As kids we discovered a ramshackle wooden hut deep in the woods, seemingly an occasional refuge for the homeless. Over the years, it’s become apparent that the hut had remained in our psyche. I sometimes wonder who paints the glasses rose-coloured? This is the tale of Mandy who was to abandon housewife suburbia for glitz & glamour of crack! She was found corpsed in pools of vomit & shit & piss. Oh, the glamour indeed!
Amen! To the reverence of Skipping ropes and Rubik’s cubes, Hide and thy shall seek the Glory of the Lord-of-the-Flies.
Words, as ancient vessels submerged, Lighten the load of her absence. Lead me down the winter trail: No planes fly overhead Only jet streams of traveller dreams & Bells being rung under sand washed oceans.
Voda stained cards mark the Years that have passed Torn and strung as hospital lights Strewn under a life-support machine: Bleep and see how cruelly they sleep. I sip the morning dew And drink to the absent.
Do not be afraid of the dark I am stood in the moonlight, The man in the iron mask ...
Nostalgia is a broken window With pain of distance as glass, Perhaps?
Who was that boy who wrapped butterflies in cherry skins Stealing delicate memories which were not his own?
The eye is not satisfied with seeing. The mind in its cottage Bath water tides shingle the skin Frames the white beds lovers will share. What ghosts will rise once the moon wanes? >>><<< Shooting stars collapse After birth of the unborn, Into fertile seas. Seeds fire from shot guns Slaughter wounds don’t always run...
Death do as you wish. Paint the skies morphine black Let a blinded artist collect Falling stars on an evergreen palette.
in an existential cesspool lay askew fractured black lotuses (unheard of solid pastures from jarring open mirage bubble) of crushed widow~ necks in latencies of chronic hemorrhagic silently culling deaths- a boggy pulldown burial betrayal... right below their distorted thready feeble reeds of tangled grounds- that for once dangles free... to severed appendages’ put down in ...
Wordmothers (as an artist painting white circle red)
Dreaming of the day when I can dream again in monochrome Head stitched by negatives gaoled in old camera Which may, or may not, have happened. Or will happen.
So indeed it was - A broken porcelain tea cup The space underneath a stone Fishing line snagged on ol’ man river reeds – Which brought me here.
Kettle steam breathes bhoots awake Drift as snow-dust from winter’s prologue, Settle on edge of oak table Where take-away remnants Remind me of feasting rats, Once, in that house on fire. We build ribs and...
Bedroom swarms shifting air Suffocating as bones crushed in lotus feet, The ties that bind; tides that break.
An atlas on the belly of my dreams Adventures in the skin trade. Skin is a compass to start Fevered fingers chart my journey: North by north-west facing east, waiting The departure at the grinding of gate, When, finally, the blue moon is more than An ambulance and screaming lights.
Vipers o’ verbs stall in my throat Vivisection of my well versed scars, Eavesdropping on the morning stillness ...