Because words.


I am a firing gun, all bang and boom

That lingers through your ringing ears,

Inviting tiny shivers down your spine.

I’m dancing in your eyes, where sparks

Collide, where darker dreams can hide

Behind a veil of life and deeper meaning

Seems deceiving, framed in such a fading light.

I am a name among a thronging crowd of bodies,

Intertwined with power, fame, and sin.

I’m without logic; long devoid of my own time,

A concept lost at sea and weeping, once destroyed,

Now empty save for fleeting details, tempting costs,

All writhing in a wailing hole within me,

Somewhere deep I call my soul.


My Watch

My watch keeps up with time on better days,

But those are rare, and little comfort

When the ticking sounds like panting dogs

Fade into wheezing stutters with a sigh, and stop.

I’m told the spring within is fragile,

Flagellated by the winding turns that set

The grinding cogs again against each other,

But, although it slacks, it shows no sign of

Cracking under pressure as it counts its passing years.

A whimsical possession, it attracts the gaze

Of strangers; drawn like magpies to its glimmer.

Face to face with jagged industry, they grace

Mechanical design with complimentary lines

From Hallmark cards and ageing social customs.

As the bitter owner, I must smile and nod

My lonely thanks and move along, my one-time pride

A crime against my better nature, waiting

For the moment that I need it most for it to finally

Give up the ghost and cling like ashes to my wrist,

And though I know I should resist,

I’ll fix it when it wakes beside me,

Lingering – both letting time go by.

I Wish I Could Tell You What You Mean To Me

A flu poem.


The right words chatter on my teeth, lie trapped

Beneath my tongue that hangs fire, pulls back

From the moment of bravado welled up in my throat,

My chest, my heart, all splitting seams and spluttered fits

Of energy and wit, both muted into boiling stomach shame;

Both crushed to flaring embers under guilt and

Gripping chains of insecurity.

What little I have left to muster forth comes trickling

From my lips like blood from lingering wounds;

All hollow sounds that haunt the air like

Scarred-up stains on flaking skin;

All carcasses that melt into the earth, still

Wailing, mewling, scrabbling at the soil

That swallows whole their loss without lament.

#18 – Dear Leonard

Because it’s her birthday!!! Why not head over to: http://www.whattaildoesithave.wordpress.com and wish her well? She’d love it, I assure you.


When water becomes wine, I imagine

You’ll tilt your fair head, catch your specs

In your hand as it brushes your face,

And let yourself hang in the moment, amazed.

Those sack-laden shoulders might shrug

At the novelty, only in mimicry –

Wiggling out of the wall –

While your eyes travel northward

And off to the west, still only in jest,

But this time capturing truth through mockery

In the silk-lined pocket you bare in a gasp.

I’ll say ‘Oh! You pixie!’, and you’ll grin,

But inside you know it’s time to move on.

Bohemian wraps, perhaps? Oh dear,

Still locked in the past you wish were the here

And now, you post-modern creature!

Relish your time in youth, as you leap

From the train with a flail and a howl,

For those speak-easy fans, trigger-happy in wit,

Who have shown you indulgence

As you’d never dreamed it could possibly be.

Without standing on ceremony, though, permit

That I say it is you, old friend, that’s shown me.

#17 – Vintage

The champagne was vintage, I’m told,

And I’ve scarce reason to doubt it.

But upon request, they should have said

Whether or not it was one glass per guest.

Now I’m sat on the edge of a building,

Feeling a little light-headed –

A bit of a pickle, to be sure.

Next time, I’ll stick to bourbon.

#16 – Service

A true slice-of-life lunchtime encounter.


The man in Nandos didn’t smile,

Or even raise his head to greet me.

“Can I help you?”

Everything about him screamed


But we all wear masks, I guess.

There’s not much choice, really,

When you’re ordering in Nandos.

“Chicken, please.”

He sighed, and I knew he’d heard

That half-ass joke

Too many times before;

Today; already.

“In a wrap, piri piri sauce, no onions.”

It was too late to rectify

My woeful lack of judgment,

But I tried anyway, if only

So I’d walk away with food in hand.

Needless to say, I was disappointed.

Not sure he was, though.

#15 – Tea

They came for our tea,

All smirks and saucers,

Battering down the door

With stone-cold cosies.

They took everything,

Every bag, every leaf,

Every fragrant whiff

They could ram up their nostrils.

It took too long to brew,

So they killed the kettle

With brimming fury

And hard, limey water.

“Stop,” we cried, helpless,

“Please, stop this madness!”

They were having none of it,

Waving away our cries

With a free hand, reaching

Out for a jammie dodger.

Even without reading, we knew

Our fortunes looked bleak;

Reflected not in calm earl grey,

But in the gaunt abyss

Of jet black stony pupils,

Dilated, engorged on chaos

And weeping sugar-coated tears

Of bittersweet, ravaging joy.

#14 – Fish

I will never go fishing.

Taking time out from the world

With a rod between my knees

And a hat to shade my eyes

Holds no appeal to me.

An island in a crowd,

I’m always casting out,

And don’t need bait and hooks

To make my catch.

Sometimes, I might wonder

Whether I will be reeled in

From where I’ve wandered;

Whether all I need is

Pink and orange feathers

To draw in close and snag my jaw.

Just like that, suddenly,

Without any real warning,

I’ve become a real fish.

No use begging, ‘Let me go’,

I’m someone’s salty supper now.

#13 – Dad’s Pint

He says he’s pleased, but underneath,

And shining through in drunken eyes,

I know he’s somehow sad as well.

Perhaps he thought he’d always buy

The drinks, strike up a swift rapport

With maids and tenders as they met,

And treat me to a frosted glass

Of amber-hued elixir. Now,

The man with means is me, while he

Waits patiently for bitter beer.

While he might shrug, and slump, and sigh,

I’ve never been a prouder son.

#12 – Haiku

Finally, the first haiku of my NaPoWriMo! How have I made it to #12?


I may piss standing,

Given opportunity,

But I don’t hit girls.