A history of violence is a drawl
that’s scrawled and spoken.

Where hidden bodies poke fun
skyward, bunched among crunching leaves.

We scream at a moon that blinks
dumbfounded and erect in all our eyes.

A gull plucked by the ancient raven.
My white whiskers wriggle in the breeze.

Jump rigid and clawing into a burgeoning
day that may or may not kill you again!

I’m terrified of the light of day;
This cold world dangles life for play.


Shirked Impasse

Flecks of spittle dance from
her tongue as she beckons me closer,
eyes reddened and raging.

There’s a salvo of flowers
clustered against a stream which
bubbles and spits.

A dog yaps with irritation
at the solipsism of his
lonely wanders.

A bomb goes off
and the silence
falls like
dust that


Runners & Knives

I’m sceptical of this cutting room floor
as there are piles and piles of sad faces
on celluloid.

I’m more robust now and I can take it!
I can hold the dying light on my shoulders
and elate.

Nothing happened when I ran with scissors
and so my trust is failing. I hope to God
you’re listening.

I’m eager to please and quicker to wonder
if I could do any worse than you’ve
already done.

Let’s climb the scaffold and dance on wet boards
until we can barely stand and the heights
seem erotic.