I’m gonna make a move,

you’re gonna make a move,

we’re both gonna make a move.

She’s behind me,

close enough to touch,

she’s behind me, hiding, hiding

and its getting far too much.

Would it hurt just to turn

and see her smiling face

and remove this worried hurt

and antagonising ache?

Hades could be lying,

one coin needed for the Styx;

my baby could be staying

and I’ll be torn to bits.

Oh honey where’s my lyre

to sing my song to you?

We’ll always be together

my words are honest truth.

I could sing and you could sing

and I’d feel your voice behind

and I won’t have to worry

that you’ve been left behind.

O darlin’, pretty darlin’,

give me one sweet sign

as we swim through Hades world

in darkness so divine.

Just touch my sorry shoulder,

or reach for my shaking hand,

help me through this fear

that I can’t understand.

Why won’t  you give me a sign

in this Underworld divine?

O, she’s not there;

I have been tricked

I can’t go alone

on the river Styx.

Where is she,

where is my love

I’m swimming asunder

when I should bring her above.

I can’t take no more,

I must now look

and that fleeting glimpse

has my baby hooked.

Dragged deep, dark and down

into the murky myre

as the dark angels sing

at her funeral choir.

I’m gonna make a move,

I’ve got to make a move,

I’ve got to make a move.

Up above with the living

I sing a song to you

and the jealous Maenads

rip my shell in two.

I’m swimming through the waters,

I’m searching for my girl

who I won’t ever leave again;

together in the Underworld.



The long-legged man I create with my fingers

walks down the grassy lane of your speckled egg arm.

Reaching your rock I win the game and

suffocate your hardness like a gift.

This rock could smash through the bones, veins

and tendons of this open sheet of paper

that moulds your fist like pastry.

There are lines written all over it.

The lines are divine, telling me how long

I will live,

how many children I will have

and how many times my heart will be broken.

I look to your closed book,

denying the divinity, clenched and solid

with no room to enter.

The long-legged man dawdles casually

over to the soft pink button on your breast.

He is swiped away by a swooping bat,

nocturnal and impatient for peace and sleep.

Scampering to safety, my hand hides

stroking gently down your side,

biding my time before sneaking to the cave

between your thighs.

Poseidon’s solid waves heave higher and

crash together, crushing this sailor

who concedes failure and defeat with his white flag.

Your body is dangerous

but safety is always found as I spoon against

the soft tenderness of your back.

The Doorbell.

In the light of the sun

you sleep in the deep dark

abscess of your soul.

In dreams your red tears stream

down your sharp cheeks

and arrowed chin

and down into the abyss

of your black velvet clothes.

Dusk is your alarm clock

as the cool air licks at your snow skin.

Pale and clammy

you wipe the rust from your face

and rub your rejuvenated eyes.

You stretch your wiry legs,

crick your cold, narrow neck

and get ready for the evening.

A few drinks here,

a little canoodling there;

under the scythe of the moon

you hope for some necking

and pecking of the flesh.

A gannet for the gore juice,

you always go for those

who are young,

who will belong

with the beautiful and the damned.

Eternally burning

for the naked smoothness

and hollow grooves

of your sacred place.

In that pumping pulse you are home.

No more darkness

or tears in the morning,

no more hunger for intimacy

and fear of being alone.

This beat will not destroy you.

She will not destroy you.

This pulse is your doorbell;

this heart is your home.


Bronzed and beautiful,

sleeping like a baby;

your stance in eternal preparation

for the battle beneath.

A coma of the toes,

you are rudely awakened

by cramp

and a handsome hands on thief

rifling through your tomb.

You turn your stiffened neck,

frowning in confusion

and cold, avenging anger.

Your one vein heats up,

hotter than the Sardinians

placed in a sardine tin

of your boiled embrace.

He notices you

and the terror that graces his face

is in respect to your raw brawn

that brandishes itself

on your taut, iron body.

All you wanted was a decent nights kip

and instead you are forced

to attack these argonauts of arrogance.

They run,

ants racing for shelter and escape.

You defend your home,

your belongings

and your honour

as you smite them with rocks

that rip through skin and bone.

You stand alone.

One brave, bronzed soldier

with a chip on his shoulder

and a bolt on his boot:

A slowly smoting bolt from Zeus,

rusting from the fire of his faith

that your destiny is his.

The man with one sandal

sneaks behind you,

with no need to stab you in the back

when he can go for the jugular of your ankle.

The cork pops

and out spurts the bubbles of your life force.

The metallic in your mouth

is the dried rusted blood of your demise.

You roar, you fall, you die;

and for Talos no man cries.

The Buxton Vampire.

I hide

with the others,

united in this slaughter house,

trembling and cold.

The predators paw

claws around,

hungrily and angrily

hunting for me.

Like the prey I am,

I am quickly caught.


he twists my head

and keeps twisting,

without remorse,

until my head is torn off.

My predator gorges

on the liquid from my neck.

It is the sustenance he needs.

I’m tossed,

like a rag doll,

upside down

above his head

with his chapped lips

pressed against my neck.


with his teeth on my skin,

he drinks so savagely

that some trickles down

the side of his mouth

and the mountain

of his neck

to the stop sign

that is his shirt.

I am grasped at,


and then crushed

in his calloused hand.

I am thrown to the floor,

like litter,

as the last bits of air

and liquid

trickle out of me.


Mrs. Smith will notice my carcass,

empty and crushed.

She will shake her head,


pick me up

and take me out

to be recycled.


Mrs. Smith’s man was no fisherman by hobby,

more a horse of nature,

in the blood that led to his cock,

soft and grey on the slab.

His mouth.

That rubber lipped mouth.

He never brushed those Big Ed teeth.

At least she got paid for that

dubious honour of kissing him.

This stallion sat in his boat

and was hooked by a mutual bait.

It came in the form of a pariah piranha,

Hall and Oates knew what they were singing about.

He died on the flesh

of one already dead.

Her mouth.

That blood red mouth.

She sucked the life out of him

and spat the bones into the sea.

Shergar, the enigma of his kind,

the kind who disappears without trace,

leaving an empty taste,

like that of a question mark on the tongue.

Those mouths.

Those dirty, lustful mouths.

Mr. Smith’s track ran to the whores entrance

which opened up into Hades Sea.

This horses hobby was whores.

He will fuck forever, never more.


Snaky curls

atop the Gorgon’s head,

ringletted bed head

after a night of passion.

Don’t look her in the eyes.

You can’t look her in the eyes.

A venomous tongue

inserting itself inside me,

burning and yearning

to blister the history of us

and change it to a scarred perfection.

Painting over cracks

only to stand on them

and break your Mothers back.

The intention of good is there

without the intention of changing

her slithering routes

to the straight and narrow.

Don’t look her in the eyes.

You can’t look her in the eyes.

She sashays from left to right,

the Queen on a chess board

doing the cha-cha.

Her body sheds its skin

and transforms over time

depending on who she is with

and what they want from her.

Thick eye liner

emphasises the evil of the eyes

as this temptress tries to turn

me to stone

just like her, all skin, all bone.

No flesh or feelings

no heart that’s beating.

I’m in her sights,

this blinding light.

Don’t look her in the eyes.

You can’t look her in the eyes.