the pain

between these tears lies a fallacy,
fed full course meals by isolation.
drowning in the nectar of another,
I stare like a wasp. However I sting myself.
again and again pricks against my skin
red streams contrasting against the pale palette.

My redemption has been unkind,
it has fled me and left me asking why.
wondering if the design ,
my blueprints depict a pillar
standing solitary forever in time.
eroding and eventually falling.

the sign on the road speaks of a cliff.
passing it, it lingers in my rearview
laughing and taunting
saying it’s me.
it’s my fault they always leave.
just cease.

blood eventually dries,
I never wipe it away the crisp flakes comfort me.
a canvas of crimson petals and aquamarine eyes
screaming questions to the ceiling.


The pain replies with one word.




Look at you now, mere moments away. And grinning, how you are grinning at me; waiting to eat me up and put me through the ringer. I ask for you to be kind and caring. To take me, with your hand and deliver such promises that your sibling has not. I want more from you than you can even imagine. I can feel you creeping up behind, your breath causing my skin to form multiple bumps of nerves. I stand before you not intoxicated like my peers but with a sober mind reflecting on what has passed and ready to move forward.

Yet you are still grinning at me. Why? Is there something you can see that I cannot about your contents, about the experiences that await us. I will be walking with caution my friend, so do not expect a fight from me. The moment awaits us, for the bell to toll and the choirs to chant our their respective songs. I am tempted to celebrate your counterparts death but to do so would be a sin as it is not a year I wish to remember. However I will set fire to a candle to represent the sparks of light it has brought.

Yet you still grin, a smile I only pray is for me. A selfish idea that you will be mine to profit off of and not for others. But I can feel the optimism in my bones. A different taste is with you, a liquor I want to gulp with no consequences.

So be mine and we can dance the days away.

Always laugh and smile.
Create emotion.
Tell people you care for them even when they say you shouldn’t.

My advice for you is simple.

If you cry look right up into the sky, night or day and take one deep breath. Do not miss an embrace or interaction, then live for the ones you haven’t seen.

Live for the moments you don’t know about.

Soft and heavy.

How weary I am of you.

But at least you are grinning.


White drifts it’s way across the street.
Although the distance is there.
The same snow lies on the corner of our eyes.

A spider falls on my shoulder,
he talks to me and says,
“I have never seen such a web

Study the room, those cobs are yours
spun from pale fingertips.
shall we fetch a duster.”

Chill in the air,
dragons breath.
Leave them, I say.
For I have, snow to enjoy.

The cold will only sit, for so long.



Suit of Bread

I’m gonna wear a suit of bread for my pigeons to eat,
Run to the park and scream out loud it’s dinner time, a treat
The pigeons flock and caw and fly right to my bread lined clothes
And I stand there a buffet, but then there came the crows

The crows couldn’t contain themselves they came from east to west,
hearing on the grape vine of my wheaten; tasty chest,
a murder of them swooped in and started pecking hard
The pigeons fled defeated, free meal taken by crow charge.

the suit of bread no longer white but now a cloak of black
crows cawing, scratching, pecking now there was no turning back.
the crust turned to dust to reveal my naked skin,
the crows kept eating heavily, ravenous full of sin
their gluttony took both my eyes but yet they wanted more

then all was left, a pile of bones
its me dead on the floor.



Quick strokes across the keyboard with grace and form his time has come again,
another late night binge on instruction and construction of worlds that only the great can comprehend.
A list of numbers and symbols mark his playing field; his weapon a cursor, flying majestically from line to tab to window to icon,
God in his own right creating motion and life out of nothing but the tips of his fingers.

He breathes in his work, his mind diluted with the brain of another.
A desk is all that separates him from this life and a connection to endless lines and strands of formations that create our technological landscape.
Yet he will own these monstrosities as he once owned himself, breaking into new ground night by night slaying the complexities changing and manipulating them to work with his rules.

Driven by passion, fuelled by a rectangular box filled with spices, clothed by well his pyjamas really.
He has conquered yet another obstacle and is still hungry.
Perusing his chatrooms his brain trying to produce a sentence that will depict the insight that he has gained.
Opens the window places his hands once more on the keyboard and types…..






Let it lay beneath the floorboards,
Looking up at us, spying lying creatures that scratch the surface
yet they never break free; trapped in their own cacophony of angst.
He stands smiling from across the room with a crimson tie and black suit of a fabric foreign to even
Merchants selling love in a bottle to children dreaming of something more than realism.
He laughs blood dripping from his left eye because he knows wrong from right,
‘been there done that’ dribbling ‘now you do for me’ removing his hat revealing

A lovers embrace that is too late to save them from the engulfing flames
Crimson fire flittering throughout the house that Jane built, floor now broken sets them free, while locking the others forever in rapturous heat.
Market stalls closing for the day lowering prices to rock bottom, selling their stock as they cannot their souls.
Still Giggling the man in crimson sits down; lights up, deep breaths follow like those who escaped
instruments shared between them, never to be locked again.
Freedom has been granted at a price.

Here they lay beneath the floorboards,
blank eyes, broken bones, charred skin nearly forgotten.
He sits down and drinks red wine tinged with ash.
The Man in Crimson laughs.


The Jester


They laughed and smiled and even shed a tear
As he made his jaunty way
The love he felt so pure, but always taken away

Like butterflies to flowers, and maggots to flesh
He would return to play them, be happy and gay
The job was done quite rightly but then to his dismay

The Jester would return home
A bleeding smile of teeth, to laugh at himself this time;
To see what lay beneath
Each breath feels like a hurricane tearing him apart

The Jester is alone, a break it is today?