poetry, Uncategorized

but i’m telling you

there were twenty of them

in velour purple tracksuits

pristine fat sneakers

like hardback books bound

with obese laces

all stood together

waiting to get on

the ride

so i walk forwards

throw on a grin

into the spotlight i imagine

shines on me

heart racing like the rain

later that afternoon

and i walk in front of them

get on the bloody ride

and they all looked at me

with wide smiles

which never reached

their eyes

later, in a bunker,

they laid down

bitter dust of enough tablets

to usher them down

leaving the meat behind

going into space

as stardust

and i didn’t tell anyone

until now

but i’m telling you


poetry, Uncategorized

reviewing a circus

the doughnuts tasted

and when i asked the

he just grunted

piebald velvet curtains

hang like a narcissist’s lower

and I found my

they still have a live

but the sound is

stalking the

and the smell crawls after

too much make up to trust on a

teeth trying to flee his

like a prison break

but you’ve paid for a

and now you sit and

gritting your teeth

appalled at how low your

were when you were a

and when you

you fight the urge to slap the pamphlet from their

but you smile and say no

i won’t be back again.




It’s too simple

To say you hated him

Hate implies a connection

(Between sips of your


To sweeten the bitter taste

Which comes when you

Say his name)

It is a zen indifference

You spoke of

The scars formed

Blossomed for a time

Heavy enough to make

Branches bend

But then they fell away

And you broke the branches

Of their actions

Made a fire to keep out

The cold

And burned their infection away

Dead flesh of yours burned along with it

New and healing with time

You slurp the thick last inch

Branches of veins at your temples

Then you thank them



You listened

And in doing so

Took a small measure of

Whatever they said

They weren’t feeling

But your hands shake

As you go outside

And the milk sits

Heavy in your stomach

It is a comfort to

not float away

Howling with


And see yourself

Becoming nothing but a dot

In the sky



Listening To The Mimes

Please be 



I’m trying to 

Listen to the


Paying attention

Because there is

A clarity to 

the things they say

Sit down with me

And we will

Watch them together

Like stars 

Or the soft fall of leaves. 

Have them teach us

The way 


poetry, Uncategorized

in the trunk

Here in the dark,

Roar of tires on the asphalt

Wondering where my God is,

And when He will pay me back

What He owes me

The musk of petroleum,

Endless packed bursts of despairing sweat

As I pretend all those episodes

of crime procedural dramas taught me


But scripts need the suspect not to call

Their lawyer

And my hustle remains in place

Finding a dark comfort in knowing

This is how it ends.

From a business perspective,

It’s counter-intuitive but I’ve got cigarettes and

They didn’t tie my hands

And people see the beard and the easy manner

Don’t seem to get it all comes

Because I know my monsters

My darkness

And even my woman asked me,

And I answered

But still should’ve listened to her


I wouldn’t



In the first place

But like any good monster

I need a lair

To wait the day out.

No matter who comes in

I’ll be leaving with blood

On my teeth.


Almost Real

carved to order

By sacrifices made

Been sold for love

And sent to the salt


All you’ve asked is to be seen

Until you saw yourself

And to know the pleasure

Of being wanted 

Not needed

Bearing the burden

Still sometimes struggling

But borne with strength

This too,shall pass

Through to sweetness 

And again

should such flowers fail 

to bloom,

remember you’re real

No matter who carved you

Planed the rough parts

Smooth and pleasing to touch

And beneath the right lights




beauty, lust, poetry, sex, women


The warm sweetness of your skin

Sometimes the want makes it

difficult not to tear you away

ravish you until you’re insensible

stretching out each moment

as you tremble beneath my rough hands

gentle in the tender places

a musician’s hand

an artist’s eye

a poet’s tongue

all once the art has been made

at play against your skin

you might tire of my weakness in time,

but the strength which flows through me,

lets you alone at my whim

and when the urge occurs,

i would take you

over and over

until the walls dripped with sweat

and you,

supine and glorious,

beg me enough