your dreams

so that they might fit into their graves


the sound that rings in your ear

‘not good enough’ 

it whispers like the hiss

of a snake from the fist of a

rake its a crisp cut from the 

wake till the memories take its the lisp

from the sharp edge of a wish like

a scalpel that slices the bounce from your step

as you lose the words on your list

of nostalgia 

when I lose sounds from the words that were yours

I lose your face still I only have the letters of your name 

only a message an email and a fading face

book that is stretching your life far into death so that I

must scroll down years to find out when you had breath

so I paint your presence around me

and make-believe you are there

be there. be there. be there.



time is running out of me

like a trail of insides being

pulled into my outsides

inner thoughts outered

unto post-reflections,

painted onto 2dimensional

paper to make them real

wisdom and despair

unite in a lethal concoction

a trail that trembles

in a knot

around my ankles

this image on a page

sealion status

anchored at the ankles

sinking in an ocean

of thought

thinking in a sea

of dreams

dreaming of a thought

it seems






the artist

let me paint the words

that tell you how you feel

let me find the descriptions that 

reflect a close account of truth

despite truths many reflections

let me a politician of words and

find specific correct intentions

that subtle hue that breaths true

to every cue 

paragliding seaweed

Freelance means no language

only brave nonsense

I lost my fashion in a cloud of confetti

courage is not prone to fear

it is scarier than the soul

baking sentences from dreams

crisp butter-biscuit melt-in-the-mouth


listening as a torrete-tv paints shades of


200 or more little spiders born

so don’t forget to jump.


I can see the nightmare on my face

etched into the moons beneath my eyes

as they look out the window upon a

watercolour world wasting in the wind

the rain fell now watch the birds sing

the dates fell now its empty stalks

are tied in bunches and a 

logic in the sway of palm in its

chequered leafs. A nightmare still

etched into the moons beneath my




no halfs

so many books I’ve half read

so many things I’ve half said

too many stories with no end

there never was a half try

if you jump you can’t half fly

you either fall or u reach high

cos’ if you crash

you can’t half die

you’re either dead or you’re still alive

and if alive then you can’t half a live




pebble patterns

we carried with us

weighed us down

each foot half-buried in the ground

we crawled

eyes turned inward for insight

too flawed

to see delights of a real-life present in

a second

not past-tense but an instant


creation causing

patterns in the






write on

like the words were glowing poi

on a string of shapes shining

themes onto our souls

like communication were that

crisp instant between giving

and letting go, where worlds apart to

lose the membranes that keep them apart

and definitions were defined from within

words wore their meaning like a robe that sticht  

unto itself so that the scars were a part of its self

so that the parts of itself that were writ were true

when the truth was only one reflection of an instant

that it was documented with a passionate interest 

that it was delivered with honesty and intellect

embraced in wonder

so write. write words, and write your soul

write your fears and dreams

write crazy, write right, write wrong

write on.




time is running

I try to catch it

shifting feet shouting at the concrete for

its grounding presence hoping it will hear but

it doesn’t have ears

so I draw them on

Jump to forget gravity and drum its

ears to make a sound and

the dust on the dewdrops

of the leaf will sparkle in the microcosmic

moment when a gust of wind slaps it on 

its palm, shock-faced smog-paced alarm turning

quickly and too slow into an ambiguous distant thing

I shudder at the million realities that

hit each second and I tell time,

I tell time…