23 March 2016



Their voices are black

and harsh as raven song 

They call me out of hiding

They call in my true name

but I cringe in an unholy place

and await their passing

I will not face them in the dark of night

nor confront them in the light of day

I fear their arrows unerring and practiced

After all they are my own children

The offspring of my every failing


19 March 2016



It’s 4 am and I’m thirsty deep down to the bone. The wind that made me hollow blows through the spaces where once I had a soul. Another journey goes unrewarded; a full circle around the bottle. The path of least resistance is paved with many sorrows and my indulgence is as clear as my contamination. I passed though every hue of the spectrum and settled on amber – the colour of corruption.

I can no longer write; my fingers are knotted – a bulwark against the expression of the fading dreams that hang around my shoulders like a caul – an umbilical that vibrates with all my yesterdays. While some drink to forget I imbibe to remember. That’s me – a contrary spirit full of devilish devices. I’m haunted by the testimony meted out against me. The evidence presented was purely anecdotal, but people love a good story and rarely allow the truth to detract from dramatic effect. My transgressions were plentiful - I’ll grant you that. The amber pure and clear clouded my judgement and made me a slave of my passions.

Now another day beckons with thin grey fingers and my morning will pass in anticipation of the gratification only the amber can bring. My liquid lunch will become a banquet as it does on any given day. A thousand libations to the numbing ordinance fired down my gullet stoke the endless conflict raging in a heart bruised purple and black with experience. I’ll get no letters. I’ll get no calls. I have no post code and no telephone. The amber is all that’s left me. Her best is my worst and her kiss burns like poison, but she comforts me in these my dying days.