is there nothing more a couplet can do

but hack a way through reality


back to the ditches, the ditches that are everywhere

clogged with eyes


and yet we, the people, who make no sound

who have no name


we hang in the air

a premonition, a spectacle


watching ourselves unravel...







...inside, just behind the eyes, is a mind of glass

a masked figurine staring at itself


reaching out to hold these seeming

shadows, moons, roots


deceptions of all that is real

the veil of an inescapable face


a person cast as a person

whose mind is an act of magic


an image of profound injustice

left staring at itself


and yet a cold breeze still chills the body

proving the world is far from broken


proving that the glass is inescapable

this translucent, grey tissue


with its shadowy data

its memories locked away


behind a façade of grinning atoms

monuments that rise and rise


just behind the eyes

a seeming reflection of the universe


left staring at itself...






...sometimes when I am out-manoeuvred by sleep

my beauteous sphinx


drips her scent into my face

and lets down her narcotic, ebony hair


and it is now that my heart dies

now that my ears roar with blood


and when her tongue wets my soul

the valleys flood


and a swathe of land slips into the sea

a fault line, a lifeline


this unearthly solitude

that draws a man into a woman


that pulls the heavens from our eyes

my beautiful lover, my sphinx


what have you done

you have scrambled the world inside men’s heads


you have taken over the centre

of the only circle we have ever known


and left us with this roaring

this smell of unearthly blood...







...and even after a thousand years of hoping

the skin on the back of my hands


is now dry and cracked

a script of ruthless promises


and verses that went nowhere

but my own heart


and although I tried so, so hard

I never could intuit


this gargantuan suffering of the universe

this meaninglessness of dry, cracked skin


its promiscuous ignorance

its fatal chemistry


then we are simply the language of water

and for millions of years


we have been speaking in tongues

convinced of ourselves


yet still only a liquid

an unintelligible, fluid everyman


whose skin is thinning fast

whose heart is covered


with a thousand suffering verses...