, , , , , ,

I have grown good

At giving things away:

A word, a look, a plaything;

Objects gathering dust on shelves

Which serve only as a reminder,

Hollow and spent,

Of the emptiness of detachment;

A touch, a smile, a heart;

A muscle with purpose usurped

Scratches on the page

Of another’s life;

A hope, a wish, a future –

And of what use is a future

When its past has been given away? –

An entry erased from the ledger:

Yes, I have grown good

At giving things away,

Giving until this shell

Is empty.


Broken Rainbows


, , , , , , , ,

I saw you in the quiet light,

The shadow of your disguise,

That slipped away as long days

Withered on the calendar pages,

The numbers that were once laced

With the beauty of mystique,

A stairway to the clouds,

And angel’s voices which swept

The cobwebs from our eyes

That hang now like veils across our hearts,

I watched you count those special days

And hang on those yet held

In infant arms,

Unaware of the quicksand which kissed your ankles

And seduced you as you slept

Whilst the snow fell like broken rainbows

And froze the party-promises,

Which we never truly held,

No song, no spell, no magic door

Ever rose beyond the mist,

And even though I saw you,

In silence and in chaos,

My hands still stretched forever

Grown tired with impotence.



© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

Small Town


, , , , , , , , , ,

What did it take

For you shed the skin

Of this small town?

What magic or deception

Flattery or trickery

Fooled the border wolves

And led you to the handle

The knife to slice the strings?

I’ll take the mirror

Shatter the glass

And reassemble a face

Like yours

Find all the pieces forged through time

The detritus of revolution

And mold them

A waxwork of an image of

The you we couldn’t be

To mesmerise the eye

And let the wind-borne fog

Take us far from the shores

Of small town thought.



, , , , , ,

Whilst you slept

An angel on a cloud

Of purity and calm

I slipped the box

From beneath the bed

And teased the key

From pocket

To hand

To lock

And turned

The click inaudible

Which sent a silent roar

Ripping through the ground

To stir the waters

Ancient grey

And all the things I kept

That crept

Like night-monsters

Into the corners dark

Whispered out their secrets

Like the hum of hidden


Slid through silken

Cobweb fields

And into my hands

Dancing from palm to palm

Breathing in the fear

The terror of the dream

And as I felt the toppling moon

Dip her head

And hide her eye

I watched them smile

Their return

Too deathly for the day

And as you slept

I let the lid

Slip from hand to box

And slide beneath the bed.



, , , , , , , ,

And when they made love

The birds fell silent

On the bough

And hung their heads in shame,

And dawn was just a

Wish upon the lips

Of others

Slow-time moving limbs,

And hands and fingers

Dance ethereal

On cloud swept

Melodies unwritten,

All reason lost to

Emotions more real

Than sounded

Words that die in cold light,

And when they made love

The ground did shiver

Temples fall

Beneath something more honest.

Summer’s Kiss


, , , , , ,

Summer had never shone

As bright

Burned into my flesh

Like a passionate stare:

A disease from which

I desired

No release

But simply to bathe

Like the naked newborn

In the visceral glow

The fluid heat

Of a face born


Un-scripted and pure

Hanging both unseen

And omnipresent

The life-blood stream

Sourced from another

To feed my veins

And breath inside

A Summer’s kiss

To linger on the lip



© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2017



, , , , , ,

And in the end,

When words are stripped away,

It all comes down

To how close you stand to me,

When smiles are hard

To wrestle from the World,

And days won’t rise –

Foundations formed in quicksand,

And eyes are dull,

Cataract-worn by time,

Your presence near

Gives reason to believe,

When kisses cold

Can’t melt long winter’s ice,

And logic falls

From fence to floor to grave,

I cling tight to

What I know is real

That everything comes down

To how close you stand to me.



, , , , , , , , ,

A wallflower

Still and rooted

Held fast by threads invisible,

Bare-footed and


Dirt ingrained like DNA

Seeping through veins

That know no different,

Knees tucked

Up tight beneath

A chin scuff-marked

By experience’s children

Grazes which, like timeless heirlooms,

Pass down the ages

Storm waters of our age

As older eyes,


Look no further than today,

And those judgemental

On high-borne thrones

Cast down their bones

Complete the wall

And keep the wheels

In motion.

Killed a Day


, , , , , ,

Killed a day today.

Watched potential cough

And splutter

And sink with the setting Sun.

Heard her children’s cries

From hopeful ‘wills’ to Plaintive ‘coulds’

Dissolving with the breeze,

Felt the feelings rise

Like a lover’s moon


The apathy of ages,

Imagined futures

Without the curse of

Time’s cruel hand

Tomorrow’s filled with motion.

Killed a day today.