boom autopilot

words words words

winding words like a

time clock working

backwards gathering

moments into stretched

elastic bands then


and suddenly it all dissapears

with a progressive inflation of time

bubble blown so that we can’t

see past its horizon and into

our pasts and then


Here we are






safe to say my theme of late has been time.


Continuous News


so how can you know it all?

with earthquakes bombs and 

new creatures discovered and

people killed off in stories 

causing outcries of despair

new islands and the use

of chemical weapons continuously 

discussed and pandas and

histories and corpses

lurking in preserving

peats- undecayed leather skin and

nigerian college gunmen- how? 

minorities exploding to maximise

their damage

this world is spiralling

and spiralling faster all out of

control and for what?

it seems

gravity is losing the plot. 





The Green Neem

Healer. Village Pharmacy. Devine

beneath merciless heat

quickly tall and stretched and shading

with oxygen to spare

it frames the deserts of Africa

waiting for nomads to save

an answer to every question 

never asked

it heals a thousand broken

things it brings


it wards evil it 

watches and waits

patiently for 200


protecting this

world with an 

ancient wisdom

this neem




when enough is

enough and 

experience has left its

imprint upon you and

one must process pain

to proceed to 

something worthy of it

progress, one must progress

process and proceed and prevail

to progress, yes

that is how it must be done says

the face reflecting torment terror

trance trancing on the techno tires

telling time-tables to time tables and 

tables time like stopwatches or

mobile times on mobiles on tables timed and telling

time of time telling time of time telling like a

mirror reflecting mirror reflecting a million

mirror maze

it is about time time times time to be on time and before time and

timeless and

time was always a socially constructed term

anyway like

words but not worry or wisdom or wonder

and these are all my words for now. 




Just Scroll Up

And suddenly, the year is 2007

and we are having a conversation

about why 3 isn’t 4 when obviously it

was half of 8

and walking to the end of the universe

and how half of 8 was hungry because

it only 8 half and

about different dimensions 

where time didn’t play out on a line

like it did now

and somewhere out there

the guatemalan time farms were 

increasing stock to give the world


everything is simpler then

now then how

everything is then

now we need not be

in 2013 

not yet. 


It seems that

I will fight


at first

I will hold

the past

in a glass  

jar and look


in the face 

swearing and

screaming at it

saying everything I 

think will hurt it like

it hurt me

but really

change is inevitable

and it will take these

curses and reflect them

back as slap on my face


because really

I should have just

embraced changed more

bravely and said

hey change

about time. 


what in the world is this world

Right at the very end

Just before the sun 

sets its final rip of red

there is a truth

touching the edge of the

universe and reflecting back

again it


for a few seconds and

screams that this

world was the mightiest

illusion there ever were and we

just an audience to 

show and everything just an

act a canvas to paint it

ears and a song words to a paper

wind to waves and tides to shore and

ground to feet and nothing,

nothing more. 

attempt at verse two of semiconscious melody

everyone is walking

with their faces to the sky

everyone is talking to the

strangers nearby

but nobody is listening o

nobody is listening

nobody is listening and

nobody asks why

we’re all floating in the distance

muttering about our instances

sufferings might as well be silences

cos nobody is listening

as you tie hope with 

persistence and you hope the knot

will keep

struggling towards a distant fence

thats always out of reach







semiconscious melody

everyone is laughing

little twinkles 

framed in frowns

everyone is beaming

and believing what they’ve 


everything is truth now

its a solid paste of face

masking the illusions 

that we are all out of place

this is what we call it yes

this is what it is

this is life this second blessed

we could call it bliss

it is a conveyer belt of

everything we’d miss


The conclusion of every good argument

There’s a part of me that believes

-(hush, and don’t tell anyone!)

that I am no writer- and will never be!

That I was always the distracted 

forgetful fragmented ‘wannabe’

philosopher/stoner staring at the

universe with glazed glass-eyes thinking

-so many trains of thought at once

that they’ve all crashed to smithereens. 

Now look, this chaos cannot be instructive

only destructive, and distractive too

collecting different threads of mind

pulling away and apart until

it unravels into 


the conclusion of every good argument.