Standing still,

On a knife edge.
On a vast lake,

No one is an island.
I am an ocean
dead zones and all.


I am an elephant sat on a shelf
In the corner of the room, looking out
At the world as time passes by.

People walk and talk and live and die
As I shelter in the quiet peace
Of pages and the friendly loneliness
Of imagination and isolation.


The smallest room in the house
The safest of spaces
A cold, hard floor
A cool draft

Here I sit
Here I rock
Here I struggle
I am myself and nothing else
In the cold
In the dark

Those Unasked Questions.

Can you ever love me again

With my head so low
and my heart so dark
and my flesh so scarred
and my optimism so gone.

Can I ever hold you again

With my confidence so lost
and my strength so waned
and my lustre so faded
and my will so broken.

It is those questions
Those unasked questions
That keep me awake at night
That keep in bed come morning
Those unasked questions

Those shapeless ideas
Those still lips.

Old Friends

It’s important to stay in touch, to talk, to write, to call.
Old friends can be the best, the reassuring voice, the old comfort.
A voice in the ear, a passing thought to stir the mind, like an old friend from years ago.
Some have stayed, some have gone, the worst have remained the same.
It’s important to stay in touch, to cry, to scream, to hate.

Flesh and Blood

Beauty in the macabre,

A sleek silver flash of blade. Sharp and short, swift and lithe. She slipped her shirt off and smiled.

Lust from the depraved,

A grotesque gasp of breath. Raspy and short, strained and taut. He put the light out and smiled.

Passion from the hopeless,

A hateful hand of twisted sheets. Gaunt and weak,
pale and bloody. They clung together and moaned.

She and he were just the same. Hopeless and dying but lacking the will,

except the drive of all of us,

flesh and blood.

He craved her, she released

Just Like a Cut

A firm and heavy hand clasped the soft and and weary shoulder.

Hush now hold still relax. Just like a cut. Not good not needed not wanted but done all the same.

What went on was known far and wide and spoken only by two. The purest form of self hate practised in the most natural way imaginable.

Just like a cut.

Falsehoods and wellbeing.

Sympathy for self indulgence. Is it better
than sympathy which you see as forced?
Can sympathy be received in the halls of a mad king?

A throne of marble gilded in thorns. A pleasant seat for the withering mind. And all the pressures and pleasures and matters of state can whip up a frenzy.

But the king sits motionless, unconvinced.
Can any gesture so grand so small, so unprovoked, stir a smile or at least a glimmer
of acknowledgment? Bestowed upon you by  subjects fearful and able, burdened and alone.

The king sits motionless.




Bellies and beasts cannot frighten me
The reaction of a loved one, the burden,
That can strike true fear.

I am Jonah, the belly and the beast
Knowing this is my secret, the burden
That can hound and haunt me.

No thoughts are voiced and cannot be heard
The truth may be misunderstood, the burden
That can ruin, scare and end us.

I am the Jonah, the belly and the beast.

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