We talk and type and text and take

the time of those we will never make

the ones we love; its past now: loved,

as we try to forget the past, its shoved

to the back of my black mind

as it twists and turns and tries to find

a way to make sense of this bind.

This bind’s unkind, a bondage, blue,

masochistic; I am for you.

I am? Its passed. You’re past it, through.

I remove the shackles, keep walking through.

Take a leap of faith, they say to me, to you,

but for me the leap is toward truth.

I release the chains of desire for faith,

and I remove the ropes of hope that burn and chafe,

for me the freedom is a different shape.

Its cold and dark and twisted to the core

and I wrap myself around it more

with every word I hear from your hot, hot, mouth

with your heated breath and tastes of dreams

of stars and hearts and scars and screams

of pain and fear and misery

that is what becomes of love to me.

The freedom roars and roars until its hoarse

behind the wall I made myself

I hear the bellows more and more

but the freedom comes from my own health

and right now the wall is freeing

as I sneak peeks at other beings

and feel invincible behind my shield

Ive found a bond, an Achille’s heel,

that plays as Samson’s golden locks

and in my heart this new freedom mocks

but behind my wall I feel safe and free

from the pain that others can pass on to me.



The Words That Dance Out of Your Mouth.

The advert says per, per, per, pick up a penguin,

but when I ber, ber, begin to per, per, pick up a pen

my plans stutter and splutter

from the words that dance out of your mouth:

“Are you writing a poem?”

you ask and instead of basking in your asking

and interest I become distressed.

A per, per, per, poem?

I then think and sink in the expectation

of what a poem is and what creates the greats.

Ovid when in love, Lord above,

what a slut.

He builds up his emotions and desires,

purging the truths of his loins and fires

only to turn and burn those he desires…

may the God’s sting him as his tales have stung

those women he loved with the tail of a scorpion.

Or the odes of Shakespeare,

I look at thou’s lips so ripe for thine plucking

and that body so bloody in need of a fucking.

The smut of Billy Childish

He dus what he dus so well.

A pure man of pure words

whether of buti or ugliness.

My per, per, poem.

What is that going to be about?

and how can it shout to the greats

as they wave at the gates

of the ultimate poets party

when you my dear,

my der, der darling,

can not just shut up and let me write it.

Oedipus Mix Up Remix.

for I am blind,
I can not write
excuse these over lapping lines.
To spoken verse
These words are ritalin
I am confined
in my mind.

the divine
To calm and question
and return the memories
of shepherd’s words.
His riddles gave me extra time
and caught
before he saught
this blind man cursed.

A Mother’s touch
placed on my thigh
engorged desire.
and rises up
Erected is a fool of lies;
a soldier playing
with maternal fire.

by my own wings,
A butterfly pinned
I do now pine
as Jocasta swings
and sways to her own tune.
I kissed that neck,
and released myself
frictioned yet fine
with a gold brooch.

for I am blind,
I can not write
inside this mind.
these wrongs are left
Excuse the overlapping lines.
Excuse these overlaps of mine.

Read Me.

I was informed today that the great Art Garfunkel (I say great because he is world renowned, not because I am an avid fan of his music and excellently curly barnet) not only walked across America, but also made a monthly note of all the books he had read for decades. I found this interesting because I myself am an avid reader and thought I too would make a note of all the books I have read, and thus in the rules of the six degrees of separation would practically be Garfunkels best mate. Or someone who just reads a lot of books and needs to get out more.

Without further ado, the books I have read this year so far are:

Yes Man (Danny Wallace makes me want to say Yes more in life, but not to adopting a load of Grannies or to buying all my mate drinks on a night out, or to buying a car I don’t need)

Freak The Mighty (Halfway through reading, about a really tall misfit and a disabled kid who become friends)

Children of the Flames, Dr. Josef Mengele and the Untold Story of the Children of Auschwitz (At times a little over the top with demanding sympathy for the Jews. Would have packed more punch sticking to the facts rather than adding in cliches. Still, made me cry my eyes out a few times and taught me a lot that I didn’t know about World War II)

Apples (Effing Dreadful story about a load of idiot kids on an estate who do drugs and have no emotional growth in them whatsoever regardless of rape, GBH or baby murder)

The Pianist (Beatifully written story turned into a film starring that bloke who snogged Halle Berry when he won an Oscar)

Most Evil Serial Killers (Trashy, poorly written encyclopedia which is overly obsessed with sodomy and sex crime)

The Last Family in England (Charming story of a labrador who believes he can save his family from the tragedies and temptations of modern life through following the code of dogs)

Across The River and Into the Trees (Hemingway gives us more of his to the point post war drama and tragedy)

There are a few more but I gave them to my sister and can’t remember. Needless to say I like reading, and as much as I enjoy the quaint graphics of my super nintendo I would much rather use travelling time to learn more through reading than having another game of Mario Kart on the D.S, or trying really hard to work out what 2 +2 is on that maths game they always get D list celebs to play while on planes or in the back of cars for their adverts when everyone knows they would really be snorting another line of coke up the crack of some bimbo air stewardess. That’s real life.