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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Wednesday, 11 June 2014


let me not gush
on eyes
or hearts
but ponder
more forgotten parts
a pen is
a form to fuss
it turns upon
how fine the line
the medial cord
that holds his nerve
my lord
now every membrane
every gland
and every synapse of his hand
to form the perfect set
although he isn’t finished
i cannot find him
in this cell
so tell me
where does my love dwell?

Wednesday, 14 May 2014

The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Poetry in Describing Love

A Mr. Wigner penned a pome
As bemused preface to a tome
Astounded how the words he writ
So well described his tale in it.
How strange that words, along with signs,
Portray the way our world aligns.
Eyes, I have two.
Yes, what a twist! 
Look, two’s a number on the list!
How weird when one has eyes to see,
That sums fit one’s reality.
And odd, a sonnet draws my woe
Since it was thought up long ago.
Unfeasibly, verse scans Love’s plan.
How queer a season’s like a man.
A gift we cannot understand,
No more deserve than breast or hand.
What miracle!  Thus it must be
That Love is made from poetry.

Friday, 28 March 2014

Song for the Predestined Ear

Avian sings to forest:  But what’s sound,
When none but this winged songstress be around
To sense the song? For, even she is deaf
To her own notes. O, melancholy clef,
That whilst it might perform, still silence sneers
Upon the melody.  She disappears.
Yes, long she sings, yet no more than mute mess
Transmits to auditorium.  Caress
Of wavelength finds no sympathetic form
To resonate, no molecules to warm,
No tuning fork sings out, no strings vibrate
In union with sweet and partnered mate.
Yes, still she sings, as though she has no choice
But to persist with un-herd, unheard voice.
Through dead air, life slips in, now to listen;
Pulsating audience. How sounds glisten
Upon fresh-poised and rare, receptive mind -
So well-attuned as if made from like kind
Of fabric. Matched, their instrument is joint,
Yet plays duet.  Each forms the counterpoint.
“I had a brain, five senses (one unique)” -
Now I have lived to know why Shade might speak
Of messages received by him alone,
For, I, too, have perceived such private tone
In cryptophasic signals, as a lover,
In rarer states of twinning, does discover.
And so it is the codes in tune appear
To the paired, perfect and predestined ear.

Sunday, 2 March 2014

Pensées perdu (coz of u)

My prairie sun, fiddle di dee,
Come, test your fingerwork on me.
O, hit your note upon my string.
Hear what fine melodies we sing.

Four seven six four miles apart -
Imperial; the measured heart.
You call the tune.  You play me well.
You’ve got me craving IRL.

I long to sniff. I long to taste,
To wrap my limbs around your waist,
To kiss that part-Brit lip, so stiff,
(Spread stiffness with my British whiff).

You’ve turned me on with mentalese.
It drives me wild, that way you tease
With words and torments.  smart and hot.
yer gettin in me head…a lot.

But though you hide, I see you true;
Glimpse real me with real you.
So blush, my virtual burka boy,
And blow my mind with clever-coy.

Plus ça la meme chose, plus ça change.
La langue d’amour amène des mots étranges.
Le lapin blanc que je suivis,
Il disparut, mais le voici!

Je pense qu’il est un rêve, n’est ce pas?
Jusqu’a je t’embrace dans mes bras.
Cet homme qui parle très loin d’ici,
Est-ce qu’il un fantôme, ou vrai, ce  «lui»?

«Qu’Appelle?»  Écoute bien, car je sais:
«Elle» est une petite femme anglaise.
Mais, Thomas, tu me manques, alors
Mon cher, dis-moi: tu m’aimes encore?

Thursday, 20 February 2014

State: Instrumental

I cannot stand to be a man
I’ll be a gun
If you’re bigger
Pull my trigger
For fun

I cannot bear to feel her tears
Turn me to stone
To smash and maim
The order’s aim
I’m thrown

I cannot take the mess of life
Your livery
Removes my need
To see they bleed
Like me

It’s me I shoot
I break my head
And wear your suit
I’m good as dead

Wednesday, 19 February 2014


cuntries cum and
cuntries go
sum cuntries suck
sum cuntries blow
sum cuntries fight
sum cuntries share
sum think they’re right
and sum don’t care
sum cuntries play a dayndruss game
sum change their tune
sum change their name
sum cuntries cheat
sum cuntries lie
sum send you off
sumwhere to die
and cuntries cum
and cuntries go
but how they think
we just don’t know

Thursday, 13 February 2014


Reynard the Curious explores,
He sniffs his path through forest floors,
As bees inside their dactyl glove
Proboscis-probe for honey love.

His hungry nose leads to a bower,
Hung with tubed, scented, purple flower.
A black and feathered thing he spies;
A Crow! And Lo! She holds a prize…

With sweetened tongue the Fox doth speak,
To feasting Crow, with laden beak.
Thus flattered, she lets out a caw -
Her bounty falls to forest floor.

The Crow thinks; I’m a foolish bird,
I’ve been undone by fawning word -
But all’s not lost. Now let me think.
This clever Fox must need a drink.

“Before you dine, Fox, tell me first,
How you intend to quench your thirst?
The river’s dry. The puddles? Bare.
But see that pitcher over there…”

“It’s true, I’m parched. There is no doubt.
But, how to get that water out?”
“Fox, you speak well, but I am smart.
I have a way. Such is my art.”

Says Crow, “I’ll show. And we’ll imbibe.
Just share your meal. This is my bribe.”
“Why Crow, it really does appear,
You scheme like me. Let’s team, my dear.”

And so the Crow doth pebbles drop,
‘Til water reaches pitcher top.
Hence, Corvid-Vulpes bond is made
Forever, in that forest glade.

So, comes the moral of our tale;
If by some flatterer you fail,
Then turn the tables on their tongue
By being more than words have won.