A collection of poems and other writings...

Monday 19 February 2018

Caliban

What wild Caliban is this within?
The bastard monster progeny of my lust
that stalks the bloody corridors of my heart
squeezes the weakest part of me
inhabits these bones against my will
seeps like lymph beneath my skin

he steals this blood
sets adrenaline running
pumps the drug
into spongy lobes of flesh
invades these fingers
sends senses humming
tangles thought and feelings
weaves meat into lascivious mesh

Yet I abhor this seething fat-pricked grunt
who hunts raw, purple-lipped prey
his clawing digits open bleeding holes
part curtains of God-manipulated clay
delve into damp recesses
where my soft daydream led
and some swift satisfaction lay

and yet his eyes are mine
mine his hands, his tongue
mine his devouring teeth
mine his salivating orifice
his penetrating priapism
his appetite
his hunger
his lust
mine
his, my wanton amorality
his Cyclopean cannibal code
he fucks with the shade
of my shadow
leeches the colour from my cheek
bleaches my humour
moulders the outskirts of my soul
starves me of the oxygen of joy

he, my brother is
my mirror twin
my double-dazed reflection
the bully butcher brother
who beneath a veil of loving kindness
slaughters laughter
massacres emotion
murders the moment of joy
with his acidic orgasm




Tuesday 13 February 2018

It clicked

When Dad smiled
and his cheeks
drew back
from his teeth,
there was a little clicking noise,
so even when
he was behind you
you knew
he was there
smiling.

When Mum died
he wanted us
to all carry on
as if nothing had happened
and we tried
but I got cross with him
so much
especially when
he ran the stew
under the tap.

And then one day
when I was going back to school
after lunch
I told him
that I loved him
- I made myself -
and he cried
and watched me
out of the kitchen window
go
all the way up the garden
well, up to the fir trees.

And I thought
Dad! Grow up, will you.

But actually it was me
who had to.


Sent from Mail for Windows 10

Friday 2 February 2018

Dead Pigeon

Walking home the other day I came upon a dead pigeon in the street.  The way it lay and the colour of the carcass led me to imagine that rather than being crushed into the pavement it was actually emerging out of it...

I snapped a photo of it and my talented friend Adry Ruiz (@xxxadryxxx) translated it into a pencil drawing to accompany this poem

From the ash of the asphalt I am born
fledged from flagstone streets
I will dance for you through broken air
for you will I thrill in flight

I am the chill of the wild in the town
I am a child in the still of the sky
settle my soul in the spirit world
fashion me feathers and fly

as a shaman's cape will I shelter you
although I am crushed and torn
for though my entrails grace the ground
no harm to me now can come

I'll dance once more through the greasy air
dance once more by the bridge
dance once more on the frosty street
where you creatures of the city live

come, dance with me as the day begins
dance with me as it ends
feed me scraps from the morsels bag
feed me love from your lips

I have the courage of an iron bear
the grace of a violin
I have the strut of an ancient mare
that drinks by the river's brim

for though I am crushed and split apart
though I am shattered and crazed
I live with you in the city's heart
wherever a city is raised