Swing From Ceiling Beams

Swinging from the ceiling beams with a wicked grin and marvellous malevolent thoughts. Wonder what will transpire when we expire and eternity opens out before us like a dark shawl, a cape hung from the shoulders of the grimmest foreboding made man. If man is man-made then what do we say to that which lies beyond the ceiling, in the skies, empty and erudite, so many poems written to elucidate the interest and put diction to passion for the omniscient. Yet nobody is there, nobody who matters. The same could be said for this room, full of bodies but empty all the same. We are all searching for a meaning in the meaningless, a perfect distraction from mediocrity and existential crises which preoccupy the preoccupied and pedantic. We can all procrastinate when the answer to the question is as redundant as the task at hand. Falling into fishbowls from such great heights doesn’t offer purpose to a porpoise or any other mammal. Let alone a man who shouldn’t be left alone with the sort of wicked thoughts that trip, traipse and trickle through this tiny little brain. In most instances it’s all well and good that we only use a percentage of the capacity of this cranial cavity. Slowly shitting on the same sidewalks we sat on as children, watching excrement escape and leave little trails on the soiled street. Perhaps you felt that, the little pang of sorrow and a little sigh sallied forth from dry lips. Strap up and tie off, squirt in the ennui and empty it all out. Finally drawing a little line under a decade of inaction yet unable to accept that it was all for nothing and no one cares who shot first just who shouted loudest.

Dirty White

Step up, turn back
The mouse bleeds clearer now
Coward, return to lay on the moss
Procrastinated, desecrated
You are not time
I cry that beyond all this lives
A candle from the tears of a phoenix
You rise once more, turn, then run
I am fear
Exsanguinate the rodent, drape it’s corpse
Over your flayed back

The taste, flavour of your screams
Addictive, you take up all the space
In my box, my cell, no light
Bread and water and a mouse’s nose
No one lives for themself alone

And All That’s Staged Is The World

I remember the day
Yet this night seems so familiar
As though every waking second is
Lived through this curtain of darkness

The air is still
Cold, and yet, something about it
Tastes so sweet, offers hope and
Hope offers so much more than itself

The most generous of words, the promise
Of something, anything
Hope reaches out and grips in
I’ll ride these midnight moments

A gift or curse, forget
The cliches and lose the cynicism
Not everything is satire, no need
To be such a cunt

And don’t act so offended by loose lips
And lexical slips, if these words reach you
Or hurt your soft sensibilities
Just brush it off, or vindicate my vulgarity

It’s not his fault, it’s this time
It’s this hour, it plays with the mind
Or opens it up, one way or the other
He’s not himself, or he’s far too honest

Embrace deceit, hide your face
Wear this mask, a harlequin, a harlot
Whether painted on or tightly fixed
Never show them who you are, never drop your guard

Raise your shield, your sword arm
Block, parry, block, thrust
You brought a blade to gunfight
Standing in an open field with a stick as they carpetbomb

It’s been a long night,
Cuddle up closer my dear
I’ll close the curtains
You’re safe in here

The Art Of The Liberal

This is something that only the feline appreciate
How far do we go to set out, throwdown
Everytime I die I see the yellow tint
An eye that bleeds only for silver
Raw and tender to the touch of
Time on scarves, wrapped tight
On the fist of your father
Feelings churn, it’s over, the hope
The pain of generations lost
How many times do we throw down the anchor
Everytime I appreciate your palm on my face
Lies of another man feed on us
Inside your yellow eyes you choke
Before I scream I touch your ear, it’s cold
Empirical, yet our nation falls, our body
Rise, it’s a phallic symbol
And now the yellow, and silver, is all that remains


Empires, funeral pyres
Both fall under flames
This ends, begins
Once more, it’s the same
We die, I cry
Break rhythm, this is contrived
A smile creeps over your beak
Heat on the skin as It cracks
Under the weight of the seed prodigy
A leaf on my back nicks the skin
Peace, land and bread, no hallucinogens
This is straight edge, timber plank
We cry and the glass shatters
A mirror that reflects in negative tones
We’re in this desire, a stream
Flanking left and right before the Madonna
Dark veil of the convent, coven, draped across
The altar, consummated, priest outraged
Revolutions flames burn only where there
Is not fire, a life lost over the
Heart’s of fifteen men, a family erased
The hand of God, the body of parliament
The child of industry, the destitute family
Strings pulled, they all fail
For all’s quiet on your front
Heroine needles and small children
Mislead in the heat of a lamb’s passion
A countryside hill and your family, Bolshevism
It’s all over now, you fail