Rust Bitten


, , , , , ,

Staring like twisted iron railings

Rust bitten and chilled,

Stealing kisses from

A washed out Sun

Which hung with fickle deceit,

I held my ground

And principles that tore and cut

Like paper,

And were they worth what they

Were written on?

The view from my

Side of the road,

Once heavy thronged with

Vibrant promise,

Now ringing hollow

The shell of ghosts now gone,

Limping shadows in temperate climes –

The far side of the street,

The one we cursed with vitriol

And swore we’d never walk,

In slippered steps

Your feet now soundless fall,

As I still stare

My silent roar

The tears beneath your eyes.




, , , , , , , , ,

     It was at that moment that I realised that my life had been no more than a series of episodes: some linked by connections which only presented themselves with hindsight, when events had long since lost their relevance, others disparate, fleeting, scudding past like clouds in the sky; yet more presenting themselves like movie scenes, half-remembered but titleless.

      And it was to these movie scenes that I had clung, as if they would somehow, miraculously and with the wisdom to time, meld themselves into a story that I was able to follow, to understand, even.

     Yet they came and went with the regularity of Japanese trains, each proferring a new horizon, a sense of purpose to which I was a mere distant observer. Landscapes flashed by me, tantalisingly close yet constantly beyond my grasp: I witnessed every imaginable situation, every conceivable outcome, but always, as they sank below my horizon, I was left with nothing more than a hollow sense of detachment; of impotence.

     The camera rolled and then stopped, rolled and then stopped again, as if responding to silent cries of ‘cut!’. And through each scene I played the role of an extra, watching and waiting. Watching and always waiting.

Here is My Heart


, , , , , , ,

Here is my heart

Amidst the mountains high,

Their frosted glistening peaks

Rise with the beat,

Each steady pulse

That echoes through the air,

Falls silent through the snow

And hides me well.


Here is my heart

In racing waters free,

Dancing with a spirit

That feeds the blue,

Each flowing pulse

Brings life to other’s eyes,

Awakens senses new

And lets me be.


Here is my heart

In forest’s hidden glades,

Shot through with sunlight’s spire

In which to bathe,

Each silent pulse

With nature’s force conjoined,

Sees me rise in splendor

And lets me live.

The Awakening


, , , , , , , , , ,

     A wash of faces hovered above me like a crudely painted ceiling fresco. Eyes, some filled with hope, others relief, bore into me like burrowing beetles. Beyond them an antiseptic ocean of white stretched as far as my own eyes could see; but I was prone, lying like a whale slowly exhaling its last on a beach the colour of gold.

     There were voices; voices which swirled over me like bees returning to the hive, heavy with nectar. Their sweet words bounced between my ears futile in their attempt to make sense of themselves. The sounds meant nothing to me, and neither did the tones which were targeted in my direction. Did the faces expect a response? Part of me guessed that they did, but I could not fathom the reason.

     The expectation behind the staring eyes was palpable, and even my forgotten, deadened senses could taste it. As for why, well, I could find no explanation. I looked back up at the waves as they crashed and dispersed before my eyes and realised, at last, that not one of them meant anything to me.



, , , , , ,

We fell off

The floor again,

Tumbled down

Through calico lies

And tissue paper truths,

The cobweb futures

Doorways never tried;

Watched the beacons

Breathe their last

And die beneath

Our floorboard heads,

The jewels and dust

Maelstrom in our hearts

That frost our weary eyes;

We fell through

The floor again,

Lost its voice

Beneath the silence

The thunder of our tears,

The rusted chain that

Snaps us as we fall.