20 December 2012



Old man, his hands look dead. His neck is creased like a scrotum. His eyes are milky blue. He looks right into me for a second and something flickers and disappears. He’s moved on – moved within to some ancient memory that seems more real than I. Age draws the mind inward until we live on memories. The world at large loses its allure. The world gave up on the old man long before he deserted the world.

Will I grow old I wonder, real old I mean? Will I live long enough to grow raven’s claws and a purple veiny beak? I can just about imagine losing my marbles and retreating into my yesterdays. Becoming some drooling old fart sitting in my own shit. I’m terrified of that. Not having my faculties, not even knowing what kind of hell I’m living in.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and die before that ever happens. Maybe I’ll get luckier still and live to a ripe old age with my mind intact. Either way I don’t relish the prospect of ageing, but there is little I can do to negate the process – short of suicide and that is an even bleaker prospect.


12 December 2012


The rain poured down
On the dark and dreary town
Heavy industrial gloom
Settled like a mantle of black ash
On my old hometown
The crushing weight of sanity
Cast an oppressive pall
Over the grimy rooftops
I had to prize open his coffin lid
To ascertain the cause of death
They say he jumped
But he was pushed
No-one ever jumps
They are all pushed
We lifted him from his coffin
And left him in the open air
Where the crows could get at his flesh
Where the sun could bleach his bones
And the wind could caress his carcass
Like whispers of ancient words forgotten
And the rain poured down
On the living and the dead
I felt a chill and so very, very old

10 December 2012

Pistol Whipped


Writing without drugs is like squeezing spunk from stones. I promised myself I’d write for an hour every day, but I can’t find the head room for that. That unbearable straightness precludes the flash of inspiration. I cannot shoot no-one with an empty gun. You can try beating sense into the words, but you end up with a fistful of bloody words.

I underwent analysis to make myself more likeable. All I got was a navel load of introspection and an even greater craving for drugs to wipe away the memory of self. Who can I shoot with an empty gun? I can only beat myself around the head with it and hope that concussion brings me some measure of euphoria and I am pistol whipped into some kind of order.


23 November 2012



The three great mysteries

Life, love and death

Compass all

Our little knowledge

Borne like jewels

Is of no advantage

In the face of the unknown

Deep in the heart of the sun

The sound of tiny hammers

Beating on golden anvils

Forged in the fragility of being

Ring in a single wavering note

They are pounding out our lives

With the finest of intentions

In the hope we will survive 


22 November 2012

A Little Blood



A little blood – well, what did you expect?

Every birth is an act of violence

Life is bloody, beautiful and short

At night we lay us down to rest

In the morning we shed our dreams

And take our place on the treadmill

The dreadful work begins again

Bloody ankles and deadly smiles

Men fall as the leaves fall

Each whittled into nothing

Unseen hands wielding a final blade

They are enfolded in black wings

And ferried across dark waters

Out into the nevermore


25 October 2012

“I never raised my hands”


Hit with a wet sock; all damp insides. The silence settles on the spongy brain. Memories, like rainy days, are never far away. They say our crimes come back to haunt us; that we revisit them and they us.

“I never raised my hands…”


They use lasers and specks of dust to measure statements; to quantify, not qualify. Their veracity is a question unanswered.

“I never raised my hands…”

The entropy of those lies tear at my insides. I feel it in my bones; in my aching stones. The sins of the father are visited on his sons. He never raised his hands and neither did I. Convenient untruths fail to salve a dirty conscience.

“I never raised my hands…”

And never shall again.


16 October 2012

Bad Luck

I’m reaching critical mass. I may implode – explode, or expire. All that’s pent up within is spilling from my lips in a language I don’t understand – all the wrong words in the right order. I blurt, I spurt – my negativity appalls me. I wish I could stop, but I’m playing out the reel and can’t change the script. There are explanations for my plight; a lifetime of suppressing my emotions so that I occasionally blow a fuse and spill my guts. The curse of manic depression crosses the wires in my head causing emotional overload. I put it down to bad luck. It’s bad luck I have the curse.

I believe in bad luck. There is no justice in this world – only good and bad luck. The people experiencing good luck are far outweighed by the people experiencing bad luck. Bad luck is ubiquitous and it’ll find you out sooner or later. Destiny is a concept we are willing to accept if we are fortunate, but we call it injustice when we are not. We regard good luck as a right, and bad luck as a betrayal of that right.

Some say we make our own luck and to some extent that must be true. Poor decisions and bad luck are bed partners. However, the universe is a big place and it’s chaotic. It’s only natural that chaos touches us sometimes. There are unhappy situations that cannot be attributed to any logical theory of causation – we call them bad luck.

14 October 2012

Saint Christopher


Good old Saint Christopher, patron saint of travelling salesmen and hobos, lost his head for sticking to his guns. He was immortalized as a martyr and lives in daily memory for millions in the form of good luck charms.

I never doubted the possibility of an afterlife. In fact I want one and am determined to immortalize myself one way or another. Surely immortality is the only goal worth shooting for.

I’ve attempted to transcend physical limitations through the use of magical roots and ceremonies. I recognized in early life that we all carry our death with us at all times. I tried to shake of my death throughout most of my life, but I haven’t completed my education yet and the knack of eluding death has always escaped me.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dead peoples dust. I’ve seen friends come and go (perhaps into the afterlife, perhaps not) and I’m gradually coming to accept that I may not achieve immortality after all. I smoke, I drink (and other unspeakable things) If my body is a temple it’s a sprawling derelict temple with broken idols and reliefs of forgotten gods and demons. My temple is haunted by the ghosts of departed companions and acquaintances – some only half remembered. “Qui vivra verra”

So much for immortality – I’ll settle for longevity. Not that I intend to do very much to achieve it. I think I’ll reach a grand old age through sheer force of will and remaining flexible in my outlook. So if I must embrace paganism in order to survive you won’t find me losing my head over it.


10 October 2012

The Road


Many men died on this road (and I knew some of them). Their widow’s tears anoint the paving stones that stretch further than the eye can. This road leads nowhere and there’s no use travelling it – unless you have nothing better to do than waste time chasing shadows until you fall.

If I should fall don’t bury me by the side of the road. Bury me somewhere like home – anybody’s home. Where someone might keep my grave clean – so it don’t disappear beneath the tall grass. And if no one remembers me – that’s fine ‘cause I’ll have a stone with my name on it. In that graveyard somewhere clean.

9 October 2012



Cold heavy depression clings to me like frost. My gut is as frozen as the bitter end. The razor inside twists, my blood is clotted ice. What hideous dead end led to the creation of a frozen man? What travesty of justice warrants such a sentence?

I heard them say “Stay away from it – it’s a walking corpse” I might have rotted away years ago, if I wasn’t so cold. How I long for the warmth of an opium flush, that heavy head and nodding quiescence.

The unaware don’t see – can’t see (which is a blessing) some are insulated with comfort; others are kept snug and warm in an opiate haze. Some are too thick skinned to see. They constitute the heroic archetype. I shot one once – just for sleeping – lazy type had it coming. Put a 30 calibre in his brain – he sleeps real well now. Men in sensory withdrawal often lose their bodies, or feel like they are in another body. My body is cold – very cold. It shivers inside like a wet bag of snot – it drips internally into a bucket full of cum and slime. Even my thoughts are slow and cold – syphilitic and palsied – I talk with a leprous tongue; my very words are poison to the ear of any sane man.

My pistol jumps in my hand – recoil – cold jism splatters and crystallizes sticky on my trousers. I didn’t realize it was loaded – I’d never have pointed it otherwise; unless to shoot some sleeping hero of course. There are aliens amongst us; homo saps who never learned common grace and who have not a sympathetic bone in their pasty bodies. Some style themselves as artists and bleed goodness and light onto their canvas like puppy dogs on an evangelical charabang. Paint me the colours of the rainbow. Paint me pink. Paint me gold. Paint me out of here; I’m freezing my tits off. Just don’t sing to me – I’m way too old.

I’m possessed, of course. Some alien entity occupies this body. I know what it is – it’s me. I don’t belong here – I’m a parasitic delusion that has to be sated with drink and drugs.

“Methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine?” – yes please, and throw in a little diamorphine to ease the ride. Life as a parasitic delusion isn’t easy – especially if your host is a drag. He is a drag you know; all he ever does is complain and his body is cold, so very cold.



8 October 2012



“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.”
Langston Hughes


They say cats actually purr as death takes them. That seems a healthy attitude to have. Me, I get apprehensive just thinking about my own mortality. I can’t imagine non existence any more than I can imagine some noncorporeal existence, or reincarnation. I can’t even imagine my final moments, but I’m sure I won’t be purring.





Prisoners of the rain

Bearers of bad tidings

Trudge into the east

Two stops beyond Eden

Where dark beasts are born

Within the hearts of the loveless

False witnesses deny the dawn

To live in the dark

They pack empty suitcases

And run in diminished circles

Like blind men hitching rides

To any other place devoid of light

The lies they spread infect the ear

And flourish like cancer

In the minds of the uncaring


6 October 2012



A long time ago, but not so far away, I was young and had my whole life in front of me. I was raised in a small town by nice people. Nice ordinary people who fought everyday and hardly noticed me or my siblings. I wasn’t in any hurry to grow up. I dallied in the woolly headed dream like state of infancy and played fantastic games with my brothers during long summer days and nights. Even my adolescence was filled with dreaming – there were girls and friendships I thought would last forever, but nothing was ever ‘real’ to me.

So where did I go wrong? Perhaps life, real life, failed to measure up to my childhood dreams. Perhaps I was traumatized in my infancy. Whatever the reason I always felt like there was something missing. I consoled myself with drink and drugs for the opportunities squandered and the hours ill spent, but nothing could fill the hole that lay hidden in the core of me.

I once thought that love will fill the hole and make me somehow complete. I always thought that life itself sprang from love, but I’ve seen that hate has a life of its own too. No, love didn’t fill the gap. In fact, love simply accentuated the depth of the chasm within. It was as if that hole measured the distance between myself and the rest of the human race. It turned out I couldn’t expect anyone else to fill that space for me – I’d have to bear that burden myself.

So what’s the solution? There is no solution. Life goes on and we go with it – whether we want to or not. Perhaps in the end life fills that hole, or more accurately it’s the attempt to fill the hole that constitutes a life. I don’t know how others feel, or if my sentiments will strike a chord with anybody else. I just know that I’m holed with a hunger that is never satiated, never filled.



5 October 2012


Adult form

The tape worm in my gut tells me when, and who, to eat. I know he’s crazy, but he’s insistent. I draw the line at Methodists – too dry – too organised. Now they have that see see TV so you have to watch who you pick up and where. A guy can’t get away with a thing. Used to be that these dark winter nights covered a plethora of covert activity, but nowadays they have cameras that fit into your colon. 

The tapeworm writhes in disgust at the thought of that kind of exposure. He likes the dark seclusion of the bowel and its squishy warmth. My gut is home to numerous infestations and hunches. I feel things with my gut the way you might feel with your fingertips or your love pump. My tapeworm keeps me well informed – though he suffers a right wing bias I have to filter out through my spleen. I can ignore his more extreme fear fuelled demands – until he lays on the brain pulse and cripples my membrane with the hurt. Then I have to go do something drastic which will inevitably humiliate and embarrass me. Such is the frailty of human nature – we are often in the squishy dark groping for comprehension in the shit and slime. We are often thinking with the gut instead of with the head.

4 October 2012


Don’t dig me up.
I’ve resigned myself to the inevitable and I just don’t give a fuck. I have heavy blood – I’m sorry the fighting ended, but glad that the struggle is over. I’m going to lie here and die by degrees – unnoticed and unloved. My sheets carry the aroma of soured dreams and my head is full of snakes.

Why can’t I just breathe? Open up to the possibility of resurrection. Get myself a shovel and dig. Wave the ju ju stick – toss those bones and divine a new day with my name on it. I could leave this place and never look back. I could start again in a new town, with a new name.

Why don’t you dance for me? Give me a pirouette, a pasodoble. Go on - give us a twirl. The worst things in life are free and misery abhors company, but you are never alone with your memories.

I’m a puppet to my memories. I peer dimly through second hand daylight at my empire of rust and I don’t give a shit – I’m going nowhere – I’m in this thing until the last dog dies.

5 September 2012


I had expectations
Slender ones
Faint and penny plain
Tuppence worth please
I'm counting costs
For my rainy days
I might never work again
My mechanism is worn
With repetitious strain
And I stand here waiting
For a bus in the sodding rain
The blunt edge of depression
Carves me slowly once again
Every nerve and sinew is taught
But I don’t really mind
I’m a perverse and twisted soul
Who eschews the light of day
and has just enough self control
To keep the wolf at bay

1 September 2012



Meat and two veg

The order of the day

Egg and chips

Those trusty standbys

Powers cuts and strikes

Lock outs and riots

Calor gas evenings

Radio by candle light

The white heat of technology

The Tiber foaming red

Unfulfilled prophesies

Littered the dirty streets

Those were the days

Of sedentary bombs

In secret locations

Policemen & revolutionaries

Armies of occupation

The other Battle of Britain

Was waged in the dark


19 August 2012



I’ll have his guts for garters

He’ll make me a murderer

I’ll swing for him if I have to

I don’t care for consequences

I’ll bash his tiny brain in

Stick his head on a spike

I’m at the end of my tether

About to cut loose

I’ll slash him, stab him

Throttle and drown him

He’ll be the victim

And I’ll be the fucking monster

I swear I’ll do him in

Just one more word

And I’ll do him in


15 August 2012

Crashing Out

Sometimes I get so low
I start to think about crashing out
All my life I’ve been crashing out
Crashing out of something or other
I get jammed up in situations
So I have to make a change
That’s when I have to crash out
Into a new scene, a new life
When I need help, I need it bad
But there is no help this side of hell
So, I just crash out – make a run for it
I pack my bags and get myself free

12 August 2012


I wanna be stoned
Like the meteor
That crashed into the earth
And killed all the dinosaurs
I wanna be stoned
Like a great muddy river
That flows down the delta
To feed the fishes in the ocean
The juice is good
The booze is so not good
I need a positive stone
Hurled in my direction
Heap me up with manna from heaven
One silver bolt
Would fix you with my meaning
There is no hiding place
From the miracle of creation

15 July 2012

Shotgun Messenger


You placed your bets
On a strangers smile
But where did you go
When the lights went out?
You played the game
The best you could
But all you gained - you lost
You thought you could make it
All on your own
You thought you were a winner
But all that makes up our lives
All that’s wrong and right
Is but a fleeting memory
Ours to hold, but not too tight

10 July 2012


Dummy up and listen good
While I pour moonshine in your ears
We got no homes to go to
And no-one waiting there
The world is big
But not big enough
For us to fit in
We’re the bad apples
Who spoiled the whole barrel
Fitted up on charges of vagrancy
For wearing out our shoes
We were kings of the highways
With no roof to tie us down
No man could boss us around
Now we live with doors unhinged
And when the smoke has cleared
All we have is empty pockets
But once we’re back on the road
We’ll be livin’ high on the hog
Low down on the greasy pole

26 June 2012

Bloody Imposter


They never sicken of taking my blood

They must have gallons by now

Enough to reconstruct the man

To make a blood monster

To take my place

To kiss my wife with his bloody lips

To sleep beside her in my bloody bed

Perhaps I am that bloody man

How would I ever know?

Maybe I’m the bloody doppelganger

What if the real me is locked away

In some asylum somewhere

And I’m his crazy counterpart

The bloody imposter in his life


12 June 2012

Poppy Tears


The ancient Vedas describe the poppy as ‘heart pleasing’. There is no more apt description.The thin white latex leaks in milky droplets from the poppy’s skin and hardens into a sticky brown resin.

It tastes of bitter lettuce and burns with an acrid smoke that lays soporific charms on the minds of savage beasts.

It gifts the touch of night and a little death on the hearts of those bleached divers on that fatal arc who drink the poppy’s tears


11 June 2012

Mirror, Mirror


There are certain kinds of dust monkey who'll eat your fucking face off and vampires who’ll suck up your will to live. When I look in the mirror I see your face which could be the cause of deep self loathing. After all I wear the devil’s face, but I don’t care no more. I learned to live with that and any number of bad trips you laid on me.

So I’m the Antichrist and the bad Buddha. I abide in the knowledge that no man can touch my piece of mind. So I’ll be laughing my socks off come your judgment day.


26 May 2012


I don’t want to talk today
I won’t want to talk tomorrow
The viper that bit me
Had a morbid tongue
The bitterest black poison
Threatens to drag me down
To my darker layer
But I’ll keep my silence
Learn how to bite my tongue
I’ll die by degrees
And keep to myself
The secrets of a lifetime
That was lived in error

23 May 2012

The Real You

I saw your face
Contorted with rage
Fierce green eyes
Tinted with hate
It wasn’t so pretty
But I think I was seeing
The real you
It struck me as funny
I could not help laughing
You looked so small
You seemed so far away

22 May 2012



Bake my bones

Brittle and broken

Flay my nerves

Fragile and shattered

I am grist for the mill

Meat for the table

Ache me, break me

Roast me on a spit

Cover me in misery

I am watered down

And poured out

Pain is my middle name

Agony is my birthright


21 May 2012



You gotta have style

Something you can pour

From a tall pitcher

Into a short glass

That thing that oozes

From you fingertips

And shapes the words

Into shade and nuance

Imagery and thought

Something that says

This is me

Nobody else can do it

Like this

I’m not talking varnish

Not just a thin layer

Style is deep

Your style is you

In the abstract

Stamped into the page


18 May 2012

Mad Man


Let’s talk about what is

And isn’t there

With a buzz on

Fear the monkey

Fuck the monkey

I nearly wrote my will

Whispered lines

In absentia

A couple of chromosomes

Short of a…


Madmen are trying to fix things

What kind of things?

Tiny things

Like lives

Stick a little procaine in my life

Blur my edges

Numb my nuts

Too many books

In my locker

Too many crossed wires

In my head

Not to be


17 May 2012

The War On Sleep


After six days and seven nights my eyes were red and sore. I felt as though my skin was parchment and I was filled with electric bees. My head buzzed with empty space and I stood thinly at the centre. I was insulated by static mush in the midst of an electronic hive. I was thinking in a single stream of mercury. I was constantly in the frame; consolidating the one true IS. Just as easy as breathing – which is exactly what I was doing. I was the density of air and breathed by osmosis. Molecules of oxygen glowing luminescent purples and greens hummed around me. I absorbed the light through my skin in paroxysm of delight and realisation. The everything spoke to me and I vibrated on the words.

In the beginning was the spoken and the spoken was good. Words delineate and encapsulate. Words are the bricks of our universe and they cascaded through my mind to be filtered through my liquid consciousness. This was the high on high; close to the heavens and closer to the edge of oblivion. All this was more than I could translate into cohesive thought. I rolled a number and ate the smoke. The time had come for crashing and the horrors of the deep. Naked, inert and defenceless - sleep beckoned me with iron fingers and I was too weak to disobey. She took me down into dark oceans filled with forgotten dreams. I fought like a drowning man, but she took me hard and relentless into the deep. My cruel mistress, my unwanted lover – she’d always win out in the end.


14 May 2012

Pig God


The secrets hidden in your head

The occult pleasures of your heart

The treasures you have plundered

Then passed off as your own

Mark you out as a singular failure

The simulation of a man

A shadow in your darkness

In the solitude of your prison cell

You pray to your pig god

That no-one sees your true face

Or the bloody hands

That betray those guilty secrets

And your empty aspirations


4 May 2012


I love the way beer burns an empty stomach and leaves a buzz in an empty head. I love the feeling of minor vertigo produced by a lung full of green and the gentle rocking of my boat in the calmer waters dreamt of in my cooler quarter. Send me jazz messengers to soothe my mind and smooth out the corrugations of my life.

I deplore obliteration, but dig augmentation. I like a little spin now and then – to hone my edge and free up some space in my tool box. There are a billion jurors on my case who’ll condemn my predilections as errant criminality, but I pay no attention to dogs with no teeth. I like to cultivate a little distance between myself and the unclean thing, ‘cause the unclean thing really twists my nuts.


30 April 2012

I Don’t Remember


I don’t remember


The summer loves

And winter tragedies

Softly spoken promises

And bitter recrimination


I don’t remember


Any of you

Partners in crimes

Too sweet to resist


I don’t remember


Carved by bloody lies

And broken promises

Or the hand

That wielded the knife


I don’t remember


21 April 2012

Something’s Coming



Something’s coming…

Something’s coming

From a long way off

Bury your head

Plough a new furrow

Cultivate a little distance

From the past


20 April 2012

Kissing God

“Smoking this stuff is like kissing God” – hyperbole, he did a good line in embroidery. Of course the stuff was lethal – laced with DMT – Happy times spread across my face like the warmth of the morning sun and unfolded in my lap in a royal flush. 

I swam where the dolphins swam and ran where the children ran. I found the place where all the dreamers came from. I was as light as the breeze, as helpless as a child. I wouldn’t leave a ripple if you dropped me in the ocean. “See the little crystals? That’s the magic right there, in them crystals.” So he thought; the magic was in us – in the forms reflected in those crystals  – one of which was divine.

7 April 2012


They say we came from dust
And to dust we shall return
That there is no heaven above
No kingdom yet to come
But I can show you heaven
It’s ecstasy coming and going
Between flesh and blood
Because heaven's here on Earth
And its name is really love

6 April 2012

The Biggest Lie

You was the giant killer
Big chief of the Zulus
You was a hard man
King of the Hoodoos
Your word was law
Your name was God
But you’re the biggest lie
That has ever been told

2 April 2012


I dreamed that they banned music and silence softly ate at our minds and infiltrated our hearts until we were made of nothing but emptiness. Our voices contained no lyricism, or colour. Our thoughts contained no conflict, or wonder. Even our faces gave up and died – their blank countenances conveyed neither happiness nor pain, their egoless expressions were one and the same. A world without music was a world without tears, a world without laughter. A world without music was like a play without actors.
Image ‘Mute’ by Maya Kulenovic

21 March 2012


Squeeze me a Brompton’s and blow my joint while I eat this bird. I have a hard on for the kind of orgasm only a world class hooker, or a hard shot of junk provides. My old man got tarred for drinking this bug juice, but I don’t care about tar – it’s the feathers I object too. I’ll blow my own brains out before I let anyone turn me into a chicken.

Those cold blooded bastards down at the lizard house have it in for dissenters who sup God’s own from the crystal cup. They incarcerate anyone who jacks up or spreads a little green on his lungs. Their war on drugs is a futile exercise in enforced conformity. The pressures of the market lead to standardisation and the ubiquity of mediocrity.

Prohibitions cause criminality which keeps the law enforcers in business. Everyone is a would be snitch. Everybody is an enforcer trying to gun us down in a hail of psychic bullets. Pour me another baby; I’ve come over all terminal. I need to cradle my consciousness in velvet gloves.

20 March 2012

Leave Me Be


My spring is way too tight

I’m on the fight or flight

The roaches beneath my skin

Are threatening to do me in

I’ve reached a certain velocity

It’s an animal ferocity


I can’t sit still

I think I’m ill

I pace the floor

Make for the door

But out or in

I’m stuck on a pin

I can’t get free

Just let me be


I’m rotating left then right

There is no peace in sight

I’m spinning like a top

I don’t think I can stop

I’m struggling for breath

I might catch my death


I can’t sit still

I think I’m ill

I pace the floor

Make for the door

But out or in

I’m stuck on a pin

I just can’t get free

So please let me be


19 March 2012


Travel me
Unravel me
Baffle me
Turn me out
Fix me with a fungal crown
Pump it in
Pour it out
Rub it on
Inhale – exhale
Spark it up
Snuff it out
Skin it back
Tear it down
Anoint my head
With manna from heaven
Spike me upward
Drag me down
Ball my lightning
Take me under
Turn me on
Turn me around
With my confusion
Make me whole
If not holy
Bake me outside
In the sun



Gimme a dig of that juice, mix it with my medicine so it bites like a bitch and turns my flesh to stoned. I like my dragons green and full of sap so I dangle by a silver thread vibrating on the frequency of ecstatic union. Spread those creamy thighs baby and let me glimpse heavens gate. We’re gonna fuse into the night and roll along the back roads of eternity. Take me to the moment when the stars within flicker and pour me out like honey and liquid gold. This flesh, yours and mine, is food for the gods. The feast we lay before them is succulent in its orgasmic intention. We are everything and everything is equal in the moment of our coming.


Image: ‘Woman with Homunculus’ by Egon Schiele


18 March 2012

My Old Man

Meat and two veg
On a formica table
Jim Reeves and distant drums
Twenty Kensitas Club
An ashtray full of dog ends
India Pale Ale and glass of rum
Plastic teeth in a grimace
The smell of Brylcream
A splash of Old Spice
And a clout round the lug
Tailored suits immaculate
And cuban heeled boots
Off to see a man about a dog
He was hard as nails
My old man

16 March 2012

Immortal for a day


Easy the casual encounter

In the blanket of circumstance

Nothing is forbidden or forgiven

The stolen hour

Of fleeting acquaintance

Eyes filled with dust

Blind to all fault or frailty

The ebb and flow of time

Leaves ripples

Like the pattern lovers make

In the moment of discovery

Naked in innocence

Idle in the afternoon sun

Indolent from amorous cause

Destined to live in the memory

As a friend that never faltered

Immortal for a day


11 March 2012

Paint Me Yellow

Sodium yellow
The colour of caffeine
Paints the street
And invades my room
My nights are long
Measured in solitude
The world is sleeping
But there’s no peace
For the wicked
And I am wicked
So turn me over
And paint me yellow
I have hours to wait
Before the dawn

10 March 2012



Noah built an ark

He was thinking of the future

I built myself a raft

I was thinking of myself



Left to the mercy of the weather god
Drenched in the rhythmic rain
A man – a foreigner perhaps
Dark and curly – straight and bent
Is lost in the open fields and dales
He carries the casts of his funeral face
And the relics of fallen saints
Always a stranger – stranger than life
He quarries great stones of remembrance
Once he was this – once he was that
Now a stranger in these parts

9 March 2012

The Electric Messiah


There have been many messiahs, but none ever touched the majesty or lunacy of The Electric Messiah. The Electric Messiah kicked in the doors of the temple and set fire to the money changers. He did that a lot; he was bi polar you see. On the positive side he was very generous, but on the negative side he was quick to anger. The people had not asked for an Electric Messiah, but you get the messiah you deserve.

In a world of conflict he was the supreme arbiter; smashing the unjust and delivering the pious with a beatific smile. His days in the wilderness had taught him that temptation was a blessing and to succumb was to conquer. His right hand held a flaming sword and his left the book of mercies. He could draw thunder bolts from the heavens and calm the seas with a whisper. His road to Damascus was filled with doubtful blind men – The Electric Messiah offered judgment, but not redemption.

I met him in rehab, which was compulsory for him after the great pharmacology scandal of 76 when he was convicted of turning communion wafers into methamphetamine and baptizing new converts with LSD. The papers compared him with Charles Manson, but Charley was never so gifted as The Electric Messiah. We got on like a ward on fire – he was good at starting fires. He told me of his early life as the son of an electrician from Glasgow and how his great potential as a conductor of electricity was first discovered.

At the age of six he was caught in a massive electrical storm and struck by lightning several times leaving great charred craters behind him. His mother said it was a miracle, his father said it was a question of conductivity. All through his formative years he was known as Lightning Rod, but it was only in his teens while experimenting with magical mushrooms did he realize his manifest destiny as The Electric Messiah.

Things were to go disastrously wrong for The Electric Messiah when his doctors doped him with omnopon, strapped him to a table and crucified him with electrical oscillations. The electroconvulsive therapy was meant to cure him of his addiction enabling delusions. Instead it triggered a massive explosion which destroyed the hospital and sent out an electromagnetic pulse that destroyed London’s communications apparatus causing a major catastrophe.

That was the end of The Electric Messiah, or so they said. However, many have reported seeing him whenever there is a great electrical storm and his words have lived on, though his body is apparently gone. His intolerance and his anger are evoked whenever the powerful seek to justify the use of force. His generosity and kindness are evoked whenever they seek to preach restraint. Yes, The Electric Messiah left his mark on the world – you can’t be a true messiah unless you do.

22 February 2012



Some kinds of love

Smell like hate

Some kinds of devotion

Feel like possession

There are truths

Made of lies

Like the stories

Told by jealous souls

Of bitter adoration

And unwanted assignations

Where romantic weapons

Are used with cooler calculation

Yes, some kinds of love are poison

Some lovers are gentle assassins

Devoid of natural passions


12 January 2012


The wind tugs at my memory
Some half forgotten murmur
Of the wilder country
Of forbidden places
And ancient curses
The whale that swallowed Jonah
Swallowed me as well
But the whale got sick
And turned me loose
I’ve been loose ever since
Except when I was screwed
Tighter than a drum
I’d rather be the devil
Than be that woman’s man
We did the dog – bitch thing
Smiling like it was a virtue
With no inhibition or shame
And no sense of joy
The sex was good
But the karma was bad
I learned what it feels like
To become a beast
My face is fluid now
It can take any form
Angels and demons
Dance across my surfaces
Tumbling through my void
Twinkling like children
In the summer of my daydreams