Here lies the likely lad

Acutely unfurled
To be all but crumpled
All monumental here
Then combustion. You’re a million debris
Courtesy of a million degrees
Of frictional white-hot head
Seeing in and reading red
Cursed contradictor
Rasping against your innerspeaker.

My love is a dying breed
For better or worse
Though probably best
For there are not many like me.


Every stranger

Wish I could turn you into a stranger
And know only your good grace
Consider your beauty at arms length
Try and put myself in your place.

The dead know no more than us
Not regret, nor relish, no safer haven
No less, every stranger takes us in
Whilst we play timid, every bit craven.


Infinite Fatality 

You may think that time can wait
For your surly suicide state.
But what is that if not rot,
Festered foul and come to dot
That once 360 degree psyche
Now battered blue and lost at sea.

Now welcome your forebears’ faces
Ghostlike. Blame these sepulchral spaces.
Space is a bottomless well, free fall hope.
Time is the length of a noosed rope.


Dearth of grace

Daydreams swirl, dwell viciously on every sick-fuck crude desire
The heart has ever fired, the delirium for which the brain is wired.
Wending thick through fly-ridden cadaver rot to unstir
the vulgar crossbred melting pot. The upper crust, it is their unsavoury lot.
Lot in life and dotage in death.

Beauty found only in bane of late. Duty calls now, in cold blood to maim
the ill-fated motley ingrate, lying in wait.
Our good priests and zealots come crawling out of their rocks from every corner of the earth.
Dragging their whores by the hair, for sacrifice, to bring to bear, a cleansing of this damnable air.
Orphaned, bastard children exhaling this damnable air.
Fire-born witches and thirsty beasts ceased long ago, to grace us nightly with their presence for fear of a kindness done, a retreat won by sycophantic human error.
Marching on fresh births, praying our souls wont get in the way
Orderly queues to have our hearts cut out grow longer day by day.


Dirty deliverance

The one half,
born to forgive and forget afore the dagger point even grazed our feeble hearts, our half-baked haste.
The other half of us to live and die by dogged decree, serving the final course of our repast, cold riposte at every turn.
But jury purer, justice pending. By my word, what became of integrity delivered by the scales.
This day we heed the colourful, the contemplative.
Hollow criminal. Hello shotgun conscience.
Pause it on the black and white, and cue the grey to wash the crimson bright.
Let love linger, let faith gape, met with sickly sweet humane abundance, bathing in the dusty light.
Overkill in the first degree.
Pleading with the hellbound, the soon to be departed.
But what of the judge-penitent, whose just heart serves us well. Like hell it does.
By my soul, crux of my being, we cannot abide by this dearth of morality. This stately sodomy.


Heathen grace

And with a smattering of congenial disgust
I catch the fate of this feeble mind, steeple chaser, remiss crime.
A spear tip gut, entrails gush, propane cut.
Looking for the one, knuckle-white clinger for every last grain of disdain.
For the one had got away, gotten on for a song, adorn
The disgrace of erring heart, stain of blithe man.
Disaster passed her, laughed a great one, karma come undone.


Easing back//Danse Macabre


To any who follow my blog, I haven’t checked in for some time. I’m not really one to digress from the poetry/prose for a personal diary-entry like rambling but I suppose here’s why. On the bright side, I have proceeded to spin some of my demons to the ground and after a considerable amount of time, self-piteous pennings and all the rest, I step away from the urge to write that which reeks of heartbreak, self-deprecation and dour nostalgia to fuel my every word. I am focusing on what’s in front of me and what lies ahead. That said, on the downside, little of note has graced my days of late. For now. This, like all else, will take time.

I am looking around now far more as opposed to looking into myself and I must tell you, it’s wonderful what I see. I won’t write a thing in vain here, or throw in a cliche expressing an eye-opening experience or an epiphany that has saved me from my own self-professed moribundity. Only that I am claiming goodwill on what was always there for me to stake. I have a great family, a friend or two I trust with all my heart. I’ll be in Paris this time next week for Download Festival, followed by Kenya two weeks from that…I’d love to say I also have my good heart and good health, but this is pretty debatable if not laughable. Amen.

As I have struggled to readdress my passion, my release and often my saviour that is writing – deliberately avoiding opening up crumblesome for fear of closing it with the same blank page – I have read that to write anything, absolutely anything when one hits a wall is a start. I guess that’s been accomplished with the first half of this post that is my mind-numbing account you are so good to read.

I have also read writers’ block can be defeated by reading anything, again, anything at all. I have been doing so though not as often as I’d like, not to mention enjoying new music I’ve been drawn to which stirs me in the same way a good piece of prose might. It has helped a great deal. That and devouring episode after episode of Sons of Anarchy day in day day out.In my defense there are complex themes, an inordinate amount of blood-and-gore related inspiration to be had (enjoy my upcoming posts). Also, Jax Teller either sporting cut or topless. Your argument is invalid.

This morning, I happened upon some notabilia – a poem I had written for a blog called Rookie Creative. At the risk of seeming shamelessly self-indulgent, I’d like to share it. This I wrote before I knew love. It got me wondering – what inspirited me to express myself before all of it came crashing down?

On reading this, I cringed, just as many an amateur writer does when unearthing past works. Excessively wordy was Danse Macabre, risking pretentiousness and in fact not all of it making sense. Well maybe it did in my constantly half-inebriated student of a head at the time I wrote it. 2012, I recall, it was my first year of University, and my first time living out and, to my great pleasure, outside of London. I took to the cobbled streets of Canterbury with instant ardour, and in turn hated going back to London between terms. Deemed it something of an evil. Silly ponderings back then. But with the current hate-fueled terrorist activities plaguing our capital. Well it is no falsity.



Where the night will cost you the toils of your day,
To sip much too much, to heave and bleed it all away.
That’s London and it’s laughing at our simpleton ways,
Cue the zombies of death to keep us at bay.

‘Tis London, the streets we walk nightly
With Mayfair smoke blown from stiff lips, drawn tightly.
Smoke that dances, twists, unfurls into Satan’s pretty smile,
Choked in our liquid foolery, we smile back for a while.

Where we walk through crowds of feigned pomp and little circumstance,
That’s London where she told me she wanted us to dance
And sung words of sugar and spice that put me in a trance.
We didn’t understand, didn’t feel it with our hearts
Eighties noise got lost on these parts.
Said we can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
‘Cause your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance
Well they’re no friends of mine.

But we only wanted London
We erred then and we’ll err again tonight
Now the city of vice feeds on our souls
We cannot see the light.

P.S I cannot believe I quoted Safety Dance. There is no wondering why I sometimes really hate myself.