Scraps. Poem photograph

They never fall

those spots of reason

on flesh drawn tight, in retreat

hauled about and withered

by fears stacked up

and winking at, no other way

because there was

no other way

not then.

But now a rush of rust on metal

those screech marks of decay

like time, bold on the eaten substance

would render beauty to a mind

so bidden


lassitude allows mould

to fret and gather over

those dull accomplishments

and the question of;

what is this ache?

inherits the colour blue

that famous state

folk hero hue

that is a piece of mind gone flaky

an intimate knowledge

belonging to more than just the few.


it is always scraps

that in the end

are left

in view.

Dry spell

Dry Spell. For poem.

Soft brush of rain on glass overhead

the fall of notes punctuating this space below

A mood evoked

I surrender to the gradient of sounds sent down

from somewhere in the sky

and wallow in the melody

of a siren song

Will I venture out into the physicality

of precipitation

or immerse myself in the comfort

of discomfort kept at bay

These small margins of progress are the order

of my day

How good it is to live in luxury

the day before..


the day before..

colour seeped and spread

like a bruise. A living statement

Like growth on the dawn

and hurt on the flesh

Such transience


and now the rain comes

teeming with the intent

to drench

every living thing that dares

to bear arms in an open space


an awkward truce of clouds

blown and stretched in huffy air

A paleness in the blue that is morose

stalks unwilling partners in a dance

that must unfold



Dawn. Below the conscious curtain

Muddy blood and feelings

Not yet warmed

Are hemmed-in

Hooded by something desolate

And light struggles to enter

Can you cut two slits

To penetrate the veil

Can you be a saviour

Enter below skin

Infiltrate a little goodness

And leave without a bruise

The air is static

A wide pulse that waits

Spider-like for vibration

And I pause

As I have done so many times

For gravity to sink the gloom.

This day

This day

This day


The rain comes down on panes

Of glass that shudder with wet sounds

A tumbling repetition of reminders

That life is tough


The sky. Implacably grey

Emits its silver pellets

With the blank poker-face

Of a giant in the grip of boredom


And we, with our intermittent hopes

Shelter from the aural assault

Diffident. Changing the scope of plans

That were set firm before the fall


Puddles formed in cavaties

Swell, seeking a spirit level

Rising to the point at which

Our collective hopes will sink


And thus another day colludes

With our remaindered views

To put a weight upon


I am better than that

I am better than that.


My mind is dismal

Sloth. The cloth that hugs at the fabric

Of my being

Squashes hope like bleeding fruit

A skein of flesh ready to go off

Corrode and seep

In danger of losing faith


Let me rise from this sepsis

Slough away the harmful cells

And burn just a little

Just a small gleam will do

For faith and reason

Must occupy minute spaces

Where lies and envy


Connive and corrupt in quiet assembly

With thieves and cowards in alleyways

That are dark and smell metallic

Like spilled blood

And yes, spare me the ooze

The leaking away and stench

Of a naked, hopeless thought




I am a soldier in a covert war

Everything about me is nondescript

And I travel mostly under cover of dark

When the horrors are worst

And my ignorance at its’ height

Because the night time

Is my camouflage

When manoeuvres are across enemy lines

That often stretch beyond my ken

And victory, should I wish it

Is mine

But as this well intentioned vigilante

Wages retribution on your behalf

The real wars progress

Atrocities that fuel these dreams

Play out amongst the protagonists

And wounds that fester

Lives that are lost

Go unremarked at day-break

When Private Me awakes