29 December 2012



Counting pennies

Tiny economies

Scrimping, saving

Making plans

Incremental steps

Up the mountain

Treading water

Against the tide


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

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 no advantage
The sound of tiny hammers
Beating on golden anvils
Forged in the fragility of being
Ring like a single wavering note

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


11 November 2012

Leave a light


Leave a light on

Guide me home

To where the people are

Where they live and breathe

While they slowly die

In this republic of suffering

There are no kings – only beggars

Who remain forever missing

Not dead but disappeared

To exact no comfort

In the still of night

In the darkness of day

Bestowing little mercy

On the dead and dying

Or the bereaved remaining

Left to linger a little while

In the certain knowledge

They too shall receive their last breath

Somewhere in the by and by


27 October 2012

Back Roads


A thousand miles of black top

Stick to my feet

An ancient map of the B roads

Burned into the back of my hands

A sign that says drifter

Written on my forehead

These old back roads

Wind like my dreams

Off into nowhere

And back again by morning


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.

15 October 2012



I saw a supersonic man on TV yesterday. He jumped from 24 miles and reached 800 miles per hour. Every foot of it I was there with him – falling. It took him 9 minutes to reach the ground. I’ve been falling for a lifetime and haven’t landed yet.

What wouldn’t I give for one of those star busting highs. When the universe is under my thumb and I can walk and talk with angels. The flash of light behind every thought from the illuminated mind burns its way throughout eternity. I understand it all, and I am whole.

Anoint my head with the delicacies no drug can match. Make lightning my heels in place of my feet of clay. Give me wings where I had roots buried in the earth. Let me borrow the sun for a crown – if only for an hour to dally with the stars. Give me one last high free from all chemical restraint.

I want to hold the world in my hands and hold her like a lover; to feel it all – to be it all. It’s only a feeling, but what a feeling. It’s all an illusion, but such an illusion. As light thickens, so dawns the realisation of the infinite – so close within my grasp, but as I reach for it – it fades away.


14 October 2012



I dreamed about the voluntarily departed. They tried to tell me why they did what they did, but I couldn’t understand. Suicide is something ever present in the mind of the manic depressive. I would never go there for real, but the thoughts have been overwhelming sometimes.

There are different kinds of suicide; the slow burn where alcohol or drugs kill by degrees. There are the misadventures who flirt with death; they take terrible chances and check out young. Then there are the deliberate suicides; those that know they want to die and just do it, though often after several attempts. Poor old grandad drank himself to death – it took him decades, he died of liver failure. My best friend Les choked on his own vomit after taking too many pills. An act of reckless indulgence took his life. His lover Stuart went swimming when he was drunk and drowned shortly after. Then there was Shug

Shug was a cool customer. He was quick witted, good humoured and full of confidence. Shug was a fly man; sly but generous with his friends. Once when I was sick (I had the killer migraines). He shared a couple of wraps with me and took me home. That dragon smoke lightened my head and sent me bye byes. No more headache, no more cares - a little suicide.

He was always up to some scam; so when he asked me for the hose from an old vacuum cleaner I’d thrown out I didn’t ask why. They found him next day. He was dead. He’d used old vacuum cleaner hoses to fill his car with carbon monoxide – no-one knows why.

Suicide is a young man’s game. It’s a leading cause of death among teenagers and adults under thirty. Far fewer women top themselves, maybe they are thinking about the effect on others. The effect of suicidal death on others is profound. Loved ones are left wondering what they could have done; why the victim felt so alone and that they had no-one to turn to. The questions never go away, nor does the hurt.

Suicide is a form of martyrdom. The suicide so busy thinking of death as a tragic inevitability that any damage they might do seems somehow romantic. Their complete absorption in the act relieves them of the charge of selfishness, but if you can think of one person whose life would be devastated by your suicide it helps. Perhaps for some the terror of living outweighs the fear of death, but in the end no-one wants to die – they just want to stop the pain.

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.


13 October 2012

The belly of the serpent


There’s cold blood in your veins

And thorns in your flesh

What twisted design was it

That brought you to this place?

Was it your bad karma

Or simply your bad luck?

In the belly of the serpent

They relieve you of your dreams

They’re squeezed from your body

Like bloody tears

They have all the power

But they won’t give you any

They say they have religion

And a God on high above

They say they found redemption

But you can have none

You have the urge to leave

But they tied you down

You’re never going to leave

These people or this town


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


7 October 2012


white lines night road

I’ll move over
You drive for a while
Makes no difference
So long as we get there
I’ll give you my shoulder
You can sleep a while
Makes no difference
So long as we get there
The road is long
Ten thousand miles
Makes no difference
We will get there

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 - we are all reality TV stars now monitored in the minutiae of our lives. 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 damn. 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 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.


2 October 2012


Wake me in the morning
Shine your light on me
Fill me with that warmth
That comes from the heart
Your love is food for my soul
The manna sent from heaven
Sustenance in the wilderness
You are the rose of Sharon
A lily of the valley
Yours is the Song of Solomon
The blessing of my life

1 October 2012



Maybe there’s no heaven

Maybe there’s no hell

Life is what you make it

And death just ends it all

You might as well be happy

And carry a lighter load

If this is all there is

Then you’re a foolish man

You’re pissing it all away

Just because you can


14 September 2012



I had expectations

Slender ones

Faint and

Penny plain

Tuppence worth please

I'm counting pennies

My mechanism is worn

Repetitious strain

Has taken its toll

And I stand waiting

For a dawn which does not come

Days pass in solemn procession

The blunt edge of depression

Carves me slowly

From the inside

Every nerve and sinew

Cry out for relief


I’m a glutton for punishment

A perverse and twisted soul

Who eschews the light of day

To opt for a heavy heart

And a life without parole

12 September 2012

The Deep Thing


I made with the prana bindu, the deep yoga, which isn’t easy with your head in a sack. I sprang up from the earth like a mud baby, fully cognisant of my contradictions, fully aware of my anachronism. The deep thing was, and this is the killer, the deep thing was; I’d never been born – I just was.

The whole birth thing was a load. I arranged my own birthing at the age of sixteen with a microdot of sunshine and a faulty map supplied by Timothy Leary. I baked the whole scheme with Crazy George and the downtown crew in a moment of pure elucidation one Saturday morn. I posted bulletins on the whole scenario to keep the crew informed and delved into the deep for the gratuitous gratification of all. I was on the cusp of the big wave, riding with the ergonauts of ecstasy and the deep thing was I’d never been born – I just was.


10 September 2012

Shark Face


I made of myself an alter

To my ego

I was just pretending

To be someone I wasn’t

For safety’s sake:

Self assured

Larger than life

With a shiny bright mojo

And the ring of confidence

In my crooked smile

I turned my dolphin

Into a shark


That’s it – no more

No more the hunter home from the kill

The sailor home from the sea

Foggy monsters

Draw idiot patterns on frosted lawns

This was the winter

Here’s what it meant...


Get a face load of shattered mirror

That always cracks me up

The tools of my trade

A fistful of diazepam

And a throat full of murders

Queer side effects

Like roasting headaches

And generous gestures

Inflated beyond reason


Coast to coast

My shore to yours

Separated by an ocean

Brimming with imagination

Divided by vast reefs

Peppered with shark towns

Where the big fish dine alfresco

And the little fish pray

To the great fish god

That they might know their place

And be spared

The savagery of self knowledge


2 September 2012


Darkwater (1)

Go gently now to sleep

Surrender to the night

Relax and float downstream

Through the muddy deltas

And estuaries of your mind

Succumb to the ebb and flow

Of somnambulistic tides

The undertow draws you down

To where the jellyfish and crabs

Dine on your dreams

And clown fish trigger your synapses

Into hypnological delirium

With tiny electric kisses

Your boat is softly sinking

Into the oceanic deep

Where you are no longer a number

But a multitude of luminous beings

Shoaling in a shining sea


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 situation, 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 muddy 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


10 August 2012


The final blessings of the setting sun
Shine upon the land
Her dying rays
Paint the world gold
The whispering pines
Sway gently in the breeze
The promised night
Creeps cool across our skin
She waxes and wanes
Like the moon
I ebb and flow
Like the tides
We mirror the orbits
Of a billion hidden stars

6 August 2012



We went to the beach on holidays

To Saltcotes or Silver Sands

Paddling and skipping stones

Sand castles and rock pools

The call of the wide blue sea

The ebb and flow of childish dreams

I felt I was growing

Growing with the tide

Those days are long gone

Now I am a man

The waves have left their ripples

Patterned in the sand

And I feel I am growing still

Older with the turning tides


4 August 2012



You can afford to be choosy

Spangled in the head

You have learned to be particular

In the things you choose


How you get your highs

A now and then

Not forever and always

You take a breathing gap

To absorb the contrasts

Between experiences

To savour every nuance

Of the everlasting now

Every shade of being

In the infinite and radiant IS


2 August 2012



I fell from the blue

Blue is the colour of hope

The colour of my escaping

Blue is the colour of birdsong

The colour of home

That golden orb above

Illuminates a planet blue


26 July 2012

Wake Up Call


This is my wake-up call

A psychoactive breakfast

And my morning is unfolding

Another wasted day awaits me

Time is my only enemy

She has wounded me fatally

My glass intentions shatter

Into fragments of loss

But I don’t care for that

I already paid the cost

This is how I get my ya ya’s

Messing with the ha ha’s

Tiny people are moved

To giant purpose

Obscured by time

Rocks are pounded to sand

By her relentless course

Entwined in her web

Our days are numbered

And the number is small

It’s easy to see

With eyes half closed

(Lids are heavy still)

Hypno cogs and wheels

The machinery of the whole

That tangle of form and purpose

Seems so simple to me now

But what it means to be human

Is left unresolved


24 July 2012

Lords of Destruction


They eat their gods in the west

And they sacrifice their children

Hungry little acolytes

Eager for the ritual

Pay homage to the mothman

Seed horror in their living rooms

Cultivate madness in their bedrooms

A luckless generation of lone gunmen

Wait to splatter their message

Across schoolyards and theatres

There is no value in life

The raw edge alone has meaning

Only destruction has purpose


23 July 2012

The bough that breaks

Tender is the heart
The bough that breaks
And falls apart
Lonely is the soul
Who’s hurt to deep
To be consoled
Have mercy on the ones
Who try their best
To understand
Everyone must fall
If they are to love at all

22 July 2012



The Sabbath’s crystal chimes

Sound for hollow hearts

Beneath soft bleached skies

The white of peaceful hours

Spent in empty stagnation

The woolly day dwindles

Like so many others

A lifetime of pale Sundays

Where nothing ever happens

In comfortable suburban climes


Praise for the goddess

The flesh of the sun god
Covers your eyes
Golden and splendid
Your vision of paradise
The walls of Babylon
Blue as lapis
The painted ziggurat
The tower of tongues
A carnival of souls
Praising the goddess
Makes joyful procession
Through your heart
Yours is the wonder
Yours is the glory
The colours of passion
Hold sway in that organ

21 July 2012



We built a bridge to the sun

To discover brand new lands

In the kingdom of the heart

But those were chocolate dreams

Which melted as the day wore on

History does not linger long

And there is no moral to our tale

There is nothing to be learned

From our mistakes

But that mistakes were made

And will be made again


15 July 2012

Shotgun Messenger


The shotgun messenger

In your chicken shack

Delivers sawn off bulletins

Ill tidings sent into the night

News that burns carbon black

Like your cold and empty heart

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

30 June 2012



High as a kite

Lower than a dirty dog

Fast as light

Slower than a methadone jockey

Clean as a whistle

And common as muck

My sticky shirt

Has outworn its usefulness

I’m tight as a drum

As loose as a clown’s pocket

I don’t belong in civilized circles

If I don’t sleep soon

I’ll slip into a coma

And crack my head open

On cold bathroom tile

Hard as stone

White as a junkie

My brain will spill open

That’ll be funny

My random thoughts

Will all take flight

The fastest

The fittest

And the also rans

Will empty out

And leave me vacant


27 June 2012

More Like Cain


Thou shalt not this

Thou shalt not that

But thou will anyway

Call it free will

I know that I will

There are lies

You want to believe

There are lies

You just can’t

I apologise now

I never loved my neighbour

I repent of eating

Sacred cows

I’ve taken names in vain

And borne false witness

I’m less like Jesus

And more like Cain


illustration by Robert Crumb


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


25 June 2012

Missing Piece


It’s a familiar sensation; the sticky charge before a thunder storm; the nagging feeling that something is missing. Some third arm or leg has been amputated. Some secret portion has been stolen, perhaps it’s my soul. I’m like a three legged dog, or a cart without wheels. I’m going nowhere; nowhere is where I am. I’m bleached out, fading away like an old photo left out in the sun. Something crawls inside my skin – electric crank bugs, dirty great cockroaches. I’m turning inside out; I’m pouring out onto barren ground, puddled on the floor like a pool of vomit. That missing piece must be my lynchpin because I’m losing my bearings and sliding off my axle. There is no steering this juggernaut, no turning back to safer ground. Blind on the inside; I’m a collision waiting. I’m a wrecking ball on course for destruction; I’m a derelict building awaiting its fall. I don’t believe in this, I don’t want it, but it’s too late – my pieces have scattered and I am undone again.


21 June 2012

Star Caster

I cut the sky down to my size and wrap it round my head so that I can circumnavigate the stratosphere in under a minute. All I have to do is turn around like a goldfish in a bowl.
At night the stars come out and I can just about reach them with a shaky hand. Someday I’ll pocket them and sew them into my coat – my galaxy of a coat. I’ll shine like the Milky Way and I’ll sprinkle stars along my path so that I don’t have to step on the ground. You will see where I’ve been written in the heavens. I’ll make an ocean of stars to ebb and flow; its waves will collapse with exquisite elegance on mankind’s shores and the beauty of it will take their breaths away. Yes, I will cast the stars in patterns never seen and they will shine for me through all eternity.

19 June 2012

Death is…


Things you never knew

When you were young

The mysteries of life

The vagaries of death

Sitting on the cold floor

A cold that chills your bones

You know nothing of death

Death is a wax effigy in a coffin

A fallen grandfather in a casket

Death is a baby in a crib

Staring at the ceiling with empty eyes

Death is wading deep into eternity

All the things you will ever feel

Distilled into liquid night

Brought home to you all at once

The sudden realization of nothingness

Down in the pit of tangled darkness

From the valley of no return

Something whispers your name

But it does not understand

It does not even care


17 June 2012

My Kind


My kind never forget

Where we come from

Who, or what, we are

We know the story

Of how hard it can be

Just to get by

In this cruel old world

What it takes to survive

And still have a little faith

To spare on those rainy days

When your soul feels heavy

And you’re going nowhere