18 June 2013



the sun creeps in about 4 am

a gatecrasher to my tangled dreams

slips between my knotted sheets

pulls me under – draws me out

into the turning returning

bad news brewing – I can sense it

golden fingers augur an ill wind

some fresh disaster round the bend

poisoned vapours fill my mind

a gelatine heart pumps tepid blood

through atrophied muscles

trouble spawns a thousand children

each day a little death

at the ragged end of nowhere

the great lie claims another victim

I’m on my bended knees here

begging for redemption

rumour has it I’m a marked man

marked for a lingering death

a month of bloody sundays

a succession of dog days

gnawing at my bones

dissolution by degrees

the living death

reserved for zombies



  1. Such perfectionist write. Remarkable beauty of vivid details, poetry of visual and organic drama. It makes one scream "Where is God?!" Agonizing slow erosion leaves the reader in horror of being awake.

  2. Thank you Lolita - God is strangely silent on those darkest of days - not a whisper, not a sign, nothing seems to fit - everything is fragmented and terrible in its design.

  3. Praveen Parasar18 June 2013 at 17:19

    oh, such clouds of dark emotion...a deep breathe...sigh*

    1. An expression of my darker moods - familiar territory for the manic mind.