‘Parchment’ (a poem)



Thoughts fall over one another
scrabbling to escape my head

They know they are not welcome
here in this little dungeon home.

They press their faces against
my fingertips, in the hope

that I may start to bleed.
Isn’t that what writers do?

Smear their privacy on parchment
then display it for others to see.

They know it is only a matter
of time before they see daylight.

Once, A Traveller (a poem)


Once, A Traveller

My mind still possesses its eye
travelling by the light of those
dirty diamonds we call stars.

I ride bareback on the
gravity of foreign planets
surrounded by absolute nothing.

Up close to the Sun, I can
tell you one thing for certain –
he has never outgrown his acne

and when angered, he spits
like a sailor who is wandering
drunk and blinded, in the rain.


Politician (a poem)



You only want me
for my indecency

and all the things
I could do to you.

Such sweet, talking
fucking meat.

But know this: I can
take you or leave you

but I don’t leave you,
now do I, my love?

More than anything
I fear the fondness

attached to all my
imagined encounters.

So I let you rain
your lies upon me

Collecting pools in
my hands, like milk.

You have made
filth my only friend.

‘Spider’ (a poem)




Time is like a spider

that wanders, out of sight.

Flickering and inconsistent,

inviting shadows to breed.


We soft, unmoulded children

all eyes, fists and elbows

try to capture it, but

manage only to cage ourselves.


To know its form is to step

outside, see its shape,

to allow Patience to catch

its breath, and die.


We forever envy the

lost knowledge, creeping

through the powdery fingers

of the infinite dead.

Thought, Interrupted (a poem)


Thought, Interrupted


The most beautiful thing

about being alive

is that we are here for



Time’s beauty lies in its

… scarcity value is the economic factor that increases relative price …

Life’s meaning in its limitation.


Is that not Time’s evasive nature?

Squirming away like

… eggs on a low heat, the yolks still runny …                      

that escape over the sides

and never leave enough in the bowl.


We were always

… bound to crack a few head gaskets on such tough terrain …             

for we are nothing but

… Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall …  


‘Metaphor Man’ ( a poem)



His dreams are the faked moon landing.
His eyebrows are smugglers’ worry.
His eyes are weary travellers.
His nostrils are half-boiled kettles.
His cheeks are uneaten sandwiches at a picnic.
His sneer is milk as it curdles.
His humour is Christmas cards in June.
His walk is a seven-legged spider.
His patience is a Roman army.
His sorrow is fool’s gold
His departure is an interrupted dentist.

Beware, beware: the metaphor man!


‘Tabloid’ (a poem)


Wave after wave
of paper lies
caress a concrete shore.

Our throwaway society
are greedy for information,
but refuse to buy the truth.

They choose instead the stench
of cheap meat and the
sting of sore feet.

They draw moral symbolism
from the faces that sell.
Truth suffocates; evaporates.

Sandwiched between sensationalism
and the rumour mill slurry, like
sweaty commuters, it cannot survive.

A tree chopped, to accommodate
and circulate absurdity.
Discarded before the last leaf could fall.

‘The Bubblegum Tax’ ( a ‘found’ poem)


The Bubblegum Tax


(now i’ve got my ticket,
i don’t care about the dirt and grime.
we’re together this time and it’s beautiful.)

one … six … thirteen … twenty-three … twenty-nine … thirty-four

(ok, so i jest.
reality is only image and text,
the feel of space between your fingers.)

sixteen … thirty … thirty-four … thirty-seven … forty-one … forty-two

(i’m starting to speed up,
my bubble still holding, thank fuck.)

three … five … twenty-three … twenty-eight … forty-two … forty-nine
the jackpot this time: ten million.

(i’m left empty-handed
my soul sliding down the glass
encasing this bubblegum town.)



(This ‘found’ poem was adapted from Irvine Welsh’s Acid House, pgs196-197, and the UK National Lottery Unexpired Numbers Archive)


‘Urban Artist’ (a poem)


Urban Artist

Art born in urgency and illegality,
in ragged whispers and on tip-toe.
It tells mud-stained fairytales to burdened ears
with a sequence of sprays, pauses and strokes.

Dusty angular voices speak brutal truth
in their secret, rain-splashed hieroglyphics.
Tattooed on the flesh of brick-and-mortar angels,
graffiti spells out its own paradox.

A siren in the night is dragged away screaming
by its flashing blue hair, wailing protests to no one.
Left alone with relief and the urban silence,
this faceless prophet hears his own sweat fall.