I wrote this in late 2011. It was intended to accompany a hand-made doll, adding to its character.

Fragrant fabric of tangible touch
Fluid and life-affirming
Tremulous ineffable pulses jolt
Each smile sweet-tinged

I sit and drink
the interchange dry
They never notice my slack presence
I feed my vertiginous void
Plump goes the husk

If I try I will splinter
They will smell my falsity
and enact that stale crucifixion

So I drink my fill
and vomit word by word
it’s too rich
Call me Maudlin

My words are all I have
and even they are borrowed

I wrote this in late 2011. It was intended to accompany a hand-made doll, adding to its character.

Up Hourly
from a sunken home
hollow tower, twisting, long
to glaring warmth or eerie gloam
A form once vital, study, strong
each step – each tendon taut as twine
sallow skin sheaths withered string
Final threshold beneath the dome
A patient, punctual rope does hang
accustomed to his wizened grasp
The curved lip swings slowly, briefly to shine
Tradition’s each tug spends a song, soon sombre
lost to

This is important:
Drawn, scratching and frail – exposed as entrails to rapacious gusts.


Please understand me:
A welling of lachrymose flesh-pot to grease the cogs. To lay down my sallow burden in a warm nook.


Etiolated-sapling fingers, with delicate, blushing innocence, search for sunlight. Do you contain sunlight?


You are obtuse. I speak the language of flesh- not clocks.


We aren’t that different. We both lack codecs. I especially. Why else would I be doing this?


Nothing meaningful can be expressed in the language of facile flesh or the language of clocks. The language of my flesh is dead- unknown. Moreover, it doesn’t merit study.


The language of my flesh yields blankness, incredulity and at most, pity.


It has fled
Not far
Outside the greasy window
It dances with empty electric light

Nocturnal cloak flowing
Motley of bricks
Texture of tarmac
Motion a breeze

It throws a grinning glance
darting hither and thither
my eyes an elegy
as the strand grows more tenuous

What sits in this swivel-chair?
What sits, amidst the tangle of electric cords, the books and papers, a discarded teacup?
can this debris be said to be mine, I its, or is it more of a mutual arrangement?
Drowsy-gummy eyes, brought on by flue medicine.
Hands that could easily span the entire keyboard, brought on my genetic (ill) fortune
and the dissonance between the look and feel of them.

Photocopies from art catalogues line the walls, hastily placed
to ward off magnolia’s monotony
Shoes in need of replacement,
words in need of absorption,
pixels in need of pushing.
And It’s over
I go back.
I wait.
Possible work
and perhaps return.

It seems counter-intuitive to say that my body drags me.
When I seem to drag it, not so much for the walking, or the doing, but for the now very abstract goals.
But however one looks at it, it will continue.
The moment will trundle on
The speculation will continue to dance at its head,
and the ramshackle edifice will continue to grow in its wake.

Lunar mist of pale blue hue

whose depths I’ll never truly know

but glean form words whose forms do flow

from lips I fear I’ll never kiss

To never ask and never know

lest life lead lonesome to it’s end

aside one chance at wholeness throw

Beneath my ribs, the constant tug

a heart that serves to resonate

In doleful tones, bemoans past choice

at friendship’s cost did passion sate

Love’s is a blindness that nears perfection

for when gazing out at a world all plain

Sees all rebuilt in it’s own reflection

a deaf ear to judgement’s callus refrain

Born into a hollow grid
whose dreams have long since perished
Inwardly forsaken
though outwardly embellished
Bovine and placid
we passively graze
a hopelessly flaccid
and tepid malaise

Habitual consumerist ritual contrition
…a word perfect sales pitch meanders
‘a slice of your soul for a better position’
Not even a trace of sincerity
of candour

Chewed to the bone
sup hapless on marrow
The bewildered blood-lust of the narrow minded

We whittle
the brittle veneer
Disrobing the hatred
who beds with our fear

A strained conception
bereft of affection
A Neon foetus
is sired
and soon
is mired
in a cellophane whom

Torn from abdominal packaging
A polythene bag
cannot stem the bleeding
The new life soon suckles
on the foetid teat of fascist inbreeding

Fear and hatred’s child
Still internal
Still stolidly steeped in the minds reaches
and feel it
Rising and ravenous
A rhythm of war
beneath affluent avarice.

Well versed in choosing from a tailored selection
A stark forest of focused fingers
Find direction

Fear and hatred
Clenched and set
find their make where knowledge made little
The solitary
The minority
Penned in
like cattle

A Dull thud
Concussed silence
An action repeated
adding substance to violence
The cricket bat shatters the side of her scull

Palpable unease
rendered reality
Acts so far removed from suburban banality
from inside
burns a hatred
for so long unsaid
Paved order runs red before eyes of lead