Saturday, 15 December 2012


Reaching/Still can’t touch peace/Boxed in between lines/So I trawl through the profane in search of the divine/Shared bed/Lonely mind/Frantic making up for lost time/From all the dry dark times when you thought that I was fine/And when I thought I felt something like happiness/I wasn’t permitted to make it notable/Are these emotions or just motions that I’m going through??Vain pained by my choice of outfit/Or am I just crafting the excuse to justify the need for an outlet?/Ageing fast don’t know what I’m about yet/If you’ve got no account to speak of how can you put your money where your mouth is?/ Yet I’m chasing freedom from debt/Emancipation to dance with a lighter step/Or maybe just shifting the balance/A heart and a feather/My transgressions weighed against my talents/Angel of death at my shoulder/Digging in with talons/Human condition could be making me callous/Can any man say that he walks with no malice?/In heart, thought or action?/So many times I mistook anger for passion and chased a phantom/Fixated by fashion/Negative energy/Who can say if it’s temporary?/I still appreciate all the love friends sent to me/ I won’t say it’s pretence but eventually/ I’m scared that I’ll have replaced innocence with decadent tendencies/That this compassion is mislabelled malevolence and this solidarity is a tossed offering to all those I feel I’m better than/But second guessing can’t make me a better person and fear of perversion is just a diversion from acknowledging fear of fear itself/Another version of the paralysis that stops us from working for something else/A different wealth/Regardless of mixed motivation/Not seeking for approval or beatification/I’m a scholar not a martyr so a pen  will guide and chart my destinations/The cartography of contradiction/And we all know that life can be stranger than fiction/Can’t say I won’t behave without inhibition/But I’ll try to use it as a brake and not an anchor to position/Clarity shows the only certainty is that my  doubts provide definition/So if I seem different/Trust it’s the same song/I’m just moving to a different rhythm/And if you see me visibly wounded/Don’t take it for granted/I’m exposing realisation/De Prodfundis/I can’t expect your love and I won’t demand it/In these sentences I’m free yet remanded/ reporting on time/Courting attention /Representing myself/Where justice can't be is art even handed?

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

untitled (8/12/12)

Constant tension/quivering underneath/ fluffy cushion surface/ shy smiles mask a face//That has witnessed/Waking nightmares/No protection/ From these monsters that now live within/ Polluting a picture perfect landscape/Making permanent homes/Educating their young/Stealing their innocence/ Just as surely/ Reflection of premature jading/ Premature closing/ Of mind/ Of roads/ to other chances, other futures/Everything is permitted/Theoretically /Nothing given/Actually/Blood from a stone/Blood from stones/Blood from bullets/Bullets/Blood on stones/Flashlight/3 AM blindfold beating/Reflection from glass eyes/Stuffed toy bears witness/Voiceless/Whilst the twin sleeps/Waking to the report/That another monster/Is restrained/That she may sleep/Yet more soundly/Tonight/Steel/Rubber/Phosphorus/Will keep/A safe separation/Containing the thread/Incubating the fear/To purchase her freedom/A price seen elsewhere/Felt too/Tears for the fallen and bent/And laughter/Hollow/With the cold dark space that keeps widening/Inside the heart.

Monday, 10 December 2012


Mint leaves over ice and sweet strings played softly
Caressed to life underneath the gliding words of a language infused
To my side dates in cardboard, almonds in plastic
The counter top a junction where journeys meet friends, smiles and fresh flowers;
A Monday afternoon the Envy of most,
Sea cleansed, sidewalk warmed,
I'm not guilty, I'm alone, there's a difference
And the difference is these witness eyes
A happy enough spectator
Red menu silver ashtray in this cosy street side niche, spilling out
Melancholy tastes good

Tuesday, 4 December 2012


Hada mish  la laba
Hada mish la ard
Always take more than give
What is there to share? What gift?
It's never enough. It's never anything.
Inna bifra mishanna dein?
I don't think so
Inna bitaham qatir ilyom
And so what?
The most for the the utmost...OR something for someone sometime like now...
Without hurt, without promise of a better person beyond this desire;
Looping, serpentine, mobious, perfect, closed
To tell a story that satisfies
We reduce, isolate, paint broad and simplify, insulate, package
Sometimes stray threads frayed tell the tale of a rougher fabric mishapen
Underneath, straining to be freed; Ugly, rougher, singular
I don't want to be...everything for everyone...OR...something for someone
Shred these lines, thow them to the wind and let them fall in new formations
Strung together by the will to teach by learning, to pay by earning and
Find this language of my own underneath the fold of creased sheets, the dregs of finished bottles and the Questions that I ask just to answer the silence

Thursday, 4 October 2012


I originate with the drum 
Call me humanity 
For arguments sake 
 When all's said and done 
Let's consider me worth more than a salary 
And that's all very well 
As an abstract concept  
I can debate economics casually 
 As a peer
Real recognise Real 
I acknowledge common ground bashfully 
And shuffle my feet asking 
Can't we just get along without you asking me 
What I'm worth
What my weight in gold is
What my value is? 
I'll remain adamant
You can't put a tag on this 
Translate me to currency
 Reduce me to property
 Trap me in poverty
 I originate with the drum 
The beat
I am rich beyond measure
 Food for thought
 Fuel for peace 
I am tears on sacred ground 
I am sacrifice for belief 
The rain above your head 
The roots beneath your feet 
I originate with the drum 
And I end there
 Resurrected between beats 
intimacy between eaves 
intricacy of wheat-sheaves
 magic in the tea leaves 
The joy when we arrive 
 Sadness when we leave 
 Legacies upon legacies upon
Painful legacies 
And the hope they carry 
The first hint of a melody 
I originate with the drum 
And live in the breath on the off beat 
Art is not technique 
And I am not a unit 
I am failure 
I am imperfection 
Uniformity bores me to fuck 
I originate with the drum
And I echo 
I might buckle but I'm never crushed 
And I re-emerge 
 A vein formed around the pulse 
Transparent skin stretched tight 
Compressed as the waves rush 
Flowing through to the edge and back 
With the drum 
Never deviating 
No mediation necessary 
Yet contemporary 


How many frames must we squeeze into before we find that one that fits and starts, heads nodding in the half light to another performance? Stationary, removed, we sedate and quell the fires of rebellion in our heads in our hearts, and celebrate the presentation replica of the very same. 

Shielded by screens,false serenity,slick sheen  
Exorcise our demons; it's all a part of the process.
Cycling back through images of debauched recent past
Commercial street bar bathroom stall finds text message provocation; this woman replied unexpectedly with the awaited initiation, only to remove it and leave little romeo hanging again, to read and write in an open plan office filled with Thursday night blue moon emptiness.

An open bottle in an orange plastic bag defiantly enjoyed in the dry beige train carriage speaks the same whatever the language of the salute; a tarot book confusion headache, the blunt echo of yesterday's drinking, such a sophisticate  such a glutton: 

Loose laces;
loose buttons; 
loose grasp; 
lose morals; 

Morals of stories that used to have some, allegories that lost their way because their figures of speech just didn't add up, the sheet could not balance and thus the music lost it's home. 
Memories lost in trade because of structural flaws in the construct; the tower could not balance and thus the moments all jumped.
Desolate, 3 drinks later, your friends gone
move from green lit saturday night bar to 
same platform where 
premonition of reciprocity was felt and wait, balled brown paper bag brushed aside onto tiled floor. A rejection. 

Sunday, 2 September 2012

true targets

Silent stories conspire
To tell me that I’m the only one that this hard for
An awareness staring
Image distorted in a mirrored hall
Hypnotised detectives raising to aim at one another
And the man with the safety word stands, back to the wood panels
A true target accidentally found
Talked toward a world removed from the old
Then closed the loop again and couldn’t squeeze through the whole
Talking again
Talking again
There he goes with that talking again
Rereading dialogue from last season’s scripts
Annotating the subject debated
Selves on sleeves free form idea arrangement
That was just masquerade
Seems he’d forgotten how to play
Said what he meant
Said what he meant
And felt something too
Shell Shocked by the callous shot from the pedestal
Flesh torn
Still standing
Soaked in swallowed pride and alcohol
And Talking again
Talking again

Thursday, 30 August 2012


The scars on your face spoke to me
Your hands, the most distressed leather, still steely strong
The weight of age has never broken and rarely even bowed you
A mother of light
Shuffling your dominion,
One pace this way creating a feasting table
One brushed gesture this, shaping a worshipping place
The honeycomb sacrament sucked dry
Coats every surface
A vehicle for that sweet sentiment
That we don’t share the words for
And I’d never finish it all but I carried it as far I could
Worker corpses and all, in a powdered milk tin
To a hotel bed where fever took me
And my departure began,
A parting meeting with a boy called Smoke
And a thousand things that I’ll never know
The structure of stories etched into your skin
A parchment legacy, a living lineage
Matching the radiant youth,
Hope for Hope, Smile for Smile
Balanced in equal beauty whilst I float between
And slowly drift away
A thin line connected to your fates barely holding
Growing colder, more strictly defined
And somehow brighter, I outline designs
To make it shine, embellished
But that which connects also separates
And touch can’t always match taste
So I hold a honeycomb memory underneath my tongue
Growing sweeter as every line marks my face,

Thursday, 2 August 2012

Mountain Top

They’re talking about you placing blame
But they don’t even know your name
That was written in the ink of a scholar
At the bottom of a declaration saying never shall I follow
Asking sometimes don’t you think you’re seeing things that aren’t there?
It’s them not seeing what is, wandering blind scared
In the kingdom where the one eyed five hunt the self-aware
And those with nothing left to lose thrive without fear
Watching the house of cards wobbling, overbalanced at the top tier
From a clear mountain top breathing clean air
And cultivating together
Respect for ourselves and each other
Struggling with hatred
We internalized the lessons
No matter how hard we fought
So it’s a daily mission
To undo all the damage taught
To accept all the damage done
Recognise we’re not the perfect ones
Forgive ourselves enough to push on
Never paralyzed by indecision
No longer anesthetized at their discretion
Free to feel again
Hurt again breathe again
Bleed again
Stand tall against the next collision
With false patriarchs and their illusions
There’s no such thing as a benevolent murderer
So we take blows and spit blood
Expect nothing less
Than to bleed for this
Grind for respect
We build and reflect
Take time to connect
Establish foundations and mode of address
Question privilege
Responses found wanting we reject
Spread wings and flourish unencumbered
For our days may be but we shall never be numbered

Thursday, 28 June 2012


Intuition brings into question your decisions, 
the cold iron maiden inquisition, 
fire freezes brazen bold in the dark light, 
cold fission,
a half truth half dead half lived half life, 
set to halve again, diminishing division, 
ever shifting the final position until it shifts past recognition, 
I aspire to emissions that uprise our condition,surprised by remission sometimes find focus slipping, 
find inspiration in the beacon of tradition, 
illuminating the pages of the book of the world,
the script that unfurls In the strokes we play 
when we step forth on the canvas of a day, and pull it up behind us,
wrapping it around us, 
tapestry and pageantry surround us, 
worn on the sleeve, breast, neck, crotch, crown, 
a heart opened outspread contacted, 
pulsating contracted 
filling expanded
again defined by experience 
raw material, parenthetic prevent agenda evidence ethereal 
motive opportunity synthetic serial, 
they sow confusion , 
this pride is delusion,
ladies and gentlemen now introducing, 
your host for this evening, 
the ragged And bleeding, 
soul of a barbarian nation, 
that lays claim to civilisation, 
by virtue of appropriation, 
it's paper we're chasing, 
but fabric too, 
material to weave and wave not just to see through, 
feel do, needs must need school need education, 
but a dispirited mind can't achieve self determination 
and when the blind lead the blind lead the blind oblivious to the blatant 
is it any wonder we accept incarceration? 
brick by brick our prison is our creation 
and we're afraid that we push at the bars it might cave in, 
falling around us, rubble, detritus, 
remnants of a vision we collude in and somehow feel attached too, 
how do we mistake chains for umbilical cords, 
Flashlights for sunshine, 
the gun to our head for the safety of our home? 

Sunday, 3 June 2012


Cancel the parade. Cut the elegies. What's the point of this stone/pointed pressure so refined/inverted on our spines as they crisscross to provide a loving nest? The beasts that rest in this land and spread flame afield/enjoy the shine of the capital/but rearrange the characters/it's the same carbon as the rest of us/So let's square the circle and circle the pentagrams/truth is /truth is unity/truth is unity can be divisive/conspiracy/counter intelligence/Jedi mind tricks/Bow ties and champagne toasts for veiled violence/and flag burning street dances to break silence/like a pane of glass on Tarmac/I've got shards in my skin/needling this vanity/hungry to be heard/vanity wrapped/mummified/entombed/preposterous/Until nothing remains inside/vanity defeated by the passing of time/outlasted by every crafted covering/ not to honour after all/to reduce into ignoble obsolescence/ exposing fundamental indecency/ frequently/ overlooked/ but not this time/ anniversary of ascendance to an unjust pedestal/ never happy however memorable/ it sticks in the memory like windscreen in a joyriders face/ change the pace/ destroy the gears/ and the slick sick trick fairground machinery/This royal flush is demeaning you and me