in a view that looks the same

in a view that looks the same nothing changes except time the rain washed away the early morning silence leaving in it’s passing patches of white like tiny barren islands are all that remain of the snow on my block

On the fate of gods and men

Is it true all men must die? How many faces will you meet before you meet your maker or your fate? Faces of me Faces of you Faces of each other as one because we are all together and i am not the walrus but i like to see them run for comfort buses and trains, run to get laid …

On Damaged

Isolated by my own strangeness I try to bridge the unbridgeable gap between us You with your good looks and blonde hair, ice-blue eyes that beguile bewitch behead those with courage to look longer than a stare I think of something Prince would say: “Now move your big ass ‘round this way so i can work on that zipper, baby” …

A Kiss Is

I’m sure if we closed the distance between us we’d kiss. And that kiss would be the beginning. And that kiss would be the end. A kiss is never just a kiss.


Stroke My Terror

You don’t want to go where this leads I dropped my airpod on your breasts You never give me your honey but the coffee you serve is the best I stroke my terror to find joy Oh I’m going to burn in Hell alright I promise I’ll burn well though ‘cause mother said if you’re going to do it do …

And that’s the trouble with poetry

I awoke this morning to the hammering sound of rain. Just what you want out of your Monday morning – dark, wet, gloom. I made a batch of strong, dark coffee to match the mood. I turned to my one true source of motivation – books. I cracked open Matthew Zapruder’s new book, Why Poetry. He’s on a mission to …

Archaic Values

As a poet I hold the most archaic values on earth. They go back to the upper Palaeolithic: the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe. I try to hold both history and wilderness in mind, that my poems may approach the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.” - Gary Snyder

Some things change; some things stay the same

I’ve decided to blow up my blog theme again and try something new. Actually I’ve had this theme for a while, just never used it. I’m undecided as to whether to do full blog post on the page format or some variation of the grid style blog or the read more style. The advantage I think the full blog post …

Nightmare hooligan

I wasted many years chasing windmills and waterfalls. Now I finally act my age, and my friends feel uncomfortable when I’m serious. So I play the clown, the eternal court jester, the fool. I’m a nightmare hooligan with a bloody nose seeking the Book of Knowledge and the Truth, if there is such a thing.

The chief function of poetry

The chief function of poetry is to use words as charms to evoke life and colours and smells - a sense of joy, of awe, of compassion, and so on.

Emily Dickinson

I finished reading a selected work of Emily Dickinson’s poems. She wrote over 1800 poems in her lifetime, although only a handful were published while she still breathed. I found it helpful to read about her and then read her poems. The understanding of who she was as a poet helped inform her poetry at least to me. Armed with …

One more wink

A lone car rumbles down the street the morning yawns you pretend to sleep not ready for the hustle just one more wink

Something new

I’m dog tired tonight. Weekends make you weak. The only thing keeping me awake right now are three pieces of spearmint gum and the promise of watching Walking Dead later tonight.  I have some neat pictures from my Bristol trip over the weekend which I haven’t edited yet. Bristol left me city-sick. I’ve had enough of small town living. I …

A different kind of war

I felt like reading some Bukowski over lunch. I landed on the poem Mademoiselle from Armentieres. It’s a contrast between old wars and new wars. All boys like to romanticise war. There’s something in our DNA that makes us want to run around the neighbourhood playing army-man, cops and robbers, cowboys and indians, and I guess these days autobots and …

reminisce – 1st draft

She reminisced in my name. Fire, meltdown and the sanity they let lose in a tangled abstract fantasy of post apocalyptic let down. She reminisced in the attic for the wind, the damned, and the free. Her shadow slipped further. Soft she lay as the boys came for her body. She looked to reach them in their sleep. One by …

all the paths i could travel & jane doe

Here’s an excerpt from my poetry collection, A Thousand Bullets Gone Astray: all the paths i could travel All the paths I could travel are pointing me in 360 directions Which path I choose is hard for me to imagine. If I move in one direction the circle collapses and my path becomes fixed I can’t help but wonder what …

Can we breathe

Already clustered full, my morrowed eyes looked beyond her vintage lips. Can we breathe, once again, marked and boundless, a broken wing, crushed by ignorance. I could have wandered on, lived my life asleep like an old door. I never really understood why she said she could only hate what she should love.