Saturday, 23 January 2010


From favelas in the hills
we will descend upon you
like a swash -
angry, and yet peaceful in motive.

We will wound your tyranny
and your reign shall bleed to death.
we want our Hugo back;
we want our Chavez.

And so in the night
the light of a distant helicopter
signals the light of democracy;
hope is restored once again.

We move back into our barrios
and return to our communities,
sure in the knowledge
that our constitution shall once again breathe.

But the future will always be uncertain:
it seems the giant above us
never sleeps.

I love everyone.

Even in your quietest moments,
I feel you,
and behold you;
I love everyone.

All my friends
are superheroes
with immeasurable superpowers,
and they cry in the night.

I love everyone
and I love the developing
nature of reality,
unfolding before my feet.

All my friends
are superheroes
with eyes like diamond dust,
spilling out when they look down.

I love everyone,
even in my most confused moments;
even when I don't smile.
I love everyone.

All my friends are superheroes
with dulled powers
they've forgotten how to wield.
But I still love them.
And I love everyone.

They're mathematical equations
carried on a breath of elation.
All my friends and enemies
are superheroes,
and I love everyone.

Thursday, 21 January 2010


Walking the streets
are haggard children:
far too torn and ragged
a picture of youth;

feet hard with miles
of incessant walking -
like somnambulants endlessly
walking through infinite deserts.

Their eyes are broken,
but somehow still full of
the colour of youth.

Their faces are beautiful,
and yet tell of a struggle
that's been wreaked
since time's conception.

They sell anything they can find;
steal anything they can find -
just to buy lentils and rice
and keep clothed and dry.

Sewerage lines overflow
into the streets,
and children
bathe in the water.

All's not well in Mumbai,
or Detroit, or Flint,
or Wigan, or Bristol,
or Beijing, or Ulan Bator;
all is not well.

Your whitener,
and your methamphetamine,
and your presciption pills,
and Valium and Zantac and Vicodin;
all is not well.

It's part of a culture
that we're creating,
but which we'll never know;
it carries on like some shoddily written tragedy
shown in a broken theatre;
God bless the world.

Baby teeth (haiku).

Baby teeth, you grind
softly; you dribble: eyes wide
at the thought of food.

Baby, you grasp with
chubby arms; arms like the fat
of the early world.

You smile, but frown
as you teeth; I soothe you with
smiles, rum and milk.

You clasp my finger
and play with my hair; amazed
at textures unknown.

One day, you'll have
your own babies with their own
baby-toothed smiles.

And one day, you'll
again feel the walls of the
world, in awe of them.

But you won't be trapped;
the world is your oyster; make
sure you flesh it out.

Walls cannot hold you;
neither can I; but baby,
please remember me.

Baby, I love you
like a loved-up artist loves
his unfinished work.

I love you like I
loved the bottle; I've now
traded vice for love.

Choice (haiku).

Choice: not for choosy
Hands; they tend to fumble at
Straws - wine flows elsewhere.

Nature poems.

Part 1: the seeing.

Penned nature poems
in the darkness of twilight
for your child's pleasure.

Purple sky streaked with
milk, and a Moon of pale death
throwing light on trees.

The outlines are framed
in front of mountains and creeks;
carried down river.

Part 2: the calling.

Coyotes beg the
Moon to come down and play; far
from its starry friends.

The trees seperate
as if channeling nature's
will; wind scowls: deep tones.

And the night is writ
like it's for my eyes only,
and I write the night.

Part 3: the being.

Nature poems: my
play thing, in the dead of night;
when all has made winks.

Submerged in deep sleep,
but hearts thud in baritone;
in my mind, I hear.

Water is the life;
for the life of me, never
might we become merged.

Part 4: the becoming.

When all is quiet,
I see your eye above the
trees; you call to me.

You whisper in my
ears and caress my senses
with autumnal words.

When my eyes open
I can smell your life and waste,
and I see clearly.

Wednesday, 20 January 2010


I thought I was an iconoclast
Until someone came along
And smashed to pieces
Everything I thought I believed.

My vessel drained
Below half empty
And I was left
Feeling aggrieved.

But I'll fill myself up
With new information
And I'll get back
On the road of truth;

I'll look at the world
Once again
Through piercing blue eyes
Without ruth.


I'm too tired
to concentrate
on why I can't concentrate;
it's like drifting
in and out of sleep.

The words seem to pulsate;
the characters seem
to exchange places,
like they're playing
a game of musical chairs
with my mind.

Too timid to jump;
too bold to land with grace;
too lost to find my bearings;
too tired to dream -
I fall into a nadir of sleep

and wake with a heavy head,
filled with delta waves
and a dull landscape
of endless grey.

Illegal alien.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place

they say I am wrong;
they say I don't belong,
but all paths must meet
in the end.

I've been on the road
for most of my life;
looking for any place
that'll take me;
any place that'll take me -
any place I can lay down my strife.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold and on my own.
most of my family's dead;
the rest have mostly flown.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold
and all alone.
All alone.

All is not well
where I'm from;
It doesn't seem that much better

But you could change my story;
there must be good people
out there.

I don't have much clothing,
but I'm willing to work.
Don't turn me away
because you feel you've been hurt.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place

I can't speak all that well,
but I am strong.
My dignity is not
for sale.

Just because you've lived here
longer than I
doesn't mean you can commit me,
commit me to die.

I am a being.
I have a heart.
You have no right
to tear it apart.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

An ode to reckless teenage bravado.

You're the victim of
Fear in vanity's clothing.

But I still
Want you,
And need you,
And adore you;

Even though you might
One day
A supernova;

But, I'm secure
In the knowledge that
You'll never
Into a
Black hole.

Kick up the leaves,
And curse the heavens
For being too perplexing;

But one day
You'll know them
Like your palms,
And psalms,
And everything else in your dreams.


Crying at a funeral
for no particular reason,
other than the heavy sense of
grief and
similar watered eyes.

We all cry the same;
though in different moments
and shades;
some tears are kept inside
and lubricate us,
tempting us to fall apart
like frantic machines.

Crying at a funeral,
for no other reason
than respect:
a poor and facile reason
that any cheap conjuror
can tease
from water-ready eyes.

Crying at a funeral
because I would like
to have known you
and loved you
like your dearest;

But I never did.
And I never will.
So I sigh,
but my eyes don't become moist
with tears
that have no place,
or bearing
within my soul.

I'm sorry,
but sometimes the dead
die quietly,
and the living
have quiet thoughts,
that cannot be placed
and so live
in suspended animation;

but somewhere,
real tears are shed for you:
tears that began on the day of
tears that will run for ever,
weeping at the beauty,
and banality,
and wonder,
and futility of it all;

tears that run through us all,
and prompt us to remember
that one day
we too will die so pointlessly-
like you -
after living under the
hammers of others,
and a boundless night sky.

No matter.

No matter how obscene you think it -
no matter how crazy they say it might be -
a crazy thought is not the preserve
of a crazy mind
or a violent sea.

A thought is all yours:
an expression of you;
and it matters not that others tell you
that you're a fruit
or cuckoo.

Don't worry on keeping quiet
or keeping your thoughts within;
your thoughts are for you -
they're not for others' whims.

They say that it's 'random',
but that's such a facile word.
The only thing that's random
is that their aims are so absurd

as to try to shut you up;
as to try to dumb you down;
and put you in a suit,
and cavort you about town -

like a monkey on a string,
or a child with a noose;
or some colourless thing,
like a dead and lame goose.

No matter what they say;
no matter what they do;
your tomorrow is today,
and you
are you,
are you.


Can you feel the hate
Swirling within you?
You mask it as 'humour'.

One day,
It will turn you inside out
And swallow you whole.

And where you once were
There shall remain a heavy presence
That quickly goes unnoticed.

The teeth within you
Will develop an appetite
Whose calling can't be sated.

And so you will crease,
And fall in on yourself,
Like a neutron star in its death throes
In some uncared-for
Pocket of the universe.


Art is hidden
in the deepest cracks
and recesses
of human experience.

Even after they're dead,
you'll still not look there.

Even after we're all dead,
there'll still be art there

You refuse to look there,
because what you see
might pull you in
and keep you there for ever.

How would it feel to be
trapped with your
reflection for ever?

All your guilt and sin and
squirming pitifulness?
So you don't look there,
and it doesn't peer back into you.

But in your quietest moments,
your mind skips over the ocean,
suddenly descending into
great holes in the Earth.

The truth.

Your patriotic attempts
at jingoism -
in all their couched and pathetic venom -
will not stir the
my heart.

I will crush you
like you don't expect;
flags will wave,
but they will be covered in blood:
the blood of you,
and your children,
and your enemies,
and your children's enemies,
and those of conquered lands;

and the dead who've tried in vain to cease
the incessant marches of unreason,
and disdain for moral character.

I will put you under my foot
and crush you within your
Reichstags and temples,
and churches -
long before you even wish to burn them down yourselves,
and blame their destruction on foreign entities
with nefarious motivations.

I will not get rheumy-eyed
at the thought of
my country
and all of its honours -
mostly terrors in fancy clothing.

I will not tremble;
nor will I remain impassive.
I will shoot from my mouth
flames of truth
that can vaporise mountains
and put the fear of all desolation
into the eyes of tyrants,
and dragons,
and despots,
and monarchs -
and even God.

For the truth is my weapon,
and I wield it with pride;

Who knows? -
I might even be its next target.
But it will cut me down with glory -
and I will let it.
And it will be taken up by other
ne'er-shaking hands,
that will strike you dead
without spilling any of the bile that animates you.

Your flesh is for the whims of time -
the hourglass -
and the seagulls,
and your rabid friends,
who will weep at your demise,
after tearing you apart like the feeble dog you are.

And new life will blossom,
and be bruised,
and sour,
and steer from tranquility;
but maybe we can deter the next generation
from devouring your lies;
instead, digesting them fully,
and offering them to the earth,
in a thankful and even promise,
that flowers might grow in the most acid peat.

Like growth,
maggots thrive in the midst of decay.
But maggots die,
whilst change is present
in the nuances of each new burst of life.


Listen to me;
I'll listen to you.
I can see
Beauty in you.

Don't be afraid.
Don't run into the shade.
Come out and face the Sun.
The future is waiting
For you.

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

They put thoughts in your head;
Words in your mouth.
They advise you on how to think,
And in time it all goes south

And tumbles into the sea.
This is what might be.
They say: 'This is what will be
If your eyes fail to see.'

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

I miss you.

I miss you.
Since you've been gone
I barely sleep;
Not even a wink.

Are you up there?
Oh, my childish imagination.
I long for cessation

I miss you.
The things you said
Made me.
Please don't unmake me.

I'm feeble.
I'll have to carry on
This upheaval.

It's peaceful -
Since you've been gone;
I just gaze at dew and hear bird song.

And your voice
Echoes still in the hall.
I miss you.
Will you help me to carry on?

Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
I miss you.

The fire.

The fire never died;
The ember's still burning,
Deep inside.

The late 60s were real,
But they felt like a dream;
Peace is never as placid as it seems.

The fire never died;
It burns on still.
To get my trip I need music;
I don't need no pill.

I don't need no weed -
Although I find it helps.

The fire never died.
The pearl's still resting amongst the kelp.

Tuesday, 19 January 2010

Lord's prayer.

Dear God,
Lord and protector of all that is imaginary;
Lord of my dreams -
Of my imagination,
In the sky,
Eating the pie;
Wielding a huge glistening ball of unreason;
With the beard;
Please protect me from my sister,
And her relentless attempts to commandeer my laptop.

Dear God -
The sky God -
With the zombie son
(Who is also God, apparently;
Something about a godhead -
I dunno),
Please protect me from
Giant custard monsters
And other pretend creatures
Advocating bigotry, infanticide,
Genocide, slavery, rape, incest and
Prostitution -
Creatures like you.


P.S. Please don't send the Holy Ghost to kill my children - I've done nothing to you, so stay out of my life, you egomaniacal, genocidal, megalomaniacal prick!


How we treat you
like an unwanted guest;
shaking off our shoes
in jest of maintaining the sanctity
of our precious hallway carpets.

O, but once when
we bore smaller,
keener smiles
we danced with you;
and you danced in return,
like a jester plying for to receive our folly
in recognition.

So now,
the roads are thick
with grief
that has no place
in the heart.

The cars become stuck,
the people feel unstuck;
the people just sit in armchairs -
on sofas -
and wait for a time when
they can more happily wait,
and idle their days in warmer climes.

But the old,
though cold,
observe with both
joy and apprehension
the white blanket,
falling like old, crushed bones from Heaven.

One day,
I might dance with you.
I will fall and rise with you,
and maybe you will coat
what humus I make
with your winter will.

Kaleidoscopic mind breaking down into fractured colours.

The Lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind
Is braking down

Into some sort of
Of pretty patterns
Wich I cant read;
Cant understand.

I tri to cry,
But feelings are nummed.
Where has my mind gon?

The lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind,
Is becuming a singularity.

Everyfing I wunce new,
Wich was wunce blue,
Is now red,
And ritten
In a language I cant understand.

Im trapped
In a prison
Of my own constructshun.

Its not my falt.
Everyfing is ugly,
And becuming unreadable.
But the skys still so beautyful.


Hearts are soft,
but can be made frozen,
and used to smash you to pieces with all the ferocity
of a mind 
on a type of revenge
that only the creulty 
and majesty of life 
can stir.

Monday, 18 January 2010

An unknown face.

An unknown face.
I appear in all your stories.

I walk in;
I walk out:
The unacknowledged.

I leave the scene
And ask for no raised heads,
Or polite smiles,
Or fiestas in my name.

I partake in everything
But you scarcely know I'm present.

I arrive,
And I'm gone;
Before you even know the present's present,
Or reflection has cast its hands upon you.

An unknown face,
With no requests,
Will burn on inside you until your stories
Are buried with your crumbling vessel.

An unknown face
Will be cast to the wind
In an offering to some memory
That passes through you
As a brief shudder,
Which you soon discard.

An unknown face
Makes unknown bones
But permits a quiet dignity,
Existing on the fringe of all you might ever see,
That those of fame will never know.

I ask only that you be,
And smash mould against mould;
And from the dust make new moulds;
And never live by example,
Because example begets lame children
That know not the fullness of reason or purpose.

An unknown face
Will never haunt your dreams
Or infect your nightmares;
It will only pass you by,
Quiet in all its triumphs and horrors.

An unknown face is yours,
And mine,
And theirs;
As we stumble in the dark,
Searching the features.

One day, I will pass you by,
And you will not know me;
But you will feel my actions
In the ripples I make in the world.
I make few ripples:
My ripples are absorbed by the features of the Earth.


I wait for the evening to bleed away.
I wait for the evening to die,
in hope of being greeted with a more fruitful morning.

I wait for the fog to clear,
for colours to appear -
streaking the sky like they mean to impress.

I wait for night to envelop me
and steal me away to a land of dreams,
where maybe I'll be gracefully interred;
just for a little while.

I wait for you
like a lame child
waiting for medical care;
waiting for his parents' interventionist God to commit him to death

I wait for the evening to clear;
the air to settle,
and the morning to kick up the cobwebs,
which will soon re-form.

I'm waiting for the evening to inculcate in me some deep yearning
for a time when night-time means more than just shambling ghosts
and a longing to be refreshed.

I wait for the evening to leave,
not knowing that it lives within the dark of my soul;
morning, too.

I guess I'm waiting for a more pleasant happening to arrive,
and bring with it a routine with no items:
just a blank space,
like night.

I wait for the evening to give peace to the wind-blown,
although it will only heighten their coldness,
and leave me feeling like being warmed up might kill me,
or turn me into some creature wandering, lost, under the Sun.