A White Noise

This page with its blankness.

There was an honesty there,


its whiteness whirring.


My mind mirrored.


Unbeginningly wordless it spoke existence.

Its silence, no presumption of language.


Its consciousness being in front of me,

I love myself in its natural purity.


But then, I do what I do.


A word, plucked

fixes that,

fucks that.


And once you start

you can’t shut up.


So much so,

the best you can hope for


is white noise.

When Blood, a River of Roses, Runs

When blood, a river of roses, runs

and floods, a Phoenix rising red

and soaks your skin and cloaks you scarlet

rumbles creeks where sense has fled,


and rushes to your little head

as passion pulls and pulverises,

irises burst as dreams fulfil

materialising in all their guises.


When civility sheds its clothes and bares

desire in all its physicality,

surrender to your quickening pulse

accept the moment’s animality.

To the Lifeboats

I scratched a sound in the silence
A little not-nothing
to puncture eternity.

A small whimper
floating the assertion
on the infinite sea of not-me.

To swim out,
the momentary hands of readers
preventing me sinking.

Thank you for reading me,
for today I shall not drown.

In a dream I was a kiss

In a dream I was a kiss:
not the lips, hesitantly
forwarded, parting
meeting wet warmth of the other
or the heads angled opposite
but fitting, harmoniously rocking,
or the hands, still part of this,
gently drawing on the back
at a blouse, soaking the submerged
heat of skin. Nor the participants,
nor their coursing blood and thoughts.
Nor the abandonment of time, nor the moment
of intermingling of exhaled breaths.
Just all of this.

I was the kiss.


In the days before child abuse
I’d hang in mid-air
dangling from my arm
like some monkey screeching,
hoisted from seated,
and as I flew, a shoulder
popping in pain
for the first of what would be three
times that year,
I knew my reluctant bones
would punish you,
deem you unfit
for some unshared secret
which even then had dislocated
and bound us.

Spent Time

I have spent
time doing
nothing but ageing.

None of me moves,
but I watch and feel freckles

I see eyes cloud to some
glaucomatous milk, unwillingly
losing spark,

thoughts now trail off in the inner ether.
Never spoken.

I pull at the reluctant skin
on the hand’s back.
It has no thought of returning.
Having exhausted itself on the journey
it peaks in the pinches’ fold.
Eventually dying back to shape.

It occurs to me I could do all this
whilst reading, and I decide to make some tea.