Such a pity,
such a battered brother lying in my arms.
He’s fitting,
he’s in tatters,
he was much fitter,
really calm.
Before the fatter-catter-hatter
cast his wicked psalms,
now the matter has him shattered
and I’m bitter
cos he’s harmed.


Now, who’d have thought democracy would ever lend a light,
illuminating the suffering that it conjured in its plight?
For tales that fail to stir the conscience we must tell again
and eliminate the trivial that’s focused on instead.

Some heads are filled like pickle-jars,
thoughts puerile and preserved
and when we try to fit more in 
we see the space reserved.
Celebrities and fashion tips
and glossy mags and bossy lips,
they take their place, 
they take their toll,
they waste our space,
and they waste our souls
and so I’m told I must relax
just watch some telly 
and get fat.
Hate immigrants who do my work,
responsibility I shirk,
whilst demographics always change
there’s neurotoxins in my brain.
My range my scope,
it shows no hope
I'm on my arse, 
I’m stony broke.
The lonely folk who croak each night
- the winter fuel costs do them right.
So ignite the plight like a pilot flame,
reclaim our rights to feel safe
or kneel lame with swollen legs,
satellite dishes on our heads.
I do so dread to see this world,
we’re all too busy being curled
around a mast with a flag in breeze,
fighting with this sad disease.

Welcome Home

I’ve lost a bit of my sparkle
More inclined to the carnage debacle
The stark harness
The half-tarnished
Farcical cycle
The hard working
Bard lurking 
In the bushes beyond
Whispering chaos
He’s way-off 
Whilst playing his songs
Yet I hear a note or two
Dare to dance
In his broken shoes
Words spoken
The creaks croken
Feel as if they’ve woken you

Apathetic Writer

The seas turned toxic
In our lifetimes
We lost it
Thought it so far off
That we tossed it
Another bit in the street
To end up in the water 
Eat it later
Degraded disorder
The plastic pandemic
Pandora’s disposable daughter
Came back to haunt us
With the form 
Of an all out
Catastrophe
Now that’s not how it had to be
But we were so consumed 
By our apathy
And our lavish lives through the TV screen
With billionaires selling their wares and their misery
That we couldn’t see 
The writing scrawled upon the walls
Screaming for justice
Words echoing in empty halls
Our leaders
Despots and people bleeders
Arms dealers
Hard-hearted nothing feelers
Playing the same, strained, insanely strange games
With the public obeying like slaves in their chains
And we went about blaming and shaming and claiming
Using the phrases the papers were saying
Betraying the science the told us the truth
Instead just relying on liars in suits
We were tired it’s true
But now we are dying
The oceans are toxic
We’re washed up 
We’re lying
Beached on a mountain of what could have been
Dreaming of futures 
We wish we’d have seen.

You Are What You Eat

The cosmic connotations
called forth from 
crystallised 
constellations 
are the mind’s eye’s manifest
trajectory.
The epitomised
epiphany,
enveloped in the debris
of passed up possibilities.
Probabilities collapse
as observation’s determination
depicts and demands their demise. 


Yet we still find ways, 
the chemist’s charmed
path ablaze,
to hide within waves
and tumble in the wash
of the cosmos.

Calculated or not,
we’re lost within 
plots unfolding.
Yielding old emboldened 
holdings, 
as we’re rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled.

There are whispers of where it began,
fleeting echoes of a man 
lying somewhere
with a body.
The brain’s superhighway 
now alight in new ways.
A fragment. 
A solitary binary digit 
encapsulates our entire universe
when we become 
the impossibly small
infinite particle of it all.
Holographically splashed and sprayed against 
black backdrops, 
falling into its never ending self.
The machine hums.
Mechanised manifestations,
absurd digressed repetitions
altered only by a moment,
yet cast apart forever
and still inseparable
like waves rising 
from the ocean.

I spoke with the words of God for a moment
when he lived in my chest. 
The words echoed there,
even before they were uttered. 
They were waiting to perfectly coincide 
with the instant they were meant for.
These were old words said many times
before us by the Angels
as they played out the world in advance. 
And then we became them. 

“Oh my word.”


His words, my words, their words, our words
all words and all was sound,
creating all,
within, without
and all around.

We heard all this deep beneath,
within the seams which bond.
We peeked and gleaned 
a scene released
which then was gone.
The curtains drawn
once more
with matter-of-fact hands.
Light crept beneath
for a while
then waned, 
we’d left the land.

Möbius Tone