Poet, Writer, Media Maker, Facilitator

may your words.jpg
Posts tagged Pain


the air growls guttural/ sixteen men opposed
our phalanx of eight/ bound tight as ions
tried against/ their covalent lock which
ten times held fast/ against a tonne of man.

our backs: lean Hermes/ & Apollo wait the pass
from Zoran God of speed/ these are the men
you stand against now/ now all of us against
the mud and sleet/ on this eleventh time

plumes of sweat bound skyward/ sinew cracks
on muscle, knurled & bunched against endeavour.
the Referee comprised of time/ inimitable
& just as cruel/ calls


we strive at the heart of the world
knowing each degree/ each inch of continental shift
will sink valleys of turf /raise mountain ranges
capped with bruised black earth

re-draw the borders/ five yards from home
we will/ with respect drive you off the edge
of the world/ we are a company joined
we became a monolith in commemoration of your loss

in twenty eight minutes we will respect your commiseration
salute your rout/ with a handshake and a pint/ in another life,
we will be gracious in defeat/ but for now
we are the unstoppable force/ to your immovable object

now there is only the work
and the moment till the work begins.



Insomnia Suite #1

Sounds like thunder, smells of heat

Air, thick
heavy with bass, a rumbling baritone.
Skies bearing little, often.
Static apprehension greets the probing hand.
Fingertips parting the density
in Inquisition
bought, part from boredom,
part paid with lack of sleep.
Mauve hangs below the black.
A deep internal oration
Sonorous from the dark.
Then my night rain begins.
I catch the raindrops for a moment.
Taste the heat and smoke of cities.
Then return to my ceiling,
the mattress at my back,
and the freedom falling
torrentially outside.


Sooner still, I’m wakeful


Silence in sleep and listless dreaming Lie,
Beyond the soundless screaming of the deep.
 Rage upon the night, in which we writhe and
Feast upon the starlight paper-thin.

 I’m little in the pitch thick black of sleep,
To stop the thoughts, to hold them back means less.
I curl with pressure, underneath the sheets,
And keep the fierce pulsation in my breast.

 My mausoleum creaks, despite its age
this oblong tomb is empty as the cross.
My masters, sires of sleep mourn at the loss
My soul lies in remembrance of the day.

As hours pass, the moonlight breathes its song.
To drown the amber streetlight drone, in vain
I make peace to the silent space beside me,
and vent my heart's frustration at the pain.

The safe in which I lie, impenetrable.
The stone that guards my wake too thick to move.
The Sandman tired of luck must fade away.
In fear of coming dawn,
of coming day.