Raw Fear


The mountains move aside
pushed by the dense fog
Heavy and expertly graded greys down the sides
until all you see is a blur.

The sounds of rushing winds
and trees bent every which way
those dark wings throw shadows over the living room floor
we cower and watch
as multiple murders are retold in fine detail.

We drive along roads which would hurl you to your death
given half a chance
you may think as you hear
a stone clipped by your left front tyre

The sordid music unfurling fronds of fear.
Living in heaven is not easy.

He paused before exploring the forces he felt in his heart pushed aside his need to see. The tumbling and fall, the steering wheel crushing his ribs, he feared it all.

And he would carry her limp form
along the road
as the storm pushed their air down
and the flames broke out on his each side
he cried raw from his heart torn from his body.

Their life now behind him carrying her with him
no possessions no clothing no warmth no destination.


He awoke in a sweat
safe in their home but why was the air so wet?

Was it the ventilation
or the ice-box malfunctioning?
The full weight of suburban trouble loomed large.

He opened the curtain and the rain now falling was quiet.
He had slept through the deluge (all that noise making him dream, of course)

And that lake that was the city? He rubbed his eyes.
The water was starting to reach the edges of the garden
there were small waves, it was the ocean now encroaching
he grasped his arm hard to wake from the phantom existence
he had surely fallen asleep this vision was impossible
as the water crossed the threshold and threatened his world
he felt a rage building in his chest
and roared with vengeance and fury

And as if by chance, it inflated his self-worth that little, or what,
the water trembled and then rapidly receded revealing, under his hill
a cleansed vision of then urban bones littered with random
crushed objects
the horrid realisation of cars upside down on the roofs of houses
crept over his skin.


He closed his eyes.

But it was the ground opening up below his feet that engulfed all
the fires of hell were a welcome relief from the fear of all your possessions
with you inside holding on for dear life, falling for hundreds of seconds
buffeted against wall, floor or ceiling and the heat increasing
those moments were burned deep heating the surface
feet scolded by the sands of the desert.

But that last moment before the flames dissolved their form,
that moment of imminent defeat in the hands
of forces too great to fight
the approaching end of that moment,
it stretched across the eons
making this his very last gasp
last for what seemed for far too long.

The full wretched fear erupted from his chest and out of his mouth.
It was the very last thing he did.


The sound continues to fall on
the valley floor only to be heard
by babies being born
and in those last moments
before we call it a corpse

her last breath seeping into the room.

We saw a ghost in the living room, it seemed to be screaming

The Vagueness

The dripping tap must be the source of the noise
the insistent drip pause drip pause repetition
designed to twist the mind to break resilience
forced striking rhythms weave sense to describe the pain
it takes so long to stop by then the pain is gone
but instead, a vague sense of dread pervades
the air: it is thick with the substance of permission
stretched films of expertly crafted stones
blatant edges of stories frayed memories
inhabit a fallen husk from a palm
cupping a small pool of cold rain
the surface is broken by the wind

in the wooden window
ancient fruit sacrificed to the sun or food for the desert
we construct a heritage to fit with our pretentious frills

The onset of the gray and the beginning of the final chapter
these pages are precious but a savage wind takes a few

the story wanders like a musician dancing on knives
drawn swords crossed and kilts cutting the air

the drinking is going to be deep this night
what is a few brain cells
I hear we have trillions of the buggers
whats a few over another pint
one for the road,

one you will piss on the road on your
miracle walk home decorating and singing
no memory of opening the front door
hope that rich scent does not mean I am sleeping on the lawn
the opening scene in some 80s romantic suburban sit-com dream,
the way the world was and is, the camera pulling back
mandatory soft music dimly lighting the afternoon sky

Things are different now
there is not so much meaning between reality and the dream.
When we stopped going on adventures my dreams became normal things
there were no more dragons or guns
just a sunny island and you
clinking the glasses and drowning in the Mediterranean light
eclipsed by my pale Fedora as I look below
and remember those fateful sounds
I waited on the edge of the world
watching people’s lives discarded
I wrote letters to the wrong people
and looked at star charts and meaning

All I could find were traces of you
but nothing of me
it was as though I did not exist
in your dairies, when they write the play
my character will be a latent addition
like a waiter or worse, a gardener
and your dairy had a lock on it
your imaginative life
was far richer than my gray day in and day out
chuffing myself for faking it at the office

And there you are, in your magical worlds
staging your plays and painting your workshops
the group meets friday and we told them to bring cakes
lots of cakes
lets drown them in brandy
and kick up in our deckchairs as the sun counts down the hours
the evening dancing by the taverna
to the call of evening frogs

Torso twist

Taking stock of the situation

Those wings batter against closed windows
the winter is calm and kind to the air
the trees take their toll on this age
swaying as they do under clouds of desire

We met under the tree
and spoke of the calmness of nature
watched as a humming bird caught a bee
in the swift clench of its magic bill

We flew into the cloud
soaring like ink dissolving in calm water
the air was kind to our skins
preventing the acid rain from hitting us

Over the ridge we arrived at the siren of dawn
the brief odour of pollen tricked us into landing
on a branch and flowers advertise their grinding hips
the promise of a heady infusion

Language serves in the formation of image
but when we speak so many it is just greetings and formality
those details like if and when are hard to examine
left to the sparks of imagination

Common tongue becomes too familiar across a table
ingrained with the oils of a thousand elbows
draining pints of amber rescue
against the normality of each humble life

Spread your wings and fly
Speak out loud each fibre of strain
leap over the edge and soar
these winds buffer and lift

Why Poverty?

Why Poverty?

Because it is the product of wealth.

Before enterprise took, we were all nearly
the same, some had authority but we
tasted the same wine, of course, it was vile

but it was there and it was shared
everyone was important, are these the days
we hark back to when we saw the poor burn
a few folded pocket warmers
from a safe distance

When they were granted
a few golden tickets to secret clubs
all the private privilege
to haunt and bore away
whether it was
trade union or Masonic Lodge

it’s the strong arm against the thinker
it is muscle against the planning for winter
it is the builder of houses and that of dreams
collections of illusions

as we became civilisations
those that could
committed crimes

murder, slavery, spreading disease, poisoning, neglect

they put us in boxes and wrapped them in gun cotton
their ritual sacrifices show how they
protect us from fear

We choose liers and they ensure we never
taste the wine reserved for them

schools are vehicles and business the juggernaut

we can continue to live like this
we can continue to live

under their yoke
their magic

Poor decisions

The people who ruin things
How they think the rules could help
Leave the others behind
to fall into the drink
Leave the other views
to rot in the traps set for them

All thats unkind
the stern looks she casts
hoping to damage attack
to weaken her adversaries
she shunned her enemies
transparent conduct
to remove irritant
swelled up twice as large
overtook you in the stakes
and attracted epic scale crowds

but you just wanted the crown
the brittle sucrose prison
that ruins your hair and makes
you flint like in your self destruction
your bringing down the ship with you mentality

People who ruin things
sit at the head of the table
they guide us to criminality
from the depths of poverty

they stroke our greed
and make us sin in relative safety
of non-guaranteed anonymity
where we can be framed
by whim of a desperate administration
too many levers slice up
the world into slithers, none sufficient
except the large chunk retained by the wielder

some greed feeds the engine of growth
that is the payoff
not the direct result of greed which is ownership
without possession
of the object or the self

The people who ruin things can feed themselves to the lions