That Thing


Love is that thing in the place that over time


It is a no-thing, a loud-sing of knowing

A thing in the place that feels

A gift.


That man who said that thing once,

He knew love.

Though this my love is not his,

And his this once wasn’t his that again.


I love you. That is to say,

I ‘That Thing’ you,

You know,

That Thing?

Mine. In you. Yours. In me?

Say yes for convenience sake.


Love is my thing in your place and no that isn’t a

Fucking metaphor.

Published in: on April 19, 2013 at 8:17 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Plastic wet tap smack of conditioner
Touching down on shower shelf.
And a knock.
Hair floods appealing cream, edges over.
Soft bubble splats as saucer
Shoulders catch the fallen brew.
On the frosted pane. A knock.
Arced thin jets collect inside outer ears.
Hollow sound pouring brimful and a knock.
A knock.
Brass handle squeak pine crack creak
Front door downstairs opens.
Voices flat distance-dulled high to
Low exchange.
Door shuts.
Mother trots back to kitchen.

Coiled oil-black locks.
Full cheeks.
Empty eyes.
Expression water flavourless.
He stood there.
Tighter my fists towel clings cotton
Screwed rung to knuckle of its soak.
Hair lank darkened to gold cramps
Neck chills and limp and drips he
Stared no
Gaze unfixed disconnects,
Eyes open windows with nothing
Either side to see or be seen.
He stood there, ‘he’.
I in front, bathroom exit stalled.
Fixture rapture complete inertia.

I heard him leave, I did not see him go.

‘Mother’ smash ‘Mother’ clatter ‘Mother’ matters
Frantic flail and fingers flung to dextrous prattle,
Lend time just to ‘Mother’ move to ‘Mother’
Hush my burning lips.

I suck my lip to dowse the question.

Published in: on October 15, 2010 at 10:24 pm  Comments (2)  
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Requests and Question

Umbilical never severed.
Chain from womb to tomb extends,
sends us into the unfathomable.
Links ahead

Fear is the factor in cataract actions.
Cleft from the known we are
left, bereft of easy exits.

Dowsing out the life,
cord links rust
one by oxidised one.
The smell wrecks the schema,
constructions collapse,
time elapsed,
breaths are buried.

You alone have rent a splinter
view, rendered new:
something worth patience.

Looking too closely at
the out of sight,
high hopes are groped by
the catalytic mystic,
carving my ambition wooden.

I whisper, ‘Please don’t go’,
praying for a symbiotic immortality
you could never promise.

Published in: on June 20, 2010 at 8:43 pm  Leave a Comment  
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In ffrance

Two nights ago, Paris:
Disneyland you took my hand
and made my dreams come true.
But then upon awaking,
you vanished out of view…
…though not before a rhinosaur
stampeded at my groin,
my loin for our juicy join.
I found your fuzz and dived lips-first
into your ginger flanks.

Given the chance a shrink did plant
a Rorschach in my face,
and then surmise to no surpise
a plethora of lies, etc., unconscious signs? I getcha,
the bastards claimed my goal was to fill an empty hole

created when my parents divorced.
‘You deprive!’ I shouted, ‘Burn alive!’ I cursed.
So, Freud annoyed a man deployed to
‘Check in on me’ twice a week.

My only vice to seek your love in my slumber.

Last night…I dreamt of lumber,
An enormous Ash tree stood before me;
I scratched and scraped with tooth and toe
to reach its lofty heights,
At last I sat upon its bough
and traced the swallows’ flight.

‘So this is love’, I thought, ‘That thing I’ve heard of, untaught.’

A spasm! Orgasm! I wake, my world is wet.
The lie I told my girlfriend I find I now forget.

Published in: on June 16, 2010 at 7:52 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Finger Trap

I gaze at my urinary spout,
piss out-pouring,
liquid-joining to the
porcelain pool before me.

I am absorbed,
forestalled in my focus of
keeping it inside
the oval target,
in awe of the loose end
in my hand,
for no decent reason
disconnected from
its vaginal counterpart.

And she, the whoever not
together with mine,
facelessly flashes
in the inside of
my eyelids when I
shutter them for sleep,
uncrashing into that
impressionable pillow
is anywhere
but beside me.

I clutch my dick for
feel a falsehood sickness
and vomit aimlessly
from the ugly untouched.

Published in: on June 16, 2010 at 7:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Christopher’s New Sofa

Christopher’s new sofa is saving his life.
His wife thinks so too.
Armorial reward for forward-lunging
strife, cushioning elevation keeping
Christopher eight feet over.

Christopher’s old sofa did hold this role,
but he became accustomed to its feel,
the zeal of it faded with the fabric.
Christopher, jaded, remained as such,
’til he pranced to purchase anew,
perchance the scythe was nearing his neck.

The final straw for the sofa before
took form in the still-warm corpse of
Christopher’s grandmother.
Dead, simply,
deleted limply across the arm-rest
through no fault of its own.

Christopher’s new sofa hasn’t killed anyone.
It sits there cream and pretty,
the pine peg feet adequately acquitting
the carpet of depressions
indented by a scrap heap sofa
now gone.

Christopher’s new sofa got wet one morning.
Purely unexpected, the baby prematurely
arriving by two weeks and one.
Hospital bedside he rocks his
daughter in quaking arms,
aching alarm at her birth and his.

Christopher’s new sofa attained a stain that day.
It sits now unpretty, off-colour, imperfect.
And yet remains.

Published in: on June 16, 2010 at 6:13 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dawn seeps over the frayed vista green-black,

Expectant light seeks to spill upon chalk,

Upon snow smoothed across your fresh clean back

And to comb past your shadow’s coming walk.

But the virgin mist parts not for your form,

The rhyme lay pure and cold: a dormant thrill.

I am untouched. I shall await your warm,

Should it ever come. For now I grow still

As the forest consumes me, numbs my pain.

Ivy holds close age’s ravines in skin,

Whilst winged Gaia heralds mask grey mane.

Their knowing kind and time have named me kin.

Eons have passed, yet still I remember

Your vow. I am forever November.

Published in: on April 4, 2010 at 10:12 am  Leave a Comment  
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Killing Fears

‘You will not arrive home without first being assaulted, mugged or painfully fucked by a gang of capable men’.

The cunning of Night has claimed my skull; this mind of mine is now the enemy.

Solar mimicry of lamplight exposes in conical form the enemy obscured: a thickness of airspace, suffocating calm. The face of every passing building animates with the echo of some distant din, some fray. Such an environment bears uncanny likeness to the usual – this version devoid of vitality, seemly and unsafe. I tell myself that everyone is this insecure in shadow. Night is a fog, even the clearest; walking through its domain I make myself as small as possible so as to slip through unnoticed.

But Night stretches on, three-sixty, indefinite.

A lone girl scurries by. Two startled spheres dart a gleam from beyond her cherry-red fringe. She sees my jarring shuffle, movements rigid from chill and haste. My countenance must seem stern, defensive, alert to the slightest provocation.

Our sights connect: an instant of hours. There lies a clouded cavity shrouding her retina: I see it seep into and poison her reason. She cannot tell that I am akin to her, fearing all. Anxiety storms behind those eyes; Night is dictating her future feared.

And so I stop. And turn. And advance. It cannot be helped, I scried it: the girl’s unconscious, masochistic desire clear; she could so easily have shuttered those silk cloth lids!

The clack clack clack of her four-inch elevations will mask my approach. The tinkling of her golden hooped earrings, the rubbery squeak of faux-leather handbag straps. Accessories of hers, so kind to accessorize this action. Her years cannot be told. Can even her parents recall the number? But young she must be for being unaware: urban infant trapped in the bindings of minimal skin-clingings, somehow too small for even her fragile form. Worry not, I shall release you from your coil.

She is a replication, a mirror held up to the passing streets saturated with begging flesh. As such, a robotic wiggle swings her rear like a manatee ploughing its underwater course. It is hypnotic. A pendulum to the prying eye. Imagination swirls a typhoon. Blood pounds, pushes, stretches my arteries to their limit. I hear the pulse in my ears, artillery aiding the subtle rhythm of my movement.

Above her skirt is seated the majority of her underwear. In her dressing she had already garrotted herself with this lolicon-line. Deep lacerations the sacrifice for delicate lace. No doubt she believes herself a woman, being in attendance of this parade. Her sort: they raise their fists and raze their skirts, the ill-fitted and likely mothers. A lesson must be taught tonight in order for her life to be saved.

The ease of it all lifts my heart and swells my muscles, empowering toxin. My breathing shallows, hastening to compensate. The familiar soft, warm sensation expands and spreads within my groin. She kicks the stool from beneath her own feet by straying from the populated road. Through a silent park. Past an empty children’s play area. Must keep pace, matching the sound of her footsteps to mine, longer strides to close the gap. The lamplight cones dissipate behind, orange pellets rolling in parallel like pinballs afire. She heads down a narrow, moist footpath. Foliage flanks the dirty corridor. Darkness, save for the false sunset of tangerine fur where the city meets the skyline shore.

A company of forestry shall keep my secret long.

Five steps,
Four steps,
Three steps,

I hold my breath for the absolute stillness to resonate throughout my being. Final air delivers her scent: sweet, clean, the naked divine. God, I must have her.

One. She attempts to totter a circle on those ridiculous heel-stilts. Outstretched, my right arm wins the moment. Her hair threads between the fingers of my tight fist. I pull her to the ground, to the mud. Her lovely handbag flies from her arm and shares its contents with the decomposing leaves. She has not yet uttered a sound beyond an initial gasp. I release her hair and employ the ready knuckles to meet her right cheek, on the return swing delivering a backhand to the left. I press my knee into her tiny, half-born chest. She lets out a wheeze married to a whimper. Before an ‘H’ can even be schemed, four fingers get shoved into that cry-grin mouth.

I lean in, lips to ear.

By my words she is stunned to acquiescence: a heaving, blood-lit effigy of a moral martyr. The painted lady has chosen that this will not be her final scene. She gives me her very will; I give the chill of my tongue’s parting gift, dimly glistening in her aural cavern.

Slowly, she turns on to her front. Terror circulates her nerves. She trembles, periodically convulses, wretches. I hastily clutch at her mini-skirt and French knickers, sliding them off and casting them to the bushes. She weeps quietly into the dirt.

That is the fear I saw in the lone girl passing by, her tenterhook disposition taking my nervous friction for predatory malice.

Perhaps, a few steps on, she realised that we were alike: two minds infected by the insidious Night.

The girl walked along the footpath that led to her house, casually propelling her faux-leather handbag in turbine circles around her wrist. Her clothes were on and pristine. Mud did not coat her face, fill her nostrils, matt her hair. Jagged streaks of crimson did not pattern her chin. Her mother would undoubtedly show annoyance at the lateness of the hour; she still had homework to do for the next day.

I was never present beyond receipt of that momentary glance. Her journey was nigh its end. She sighed, realising the folly of her dread and waved goodbye to Night.

The girl weaved a route amidst the leafy obstacles, seeking out the driest ground. A homely glow bonded the forward trees. So close to home, she was nonchalant towards the dots of rain peppering her cheeks.

But dots came to light rain,
light to heavy,
heavy to flash and
flash to

She attempts to totter a circle on those ridiculous heel-stilts. Outstretched, his right arm wins the moment.

Published in: on April 3, 2010 at 8:58 pm  Comments (2)  
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As Above, So Below

As above, so below:
Sun-shaped spheres join the two.
Still-life of fair times begets
the microcosmic squall,
one mirror version shot with raindrop ruins.

Distorted reality reveals actual actuality.

Globular shard an entry jotted,
a list at

times timeless

’til ending.
The real distortion.

Aqua vitae, aqua mors.
Leagues of urban oceans
meet the sky’s giving.
A ripple forgets a moment’s mania

until the next
(the nex)
as the rude invaders intercross,
to cross reception.

These junctures mist the view.

Published in: on March 28, 2010 at 12:13 pm  Leave a Comment  


cold                                                                      steps now take

this empty space,                                                                         toe,

this pictureless frame                                                heel,

exquisite.                                                                                      toe,


rainbow haloes take Light.                                    from the water’s embrace,

prayers in blue,                                                           and once more

Red!                                                                       my ears for Guns.

praise in green

surrounding me.                                              immersed,

a moment,

and upwards                                                               the Love forgiving:

watchful Rafters


from Darkness,

gift of the Good Men.




Published in: on March 27, 2010 at 3:08 pm  Leave a Comment  
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