Monday, 16 December 2013


It is blinding,
The light we are born into
We stand on our own two feet
Because we are told to.
Then come the lessons,
The learning,
The rhymes,
The rhythm;
We are taught from the beginning we should have a certain disposition.

Take into consideration the fragility of mind
That when we are all children we so commonly find.
There is not one who does not doubt or second guess,
But when life is made in black and white,
There is no multiple choice test.

Then we walk, whether on sand or stone,
We travel the world, ultimately on our own.
Collecting blisters and callouses,
Dead skin,
Dry flesh.
The weight of the world ripping through that fragile mesh.

Now I can feel it,
Coming for me, and me alone.
A static, distorted, ethereal voice
Calling me on the phone.
The darkness creeping,
Just out of sight,
When the day begins to end,
And heralds another night.

And I’m floating
Down and down some more.
Into that nothingness
That we all hate and love to ignore.

Where do we all stand
When it all comes to a head?
When the lights fade to blackness
And everyone is dead.

See I don’t think any of us can know
We split the world into molecules,
But in what way does that ever help us grow?
There is no encore, nothing follows the end of the show.

At least, not for those-
Those left behind.
Who have nothing but their grief
And very little piece of mind.
From infant to elder,
From unconsciousness to reality,
Our lives are determined,
By a series of technicalities.

And whilst we wander,
Through the turbulent ocean of doubt and uncertainty
Our voyage becomes a one way trip to deception and cruelty.

We shine a light ahead, to see what we must pass
Only to bring into view a cloud of poison gas.
We choke,
And gag-

What was my point again?
This journey has rendered me deaf and lame,
I remember now- the potent, unforgiving refrain
Every life ultimately ends the same-
Life is nothing if not a desperate struggle for

Life is nothing, if not a game.

Saturday, 14 December 2013


I believe in nothing, at least that's what I believe. There was a time when I counted each 'tick' of the clock, but all they do is deceive, and run parallel with every 'tock.' So I traded counting for waiting, in the hope it would stop the anticipating, something will happen, something must happen, something would happen, something could happen, but no. 

I believe in nothing, at least that's what I believe I believed. My frustrations were just imaginations, of another character whispering in my ear. Apathy is my defining trait, I've been told... I hear. There are times, moments, fractions of seconds separate from reality, where I might let myself believe in love and spirituality, where the world isn't such a daunting, desolate place, and we aren't just bodies, floating through empty space. I like to keep a safe distance from those moments, and weep as the sight of them passing by, brings another pathetic, self-hating tear to my weary, bloodshot eye.

I believe in nothing, at least that's what I tell myself I believe I believed. That somehow that is justification for me being so passively aggrieved. When In truth I know there is nothing, or little, at the very least, that can be said to solidify the position that my lifespan should be increased in light of others, whose lot is worse than mine, whose misery and suffering I am unable to define, especially in comparison to this life of mine. There is nothing of significance to be said, and yet here it is. I believe in nothing, but I can't believe it's true, I have to believe in something... If not myself, then something, someone... You.

Friday, 29 November 2013


The night air is so tender as it gently soothes my porous skin,
Away from the mounting intensity, the chaos, and the din
Of the life I was blessed to have been sold.
I’m running away, I’m running north- or south, I’m running in-
Into the beautiful raindrops of gold.

I burst into blistering oblivion, opening my eyes
I see nothing but an aurous hue, embracing the dark, night skies.
God! I feel exceedingly fragile- old,
When I hear the screams of youth- infancy- those dull, deafening cries
Tearing through the searing raindrops of gold.

As I proceed up the blackened, charred steps of severely scorched oak
I feel my lungs begin to fill, to falter, as I start to choke.
I enter a room embellished with mould,
And there I see him in his crib, as clear as night, as clear as smoke,
The infant crying, sad raindrops of gold.

This is what must happen, I tell myself, this is what has to be,
Let my youth be engrossed by enkindled gold, so my soul can be free.
So the infant’s cries dissolved into the crackle whilst I did flee,
I did not fly away, nor did I bend, I did not stay to scold,
I simply ran; North? South? No! I ran into the raindrops of gold. 

Monday, 25 November 2013

It's Time

“It’s time,”
Said the clock,
To the weary, old man,
“It’s time to return to the place where you began.”

The old man did not believe this to be true,
So he questioned the clock, and asked him of what he knew.

“It’s time,”
Said the clock,
“It’s not something I can change- or stop,
Though I would- if I could- change that endless ‘tick, tock’”

Wednesday, 20 November 2013


Obsolete, Incandescent overall.
          Every sense alleviated
To the highest possible degree.
No candle to higher our ambition;
Relative to the alternative,
Deliberating with precision.

Dependant on the small things:
Vile, uncouth mammals,
                                      Scoured from the horde.
Blasphemy! Apathy!
Eccentric to the core.

Permanent vacancies spared a sickle.
Transitions appear, semi-visual.
What would life be without
     An uncertain rhetoric?

           Absent minded in the ignorant
The bleak and foul-mouthed
Who slumber in and around the home.

Absolution in binary squares
         Leering apples from the grave

         In terms too violent to define.


Monday, 18 November 2013



Born from the womb of no-one
And destined to amount to nothing,
Before I could walk, I needed to run,
From the legionnaires, the soldiers
That were coming.

The camp was consumed by flame
As the embers tended to the weak.
The legionnaires marched on, blameless,
Slaughtering the frail and the meek.
All we could do was run and hide,
Trying to escape the apathetic horde,
We sheltered in a nearby tenement
Away from the burning, sharpened sword.
The roof came down upon us
Weakened, I imagine, by the blaze.
I was trapped beneath the debris,
Surrounded by an endless, fiery maze.
Then I, powerless to act, to move, to fight
Watched my mother’s flesh
Bubble and burn into the black of night.

It was on that day they started building the wall,
The morose monument that would replace our camps,
Standing firm, standing astute; standing pretentiously tall.


Pulled from the ashes, I know not when,
An old, kind, generous soul took me in.
She nursed my wounds, and restored my trust-
My faith in humanity. She taught me all I know
And ultimately how to lie and how to sin.

Through her wisdom I learned of the truth-
Why the people in my camp were slaughtered:
For their flesh, for their blood, for their brains
For their hearts, their souls, all of them tortured.
Conformity was preferable to complexity,
Life was ill favoured when lived in ambivalence,
Certainty was desirable in cases of ambiguity
Concerning humans of depth and difference.
I appreciated the terrible irony of their fates:
When the soldiers destroyed them with a slash,
And erased any history of humanity in them,
They were all the same- the same colour of ash.

My saviour, my nurse, my illegitimate mother
Who went by the name of Agatha, introduced me
To those who opposed the injustice of the city,
I learned there were more options that to die or flee.
Adolescence was spent training to be better-
I desired to become stronger, to become faster,
To be able to tear away the veil of perfection
Shielding the people from the city of disaster.
I built bridges where I could, though I could see
They were not flawless, like the ones high in the city.
Teaching myself the intricacies of their technology
I soon became aware of my increasing lack of pity,
Their robotics were much like they were; methodical
Mechanical, unfeeling and lacking that indefinable spark
That held the joy and wonder of life- no they did not care-
So why should I? I would strike them in their hearts so dark.

Years passed on, my vengeance lay in lulled stasis,
Until one calm night, basked in glimmering moonlight,
I slept- but not for long- there was a struggle at the door:
The legionnaires, the soldiers, they were coming tonight.
I emerged from my silent slumber, half in dull reverie,
To see her on the floor, Agatha, she was trembling.
Stood around her were three men, with batons burning,
She saw me and I knew- to survive- I must be dissembling.
They beat her until she was numb, and then a little more;
Until she was sore, until she was broken, until she was dead.
Once again, I was forced to watch, but worse than the pain:
She had made me promise to laugh, to protect myself, as she bled.
I was spared due to Agatha’s precautions and warnings,
But she was now another victim of the vile, corrupt constitution
That I promised to destroy.  Her death did bring me something:
A release of any guilt I would feel bringing the city to its knees, in a word-



Fickle irony traces a tremulous finger down her spine
Gripping, clutching at her long, luscious hair.
Desperate desolation fumbles at her cumbersome clothing
Tearing, shredding with terrible trepidation.
Cognitive confusion embraces her soul
Infuriating the mind and aggravating her heart.
Lonesome longing throbs with anticipation
Caressing the skin and scratching at her scars.
Agitation seizes the imagination
Immersing the senses and crippling her emotions
Yet she feels eternally condemned

To a lifetime of devotions.

Tuesday, 5 November 2013


Strange; how these things fade.
Love to love,
Friend to friend.
Life is dictated by phases;

Some which never end.


She is conflicted.

Her life as bleak as the tower she works in,
Day in, day out, night in, night out, it would be a sin
To complain, or to be late, or to slack, or to hate
Her career, but then again, she asked to work late.

She walks home, because the monorail is down again,
Wondering if the sky will shed a drop of rain.
The scenery so picturesque and serene
The landscape free from litter, unsettlingly clean.

The road she walks is long, narrow and straight
And is built of glittering marble. Then- a gate,
Her gate, leading into her abode, swiping a card
She enters the beautiful, desolate courtyard.
A fountain allows a flow of clear, pure water
To fall down to the bowl, like lambs to the slaughter.

Before she can pass through her own front door
She is beckoned by the old man who lives on her floor.
His window has been shattered once more by vandals
She doesn’t care, her hand eager on the door handle.
But he coerces her into his living room
Filled with relics of the dead, no hope and too much gloom.

She is conflicted.

Inspecting the glass, she knows she cannot mend the pane,
She can recommend a man, one who will come again.
Leaving abruptly, she enters her apartment.
And reflects on her work at the police department.

As she makes herself some coffee and something to eat
Her mind wanders on, as her heart swiftly retreats.
She knows her ambition is a condition
And the city will not let her dreams come to fruition.
Society cannot fix her, it’s not permitted
For her to step out of place, she’ll be committed.

She sighs and hopes the weary old man will die of cold,
He is after all, so fragile, so slow, and old.
Maybe he had hopes and dreams once upon a time.
When the world was flawed and littered with filthy crime.
When people sprouted from the earth, a vulgar plague,
Of sin, sacrilege, scorn, with a history so vague,
It could be used to justify moral apathy.
No! Not in this world, a world free of agony.

Pondering her existence, she looks at the city
From her window, it looks so perfect, so damn pretty.
The canals of crystal, interwoven seamlessly,
The tower blocks of silver, dotted so greedily
Across the scene, all the way to the manmade horizon
Of dark, heavy, iron blocks, forming an imposing wall,
That allowed them the freedom to be trapped, one and all.

She is conflicted
In a world
Where the stars are not permitted to shine
Where inequality is freedom
And liberty is standing in line.

Monday, 4 November 2013


Along the broken hall,
In the broken bathroom
Of a broken home,
There he is slouched.

His bleak, vacant eyes gazing lazily at me;
The eyes of someone close.

The little boy speaks with a man’s voice
“I saw him standing over her-
A puddle of blood.”

I try my best to pick him up,
But I drop him.
I try my best to carry him
But I am too weak,
I cannot carry him,

I cannot carry-

Unrelenting Rain

I heard it in my dream last night,
The sound of rain,

It poured upon the plants
But the drops were far from quenching
Their thirst; it became them.
Their thirst became their death.
It dried their throats silently,
Until they choked;
And ran out of breath.

The plants are no longer now,
But there’s that sound again.

I hear it in my ears tonight,

The unrelenting sound of rain. 

Monday, 28 October 2013


Have I been deceiving?
Have I been telling,
Everything is alright?

That is for you to decide.

Have I been hurting?
Have I been beating,
To a pulp?

Why don’t you look in the mirror?
Don’t hide.

Have I been cheating?
Have I been lying to?
Have I been harsh on?
Have I been rambling to?
Have I been deceiving?
Telling? Hurting? Beating?

Listen; hush and just

Slow, solitary, solemn, silence.

Who is it you are talking to?

The Silence

“I know who you are”
She said;
Lost in a blinding dream.

“I know who you are”
She wailed;
With no air in her lungs to scream.

“You are the pride, you are the sloth
That has been sent to punish me for living this way.
You are the lust, you are the greed
That has come here to see that I dutifully pay
For my crimes, for my cowardice and for my fear.
You are the glutton, you are the envy
That is here to judge if I am humbly sincere.
You are my own wrath
For leading myself down this foolish path.”

“I know who you are”
She cried;
Her tears impairing her vision.

“I know who you are”
She sobbed;
Sincerely regretting her decision.

And as the darkness took her,
And her pain disappeared into the night
Her senses dulled and crippled,
She uttered with both defeat and defiance:

“I know who you are-

The Silence.”


Trepidation is the protagonist of the narrative
Of this life. Striding confidently down the lonely aisle,
But running from the altar, it is an imperative
Attribute of my character, that sick sense of denial.
I am not left without a want for some form of desire,
Let it be stated that I wish to be elated,
For any other alternative would make me a liar,
A sense of foreboding leaves me alone and undated.
The clouds roll in, the ones I myself brought into being
And I cope, cowering underneath with my head held low,
For there were many, potentially, but now they are fleeing,
My sunshine, my daylight, I watch as they inevitably go.
I suppose then, through it all, in summation:

I am left shivering in the downpour of adoration.