beauty, love, poetry, Uncategorized

a glove

Imagine a soul

Like a glove

Turned inside out

For so long

Its forgotten itself

We’ve all been there,

Awkward and marked like

Cain for failing to deliver

A fitting sacrifice

Yet all around



There is love,

And the courage to love

And despite all evidence

To the contrary

There are a million

Tiny acts of kindness

Like stars

And through them

Through one another

We make the darkness

A little less dark,

And the glove

Still fits my fingers

The material breathes

And so will I

And so will you.

beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Like my breath

I’m simple

Hunger when it

Comes to you

Hold you just short

Of crushing you

A growl in the back

Of my throat

The way you fit

My hands

The sweet cries

Pain to the unitiated,

Liquid in the new direction of

My authority

You’re mine

But I work to earn you

Through reveling in

The waves of your ocean

The sussurant rustle of

Each leaf in your forest

And I know each motion

Like my breath,

Like my breath.

beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

the soul’s weather

To love what moves within you

And must be free to do so

To marvel at the inexhaustible variety

Of your soul’s weather,

The complexities of texture, taste, smell

Small noises of contentment,

I’m not a solipsistic predator,

No drooling wanker could

Know the nuance of what moves me,

The charged voltage of interaction,

A cognitive, tactile gap to be crossed,

To love without a trace of bullshit,

My body is a prosthesis for my

Mind and it wants to reach across,

Not scared nor safe in the vulnerability,

And I make myself worthy through

The performance of action,

The exercise of authority,

Carrying old knowledge and fresh


You soothe and anger what is wild within me,

Sat outside your door,

Close the curtains and invite me in,

I will be sweet,

But not always gentle

grief, poetry

Ten Years

I still smell

The air of medical struggle,

They took you in

Sudden but not a surprise,

Knowing you were hanging on,

Soul packed and ready to fly

To better skies than the night


I’d stayed a year of Saturdays,

Bore spousal displeasure,

To try and offer up a meagre

Sacrifice against the grief

Both present and forthcoming,

I tell myself he was waiting,

Trying to find greater meaning

Because as Tom Wolfe said,

Non fiction doesn’t have to

Make sense,

So for all the losses,

I’ve recovered from,

Within and without,

There’s still this,

A ghost,

A wound,

Still learning the route

To exorcism or expedition,

For all this pretty string of words,

Unplug them and hear this:

Whatever holds the keys to

This vessel we’re passengers within,

Give me back my


I won’t say it any clearer



men, poetry

the devil has no fur

The devil has no fur

Nor horns

It is gnawed and emasculated,

Glistening stitches

Tucking everything away

He is a breath held to the

Point of agony

He speaks of the micro

Small, bitter worms falling

From his thin lips

Sexless, cold and wet,

He keeps the receipts

And denies the refund

People ask for

Without explanation,

All the pieces you gave,

Kept away and the phantom

Pain stays with you,

The devil is not a man

Or a woman,

Which, as he stands there,

Smiling with exquisite agonies,

Makes him




men, poetry

Walking Through Shadows

Eaten in pieces

Mouthfuls of time

Anxious feast

A melancholic assassin

Waiting for the target

To leave

Just once


To be worth

Someone’s attention

Without feeling


You can be elevated


Mocked and still have

No idea if anything

Good will come of it

But the strength is there

And you’ve borne anguished

Wounds before and amongst

The ones you gave

There were lessons

Which stitched together

And although the scars pull

With each step,

Hold her hand.


Wherever you are going

Without knowing how far

They’ll walk with you.


A Shared Cigarette

He tries not to cling too

Much but does she

Feel what takes wing

Inside him when he

Looks at her?

Ask if they’re ok

Afraid of the answer,

Afraid to even ask

The question

For fear of the answer

He remains apart

Because to become

An open clumsiness

Invites its own defeat

So they breathe one another in

Like a shared cigarette,

He watches her,

Hoping she might see

Or hoping she isn’t

And everything is