The Master of Rituals

his floorboarded bones are rusty nailed jointed

unoiled and wrapped in stiff wads of coiled rags

arms incorrectly angled end with scuffed knuckles

woodsmoked fingers and pipe tar bittendown nails


he is racked with medieval torture pains

a brickly arched back is nauseously slime coated

mortared graveyard teeth set in crooked abandonments

behind methylated breath-fumes his misty arcane eyes dwell


one legged he shuffles with a fossilised slum dweller ambiguity

his inner tinnitus voices weep through welted tunnelled scars

the castellated storms that rage around his corridors of power

stalk death with every eerie echoed clack of his knotted stick


and the castle children taunt:

“rotten leg!

rotten spine!

ya! ya! Barquentine!”



once upon a riverbank

once upon a riverbank

we lit matches

watched the water ebb

and wake

the smoke dissolved in effervescence

the crescent moon took its place

the stories we told of distant stars

times of laughter

times of hate

like embers in a sizzling cauldron

skewed remembrance from afar

no return

no sense of purpose

left to wander

to our fate

once upon

a riverbank

high velocity v.1.

losing sight of you

the smell of your skin

the sound of your voice


walking on out


eyeline tilted horizon

one way test ticket

centrifugal pilot


staring about


nose cone

stripping the ozone

frosted in glass pain


blinking doubt


returning to leave

chemtrail blood trickle

waysigned signal


singles him out


cracked fuselage

flesh and bone metal

caged in oxygen mask


freaking out


out of reach panic button

communications breakdown

ether bound definitions


drifting without


switched off to silence

lolling head



total blackout


sustained g-force

loss of judgement

visual impairment


over and out
and further still

cast out into oblivion

banned from this dominion


finding you in a parachuting dream

disintegrating into your cloud wings

precipitated onwards


between clouds of uniform solidity

between clouds of uniform solidity

a breath taking harmony decreed

in topographic light transmissions

salient life forms scaled the trees


forbidden minds in locked obedience

chance takers from neon quasi-fields

forced through an eye into a sequence

magnetic needles jab waring screams


came as locusts on a plague storm

sharpshooting minds along the way

underground laser fighting troops

fornicator warriors must be obeyed


they saw the parting of the death cloud

prayed on bended knees to gods above

burnt their faces within a fire shroud

counted out the last breaths of love


I’m on a slight sci-fi roll if you hadn’t noticed 🙂

upon them were written our names…

upon them

               were written

                                our names


in telescopic waiting visions

as far as mortal eyes can see

through portals & portentions

our dimming sun fuelled galaxy


by ice ship teletransportation

alien invaders were conveyed

death ray laughter motivation

a human race to be destroyed


                                  our names

                were written

upon them


Home Schooling

I don’t like the smell of these candles! said Peter.

It’s all I could get hold of, his mother replied.

They smell of sick and dead things!

When is the electricity coming back on?

I don’t know Peter. When it can, I suppose.


Peter and his Mum sat huddled together,

Curled up under blankets on the comfy sofa,  

Watching the TV that would never work.

Not without electricity. The candle flickered,

A reflection in a screen of blankness.


When is Jane coming home? asked Peter.

Your sister has found a new home, mother replied.

Is it up in Heaven? asked Peter.

Yes dear, I’m sure it is. Mother smiled.

Did she take her arms and legs with her?


Outside the street was deserted,

Ominous thunder shook the world.

Peter imagined it wasn’t thunder.

He imagined his Dad up there somewhere,

Like Jane, but in a different way.


No school again tomorrow, said his Mum,

We have to go fetch water, find some food.

I’m hungry! said Peter, and bored!

I know, said his Mum, I know.

This game’s not fun anymore!




makes you think
does it make you think?
all this headfucking messing
when our flat earth is spinning 
in a vaccinated orbit
a frisbee of uberpanic living
constantly decoding
the death rate coding
and globally aren’t we warming?
not to the idea / but / apocalyptically
it’s kinda fascinating / apologetically 
in a / selfishly / what will it do for me
bio live / café cultured / sidewalk sculptured
mentally disabling / frontal lobe featured
formulating opinions then overheating
your sunday schooling never counting
for nothing          /       for nothing
so be it           /           so eat it
so fattening     /          so ugly nada
you pugfaced pugilists...................
whatcha gonna do when the sky caves in? and
whatcha gonna do when the wells run dry?
there are too many live wires
and not enough connecting me
there are too many white liars
and not nearly enough poetry
and not enough peacemakers
and not enough soothsayers
neither nor / or nothing more
either neither / take a breather
easypeasy lemon squeezy
from esoteric to hyperbolic
the meanings in the scientific
or dog end dreamers / take yer pick
of daily dwindlers / fractured femurs
these drug fuelled feelings that make us high
and there you are / yes you / yes you
overthere pointing / yes pointing
across this zippolighted heavenly casement
to a stash of cash so high it drowns us
in all its impossibleabilities
it makes you think
does it make you think?
does it make you hit that panic button?
reproduction or malfunction?
the one that says you’re too old to make it
step back a bit for no good reason
cry freedom / cry for a season
cryogenically weep in wordy wonders
that we are all merely mass / mere mortals
meaningless conundrums simply faking it
soon to be / dust covered / shrouded
corpses buried / undergrounded
floating down the oily ganges
burnt in motherfucking hades
call it what the hell you like
maybe poison us beyond belief
self-harming gives us self-relief
life’s just some weird form of
a token taste of death’s own
of being / or not being a human being
makes you think
but does it make you think?
really? / does it ?
make you think?
make you realize are significant.