Saturday, 17 February 2018


In the fearsome gallery
of Emily's tortured imaginings
the exhibits reach out
and grind our entrails
between millstones of stark sadism.

Cathy's insane obsession,
Heathcliff's brutal vengeance:
so shocking - and yet,
something in us rebounds like an echo:
are those not just printed words,
but we the winds that drive the sails?

Friday, 9 February 2018


Life is dull and empty now
and pointless are future years,
for I'm drowning in the self-made rapids
of bitter flowing tears.

It seems so long since you left, my love,
yet it's been no more than a week.
I'm all cried out, my heart is crippled
without the love I seek.

You were my Sun, my Moon, my Stars.
My Air, Fire and Stone -
but most of all, the shining Grail
I sought was you alone.

Yet I failed to see it at the time,
so was easily led astray
by a silver painted china cup
with whom I played away.

So please believe me when I say
I'm consumed by bitter regret
for being driven by hollow lust.
It's you I cannot forget.

I'm begging you, forgive me do -
I know it's a huge request,
but if I could win your heart again
I'd fulfill the most treacherous quest.

Oh if this agony were yours
of such longing day-by-day
just to feel my touch again,
you'd never stay away. ;))

Friday, 2 February 2018


You pour me another glass. The
champagne bubbles dance like fireflies
in the circle of candlelight that surrounds us.

The wind is howling outside, driving rain into the windows
as if anxious to be admitted into our private space.
This place, this moment, our intimacy, is all I can trust.

My mind is riding the bubbles: probing, analysing
who you really are. Trying to relax, I hold on to you,
sensing all your fantasies of the past twenty years.

A fusion of bodies - not just our two, but all
the ghosts between us: a cacophony of masochistic tauntings.
Afterwards, I drain my glass. You are still sleeping

when I leave by the back door
feeling betrayed.

Saturday, 27 January 2018


Inspired by my good friend, Lon Anderson...

Gold edged plate, lamb in mint sauce.
Belly full, appetite satisfied
by the skill of gourmet chef.

But I never dare contemplate
what it is I'm actually ingesting:
this succulent flesh -

muscle tissue of young mammal
that will nourish my cells
yet, paradoxically,

stunt my spiritual growth.
This processed grass
that once enclosed a Soul

so trusting of mankind
for the whole of its life - so short a life -
until farm track led to abattoir
and mass annihilation.

Pausing at the boundary of lush green field.
A solitary lamb approaches
inquisitively, without fear.

Our eyes meet across electric fence:
two identical,
yet differently manifested Spirits.

And my hands drip blood.

Friday, 19 January 2018


The sun caressing grey slate roof tiles,
glimpsed through small gaps in frost adorned window.
And how the cold penetrates clean to the bone
like the icy probe of some alien biologist.
oh yes, winter has invaded with a vengeance.

But where is our snow?
"Too cold for snow," my mother would state,
believing the clouds to be frozen solid:
a skating rink for the Gods, no less,
whom I strained my eyes in vain to behold.

Our garden reclines in shadow now
that the sun skims exclusively the rear horizon,
and everything that lives in this gloomy hollow
defers to the Ice Queen, resplendent in white,
with a hushed and reverent stillness.

Nostalgia wallows in it's own recollections
of sun-trap garden on July days:
the Summer Queen all draped in red roses,
her heady scent lingering on the balmy air...
in skimpy bikini, I'm lying on the frosty lawn.

Saturday, 13 January 2018


For P...with much affection

He keeps his dentures spotlessly clean,
shining white, devoid of dullness
or even the odd coffee stain.

Lacking root or fixative, he risks
their temporary nature and smiles and whistles,
so proud of his perfect teeth.

They glow in the candlelight
and outshine snow in winter.
On New Year's Eve at a party

he drank and drank, far too much
and overate then danced a wild jig -
against his better judgement.

Then he needed some air so staggered outside
and the cold out there
impacted his stomach

and made him throw up.
Well, mortified, he snuck away home,
but halfway there - shock horror -

he realised his teeth were missing.
So his long-suffering wife
drove him back to the spot,

where he found his pearly whites
all shiny and bright
in the centre of a dollop of vomit! ;))

Friday, 5 January 2018


So legendary, it tells with pride
of an era of courageous heroics.

But the shadowy forms on lower decks
embedded in rope, beam and sacking,

are the mute story tellers; the true heroes
of that bygone age, who linger still,

bound here by experience: a nation's sacrifices,
clinging to their flagship for all eternity.

Their organs once pierced by oaken splinters
still ache from wounds that cannot heal.

Oh these poor wretches, mere cannon fodder
for the hungry jaws of greed and war.

How easy for us now to stroll on deck,
here in Portsmouth's famed dry dock

and idolize Horatio as if a God,
without thought of his minions who saved the day.