Weekly Poem #199

Raised Skin


There’s a notion of something, moving through the darkness,

A few subtle curves in the night, rising, and falling away again.

A slow rhythm of short, muffled sounds, a twitch, a breath,

And yet, to be knowing it, is to be feeling it, the sheer intensity,

So overwhelming that your mind is entangled in a lightning storm,

Tossed, flipped, teased and manipulated in a haze of nervousness.

Reality splitting apart and scattering like static-charged hairs cut loose

And sent sailing across a current moving in all directions, an EMP blast.

You’re not speaking, you’re barely moving, but you’re caught in a maelstrom,

Not conscious, not away, locked in a far off fantasy, a phantom encounter,

Entwined in a misty embrace with the spirit of an echoing brainwave.

Perhaps they’re someone you’ve loved in real life, or imagined what it would be like,

Perhaps they’re a stranger you caught eyes with on the street, just for a moment,

Or maybe they’re an amalgam of all your thoughts and impulses, watered and oiled,

Then made flesh for the briefest moment, false yet so intoxicatingly real

And purposeful, and important, and overwhelming, and suffocating.

But on the outside, just the faint shuffles in the darkness, just the faintest murmurs.

Weekly Poem #190

The Aftermath


I stand up too fast, have to hold my head tight to my neck,

Keep my ears level to restrain the spillage of my freshest thoughts,

Slick across the surface of my mind, glistening and gently fizzing.

Feet sinking into carpet, cold against blood-hot skin, throbbing.

You’re somewhere behind me, bending like a light beam in thick fog,

A weaving cloud of vapour trails trying to tickle the back of my neck

And invite me back, invite me back under, invite me back inside.

I strain fingertips to caress the door handle and feel that rush of cold air,

Impacting against my slick skin and letting its coldness wander in,

Little mischievous jolts pushing into my veins, excited, at play.

That pleasant thirst, that blend of a need and a want for water,

Twinged with an ache in the hips, a dull decline of muscle tone

And a heavy, hard pant picked up from between mattress folds.

I wonder how long this moment will last, how deeply I can dive

Into its shadowy reaches, in the moment between you and the door.

I can still feel you scuttling up the nape of my neck, scratching at it,

Tapping against the base of my spine and letting me back in,

But the moment has already left, evaporated into the thick, hot air,

And so you’re caught in a fold, an icy airway, like the drawn breath

Of a giant, ready to heat up and come again, blasting free

Making all the leaves spiral and uprooting all their trees.

Some echo of a thing too beautiful not to die slowly, too heavy to shatter,

It can only erode, until the dust has shivered into the air, and away.

I want you, I want to push myself through you and see the other side,

I want to hold you tighter than I’ve ever held myself, and more still,

So still that the world around flutters and bends inwards around us,

But we stay still, like beings from a time beyond our own

Who might appear as statues to humans, so still, so slow, so serene.

But I’ve reached the door, and I’m disappearing through the slit

And back out into the world, and you’ll just have to wait for me.

You’ll just have to wait for me, and let the moment die,

Let it decay, let it dissolve, and step across it, back to me.

Weekly Poem #150

High Road

There’s a thin line between desire and entitlement,
It scores the boundary between men and maggots.
Those overcome with a need to be held,
And those held by covetous monstrosity.
The ones who catch your gaze didn’t do so by choice,
It is neither an extended hand, nor a teasing, beckoning finger.
Loneliness leaves a path for greed to trace,
If desperation lets its infection spread.
We’re told our time alone is worthless,
And measured by our degrading conquests.
Intimacy is a gift, it seeks you out,
But if you claw and grapple for it
You don’t deserve it, not yet.

Weekly Poem #100

Night Terrors


There’s a monster in my drinks cabinet,

It pulsates when I pass near, a magnet.

It wears wreaths of oaken smoke

Like Roman Gods wear crimson cloaks.

It roars with scents that swell and bubble

And dribbles across the floors, down double.

It asked me where I thought I was going,

I had no answer, but the questions kept flowing.

Before long I was screaming, muffled and drowned,

Haplessly helpless to choke it all down.


There’s a monster in the alley behind my house,

It skitters and scuttles, spider and louse.

It waits hooded for me to step out and greet it,

And reminds of all the times I’ve said I’ll defeat it.

The cackle it rattles sounds like steel sheets in a storm

It cracks open my ribcage to get at the warmth.

I oblige it and and invite it as my blood travels south

And I offer my weakness to a quivering mouth.

My teeth fasten tighter and my mandibles twitch

As a ragged hand scratches my clandestine itch.


There’s a monster wrapped in clingfilm on my bedside table,

It shoots hooks through my ears and yanks me unstable.

It likes me horizontal, it likes me relaxed

And its kiss is as soft as the blade of an axe.

My sheets haven’t been cleaned in over a year,

My walls weep with crackling, brown, putrid tears.

My body decays whilst my mind tracks the dragons

And I give myself up to this long-game assassin.

In my moments of clarity, I quiver with fright

But my paralysis aches and wraps me up in the night.


There’s a monster in a shoebox under my bed,

I put it there myself to settle my head.

It sits in serene silence, but I can’t ever forget it.

It will need my help if someone ever upsets it.

It needs me as much as I need it, perhaps more

And it whispers to me as I lie still, eying the door.

Sometimes, on sleepless nights I take it to bed,

I run my fingers across it from hammer to thread.

It’s a symbiosis I crave, understand and respect

And when that door opens, it will be there to collect.

Weekly Poem #69

I think I just Wrote a Circular Sonnet about Sex…


The crucible of the fire of creation

Melts into a wet stain on a bedsheet.

A writhing, pleasured mess of hands and feet

Coming apart with screaming salvation.

Fingers probed with certain dedication

And mouths explored, seeking places to meet

Whilst boiling blood rampaged, potent and sweet.

A thick storm of breath and palpitation.

Tightly gripped hips shiver with elation.

A fingertip dips where vertebrae greet.

Muscles compact and let brittle bones speak.

Flushed lips are parting, there’s nothing but heat.

A long lick of lighting rings out the peak.


Weekly Poem #35



It’s easier than you might think to see the red of cape

Reflected in a tequila sunrise, easier by numbers.

The curved S straightened into a slender, wiry frame.

Superman, the toothy dancing king of fools,

The man who flew into his bedroom on a bed of hands

Before waving through the window and collapsing in a pool of vimto.

Unlikely to scoff at changing in phone booths,

Perhaps owing more to regular walks of shame

Than any other claim to fame.


The Kentish exterior remains, bespectacled, bookish and diligent

But by night weaving amongst scores of vagabonds by way of stripper pole,

Stage, floor, seat and dimly lit smoking area; vying for beats and bottles.

Sweeping the nearby inebriate off her feet with your kryptonian swagger

And using X-ray vision to determine what drink to bring back from the bar

Before casing the next club faster than a speeding bullet and clearing the casks.

Only a superhuman stomach could surely survive such punishment

But week after week our superman endures and at the strike of 4

He vanishes into the quilt of the unknown.


From a tequila sunrise to a true sunrise, so much more sobering and serious.

He wakes from his nightly crusade and cradles his bitter bruises and burning head

Before resuming his false identity by way of pseudonyms and false digits

And vanishes into the morning sun, wreathed in a trail of sickly regret.

How does he do it? We all wonder, we who simply wade into the numbing waters

Of the nightclub chain and wallow in the warmth of stacked speakers and sweat

While Superman surveys the dry ice dreamscape for a soul to sweep legless.

Yet while we wonder, there is no essence of envy nor likewise aspirations,

Because the life of a Superman isn’t the life of a happy man.

Weekly Poem #21

Six of One


It twists, splinters and sinks.

It hovers, howls and harks for hunger.

It lingers.


Your scent, your last lasting imprint.

A heady mix of nicotine, dopamine and what could have been.

Cut off at the monthly mark, now tingling, like a lost limb.


Our last correspondence, returning an old shirt,

An excruciating wheeze of platitudes cased in civil ice.

While some wilder part of me screamed for something more.


Our sacred six, little more than sessions, sex and South Park;

Bute park, midday carnal collusion and class A drugs.

But that was all either of us really wanted.


Perhaps that was the problem.

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