Days As Shapes


It carries us through the night. The idea that there’s more than meets the eye. Life flashes on dead corneas. Random encounters on the freeway. People humour when conversation runs dry. Permanent separation. Idols fallen like leaves on a stream. The slicing and dicing of willpower. A sewing machine salesman stitches himself back together again. I’m grotesque. A mess of nerves and anxiety. Collapsing always, a waste of talent drifting among stationary vehicles on a cold January night. The moon is dead. Dead just like the rest. Safety in a writing desk. Lost at sea. Drowned beneath century old icebergs. Mothers tongue ready for the haunt. Seven circles of hell around erect nipples. Grey buildings between plump thighs. Ready for the calling. Ready for the hushing of inquisitive minds. Chambers of sickness either side of where we sleep. Worlds come and go as we figure out where we went wrong. War doesn’t rage, it just creeps with every passing day. Remember oranges in the sky. Reminisce the times when the air you breathed wasn’t as forced as it is now. My skin cracks like a pavement. My mothers back breaks like a twig underfoot. Green lawns bring symptomless lovers. Ovaries for sale. Bones on show for all who’ll bother to notice. Hotel cancer on call. Teen galore as the numbers disappear like faces in a crowd. Father knows nothing. Demons dance in nostalgia. Fucking undermines everything. I am as you are. You are as I will be. London fading. They say you can’t die in your dreams. I hope they’re wrong. Rainbows and tongues around cocks. Buried in misery. Freedom through recovery. My ribcage is a prison. My teeth witnesses to a thousand obscenities. Don’t bury me. Not just yet.

Like a donkey down a well. Japanese beheadings and the principle of tainted flesh. Exit and entry points. Mechanical animals breeding atoms for wild hearts. Cysts of teenage mistrust. Flux capacitors. Death coils of shaven metal. Clutching your journal like a bible. Landscape of neon. Streets painted with mascara and blood stained glass. Those words you shout are but thousand year old fairy tales. These atrocities dished out so easily are done not out of belief but through the need to kill for kicks. No one in the sky above to praise you. No one to watch in awe these pitiful acts of abject devotion. Knives instead of candy. Bullets in place of valentines. Mouths of hell in the desert. Vanish in seconds. Grow into stones and outlast them all. Billions of years come and go like they were nothing at all. I strip naked and observe sunken ribs. Navel to nose there’s nothing to me but dust and daydreams. Nations falter as the stubble on my chin grows. Thousands burn in an African village whilst the seed in my balls readies itself for action. Lukewarm sorrow. Pretend friends and abyssal plains. Bellies full of indifference. Alcohol and cigarettes as the flies move from corpse to corpse. Carrion so profound. Paintings sold in galleries cherished only by those with eyes devoid of feeling. Imitations of what the poor call living. Gamble to ease boredom. Distress others rather than plant flowers. Pluck feathers and traumatise the weak. Draw an animal rather than save the real thing. Torture your newborn because mirrors are too cruel. Kings of isolation behind every door. Ignore numbers for they are all false. Sanitise madness. Make sterile anything that can’t be understood. Row after row of empty chairs. From the Titanic to office lots in the Twin Towers. The chains of destiny can be broken. They’re written in sand, not in the hearts of stars. Do it if you want. Or just carry on chewing your tale for all to see. 


Past & Future States


The trick is to stay angry. Contentment will be the death of you. Always want more. Strive for what’s out of reach. Be hungry for all they say is not within your grasp. It’s so easy to become stationary. To become pale beneath a godless sun. The worst thing is to lose sight of yourself. Of the person you once were. All those dreams. That vision of fire and wine that carried you through the night now gone. When the desire leaves, there’s nothing left but an empty shell. You go through the motions. You pretend you’re happy. That your’e a cog in a well oiled machine. But you’re not. You’re a phantom. A ghost with no way home. There was a time when I became this. It ruined me. Safety in pleasant images. Working for others gave me false serenity. It numbed my aching bones. I longed for danger yet retreated into pleasantry. Such piss poor reflections of distorted mirrors. Such woeful excuses for having forgotten my true path. The trick is to desire all that seems obscene. To crave images of lust and perversion. Salivate at the thought of all those wonders yet to be tasted. Deny apathy. Gob on derision. It can take years. It can take decades. You might not get the chance again to be who you once were. But if you rediscover the vigilante who reigns your stupid heart, let him destroy all that he deems fit. Worship regret. Let it drive you forwards. Bow down to all of your mistakes. Curved roads make for the best way forwards. Backwards is beautiful. Smile on dim afternoons. Wake up even when you don’t want to. Cherish the heartache. Thirst for the lonely roads that almost swallowed you whole. Thirst for the damned as they got so close to dragging you down. The future is within us always. Wrapped up in the past. Submerged in the present.

The clock ticks. It counts us down. Repeating even when we beg it to stop. Sometimes we don’t even realise. We never take the time to understand what is precious and what can be discarded. And truth be told, almost everything can be discarded. War makes us stronger. Nature our birthright. Freedom in tears. Freedom in laughter. Imagine how things might be the day we become what we always intended to be. Childhood imagination so vivid. Death is just an idea. It holds no meaning when we believe in something more. Stillness and motion. From my fingers to her breasts, there’s only sweetness when faced with nothing more. Piano music plays in the echoes of my mind. It resonates like flowers in bloom. Autumn lovers like the breeze in a graveyard. All those names just hanging in the air. We were there. That’s what they cry. We were everything. That’s all that they ever knew. Artefacts of love. Hands on thighs. Lips on summer lips as the songbird calls in a new beginning. The end of the world as we know it. Strangers without guessing. This stuff that we hold on to. It falls like trees in forgotten woodland. The kind that reeks of sex and danger. Harmony can’t become. We can only ever be in a constant state of rage. Fuck the pretty patterns. Fuck the niceties that others smile upon with complete devotion. The road is never easy. Nor should it be. Suppression is fatal. To grieve a portrait of something we will never quite manage. Gravestones of kings. Markers of faith. Hate is the most important four letter word you’ll ever know. It comes above love. Don’t deny. Just open up your arms and breathe in every last drop.




Each individual is nothing on their own. Spirits that glow, that grow in a cold shade. Emotions are perceived. Keep yourself hidden. Turn your back and stay within. Modern cities and integrity. The merchandising of memory. Brands to keep us slaves, to keep us safe from harm. Open up. Speak truths hidden from sight. Can’t release though. Can’t find the words that will make it all right. Silence deafens in fields of snow. Mist leaves mouths ready for something more. Snatches of places, of things that once happened. The city echoes for miles around. The roads that we take always place us back at its heart. Songs of discovery. Lyrics to ease passage to where we want to belong. The lightness of being in elevators. A loosened sense of gravity. Open up my lungs. Discover the meaning of my star crossed skull. Bone covered portals, here since before here even existed. A well paying job is easier than staying true to your dreams. It offers decadence. Something those with no meaning flock to like flies around shit. If this is your dream, then there’s no hope left. Grab the cash and run. Leave the unknown before you reach enlightenment. Gasp for air. Breathless by the side of the freeway. The early hours bring deliverance. They take us to the edges of what we want to know. A definition of loneliness. A sentence uttered far away from those who will never grasp what it’s like to suffer. Drab generation. Backwards always backwards going nowhere. Promise it all. Deliver plastic instead. Our contemporaries crave adoration, yet we piss on it like it were a disease. Satisfaction is irrelevant, all that matters is keeping the fire. So many times it’s lost. The key is to keep the child alive within. Peter Pan flying through the sky. Colours that only the young can taste. Be natural like a storm. Keep dreaming. Obsess over every last detail. Possess the madness of what you desire most. 


Words In The Snow


I’m sat in the corner of the room looking at myself. A dark shadow hangs over me. The world rages unseen. The troubles that occur with the turning of a clock. Behaviour fails when enjoyment makes way for routine. The day to day bullshit of trading dreams for normality. This life is too bland. Originality is forced. Chaos cheapened by the need to create success. Marketing woes like gold dust in the pan. Hollow eyes not knowing where the safety of music will come from next. Stars in the hive of madness. The pressures of life. When you come apart just take my hand. Never let go. Float away somewhere calm. The myth of seldom seen sons. To be individual when being different is feared. You can only stand apart if it looks good on camera. You can only succeed if all traces of mystery are removed. Man adores sterility. The culture of plastic dreams adorned on thoughtless shoulders. Praise merchandise. Lust after events worshipping advertising. Get drunk and fuck whoever. Sell yourself for comfort. Animals and machines dancing somewhere in the jaws of hell. So many relics. So many hopeless causes just waiting to be blasted to kingdom come. Follow in the footsteps of a lie. Declare yourself vacant for whoever wants a taste of something long since destroyed. Failure is glorious. Like a blowjob on the sands of some exotic land. That tongue around my cock, and the way it stings just right. All hail the great deceivers. Smoke cigarettes and read dog-eared books for clues on how to escape humanity. Coffee makes me wired. Wine makes me tired. The difference between heaven and hell is uncertain. Unborn babies haunt. Lost yesterdays taunt until I’m blind with regret. Fear is what cripples us, yet without it we would remain silent. It drives us to make a stand. To carve our beliefs into the fabric of what we call being.

Starless desires sold on the cover of every magazine. Religion desensitized. Prostitution valued above all else. To the faithful departed. To the faces that made us. To the smiles that gave us life. The great invisible war. It tears us apart. There are never any answers, only questions that linger in the wind. The clock runs slow. It betrays all that I know. Portraits of lovers. Pieces of feelings scattered about the floor like a letter shredded in a fit of rage. Those pages of truth never to be redeemed. If you help yourself, then you’ll be helping me. These men that never speak. The routines they abide by. Only funerals bring them together. Only death can set them free. You know you’re right. You always did. Promises sweet promises picked like the petals of a flower. King of pain. Nausea on every street corner. About a girl. About a boy. Anxiety drives. It pushes us towards a state of understanding. Not freedom nor dizziness, just a wish to be safe. How does it feel, to feel something real? How does it seem to be that we always misplace what’s most important to us. Perfume distorts. Money buys nothing but a stab in the dark at resisting nature. Books to sleep on. Drama and garbage to appease the dreadful ones that suckle. They suck for nourishment. Anatomy bores. The foetal position offers hope. It gives small animals a reason to be cheerful. Golden hair. The sea takes me back, it makes me want to exist. Wave after wave of suffering. From safety to where. Nirvana in every breath. Tranquillity eases sarcasm. Pathways covered in snow where dogs once did run. I see them still, behind cold hearted eyes.


Bag Lady


If you stop dreaming then you’re as good as dead. All the useless ones with their heads buried in fickle currency. Whatever you do, don’t become like them. When you lose grip on the madness, you fade away. Only bones covered in pretend flesh are left. Condemned to be a brick in a wall taller than misfortune. They’ll burn down all the trees if they get their way. They’ll lock me up and say I’m crazy. I’m crazed, but not crazy. I’m flux. All parts of my body existing in different states, I’m older than the universe. My teeth bite into her thighs. My hands summon spirits from the plains of distant Africa. Drawing stars in the sand. Painting nebulas on rocks. Here for so long, but then gone in the blink of a glass eye. Butchers and priests on street corners. Teachers and thieves bending over for the love of golden coins. Educate through atrocity. Let the children see blood. Let them sniff at the heels of a thousand deranged lunatics. See visions true. Eating information is not allowed. Highways in the rain. The quarry covered in snow. All stages of depression transitory. Passing always and never the same. My book won’t write itself. It can’t breathe when denied. A journey begins again to the heart of the sun. Days of fire and wine. Of deranged obsessions leading to doorways made of light and sound. Exteriors mean nothing. Repetition an act for only a while. Get back to where you belong. Feel how you used to feel when limits weren’t in place. So many orphans of Dionysus. So many lost vigilantes. Seasons of despair make way for moments of realisation. See clearly through your distorted viewing lens. Know yourself. Despise all the rest.

The man behind the mask. Senseless acts in the night. Several shells on the ground. Crazed killers digging for truth. No motives beneath chestnut trees. A lovers lane a passageway to all things untold. Reach inside and pull out all that you don’t recognize. Lights in the darkness illuminating secrets. Each breath makes her dress flutter in the breeze. Kissing. Talking. Holding hands as the world breaks down. Chased by ghosts and phantoms. New York Silences your fears. Distressed cries by the beach can’t save you now. Art students can’t speak. They just replicate until boredom rules all. Seven days of rage. Can’t articulate through circumstance. The struggle to exist when faced with black dogs. Napa County. City to sea. Stretched landscapes and spread legs. Convicts from South America. Tied up like hogs and left to boil beneath a boiling sun. Hands and feet in the sand. Take the car and go. Consciousness betrays feeling. Escape the days like it was yesterday. Numb hands and executed executives. Slain suits like paper boats drowned in dirty drains. Sparkles in blood loss. The fight to survive. To be a man. Not muscle but heart. Shapes disappear but souls always linger. Drop the phone and let it hang. Voices somewhere between here and now. At the base of an oak tree the dreams of childhood are lost. Down by the water. There’s no one to speak to. There’s nothing to call home. Where’s the witness? Turn the lights on. Let the lights burn low and feed the demons. Tracks to summer hell. By knife they leave only tears. On the hood they find dishevelled beauty. Time is crucial. It’s the only thing that we ever really have. City of mystery. Children speaking in tongues. Blocks of passive districts. Cherry tasting breasts. Jackson Pollock. Maple leaves and tar. Isolation is mandatory. A certainty always. Lose yourself in something you can’t quite describe. Inject some meaning into the shell of what you’ve become. Tomorrow is too late. Tomorrow is too late.


Poem For A Passing

son, husband

father, grandfather

a crazy diamond until the end

a lifetime of stories, of mysteries and of love

always searching for adventure

always seeking the great beyond

my childhood you shaped

the man I became guided by your vision

a fool and a poet, you were more than

words could ever describe

time may have taken you

yet you live on in each and every one of us

in our hearts and in our minds

the days escape, life moves on

but you will always remain

immoveable like a mountain

constant like a stream

a story to be told

to all those ready to follow in your path

this is not a goodbye, nor a farewell

for you haven’t left us

you’re here right now

laughing so carefree at the wonders we have yet to find

together we praise you


we follow in your footsteps

Poetry #3

Drowning Town


Her body is shapeless like a jewel. Suspended in space she shudders at the sight of all things unholy. A bag of marbles to match hasty hands. Leave a signature of desperation. Scratch your initials into the flesh of her thigh. Churchyard under starlight. A sequence of images regarding love and loss from autumn through till winter. Place a wreath upon the lonely soil. Say some words to send her home. Clothes too small. Lovers breaking apart and never to return. Roll a cigarette. Sit in a bar and watch with despair all those who pass you by. See them with transparent skin. Sniff their lethargy and become one with all the rain in the world. Let it pour and never let it stop. Poverty sometimes is. Parental love turned downward like a frown. Dominance brings castration. It plants the seeds of damnation. The boss of balls. The slither of snakes attached to watery hips. Click the trigger. Suckle the breast. A snap to the back of the head. An embrace to signify belief. Comfort comes in the city of churches. Married mother of seven splinters straight down the middle. Frozen feelings thawed with uncovered photos. Wrap them around your knee. Taste the pain. Embrace the passing of souls as they cling to all those who ever made them feel real in the first place. Remains of union tossed aside like it were nothing. Gob on it like you never even cared. Pretend you’re not human. Only human is useful. Nothing else comes close. Eight bodies in barrels. Curtains that billow like dreams in a dreary head. A stasis wont last forever. A moment thaws eventually. Divided by irregularity. Respectability is death. Being normal is pointless. Why be stale when you can be anything in the universe. Fuck all details. Breathe in the atoms that need breathing the most. Ten years. Three months. Unravelled.

Sacramento vampires. Sensitive to light. Underlying difficulties with ghosts. English purgatory. August 1977. Library visits on a Sunday. Long walks to here and there. Hours tick like nails in a coffin. Contempt for those who conform. Art studios that move in and out of existence. A red telephone booth that eats curious minds. All those roads. All those pages written then forgotten. Dreams of a life not yet understood despite the passing of years. White male in his twenties. Beard and cigarettes. Writes. Takes baths to return to the womb. Sits in silence awaiting an alignment of black stars. Watch films. Read books. Pornography against the masses. The drowned man. Love letters to the damned. There’s nothing bizarre about a man absorbed by his thoughts. There’s little cruel about those who are small. My history is meticulous. It rules with a golden fist. Drink beer whilst looking at a garden. Watch the weather change but stay the same. Levels of memory. Things that happened. So sacred is the time we lose. Music takes us closer. Grow your hair and lock yourself away. Scrub the dirt from beneath your fingers. Beware of false prophets. Damsels in distress just shadows of what they once were. Rivers of hips. Submerged feelings and boiled sex. Against the cold we slept like angels in the snow. Places faded in the night. Tender so tender do those flowers wilt out of reach. Arthur Shawcross we repent for your mothers distaste. We bow down to abuse and downward mentality. Beautiful theories and guilty facts. They say they know but they never do. Baseless wonders. Miniature suns in crescent moons. Ease of passing. Standing still as everything shines. Leaves of dust. Life and death entwined.