Poetry and Madness

Only poetry or madness

Can do justice

To this.


Off the grid, dug in deep,

Salivating over time limits

And those walled round heaps,

Swamps of salient learning

Lean all about.


Fragments of fictitious vases

Shine foreign in the light

Of green stars rising swollen

In the mind’s perpetual fight;

The mind, my greatest enemy,

And the soul it’s energy.


Ill, hale and dying,

The three states of cloned being

Not understood by the new

Which comes sauntering

Through the swamp grid of knowledge,

And hails one and all over the ridge.


You should know, man,

True calibres don’t

Know no different.

Constrained Composition in Close Quarters Conditions

Interplay in close spaces
Amidst a hall of gaps,
Glittering hands lost before faces
And age bowed backs.

In cubical closes
Do butterflies practise
Their shadow boxing,
On the spot, wing based Chi
Enclosed but still flowing.

Crush, molten glass replaces brain,
On a single side of the face,
Trains and repeating announcers
A tired traveller’s bane.

Rush to get the job done,
Yet rushing not always
Makes a clock smooth run,
Effort expended disproportionate
To outward exhibit produced.

Charge up during chill down,
A tale told before
But this time lived through,
Fill the gaps
And cut the straps,
The closed spaces await
In halls of human flowers
For a sense of the tame.

Sleep Sines

Dream lives lived

And parties attended.

It seemed
All too real,
But we lie all
And worse,
You in your sleep talk.

The facility of memory
Returned for a little while,
Only to get shocked by fractious
Examples of strange style
Never at rest,
Ever fragmentary.

A lift took us down
To that lowest of levels
Conceivable, where tides
Of opposite to electrock
Slow burnt fire
Flow and recede,
A soft slow ebbing
That moves in molten lakes
About black islands
Under a forever dark sky.

Accused, I left,
Seeking those tides,
Their very beauty what makes
Them dangerous, lakes all,
But beauty need not
Profess to be nice,
And I sat on the black beaches,
Tens of others from the colony beside
There also, our feet all bare,
Toes wriggling in dark sands
And minds flowing with the direct tides.

Where resided that land?
Close to the core of the earth,mayhap,
But those molten oceans
Would not be fanned,
Operating on own law
Regardless of any refrain.

Take me back there,
I beg you speak again.

*this poem is partially based on a dream I experienced two nights ago*

Caught Beat



Nicotine sweet,
Poison liquid beautiful beat,
Heart skipping trips
As a pink sky melts ice
Floating on smokey waters,
Growling and cracking,
The air escapes.

Our first taste is oft sweet
For bitter is to later come,
In a dead end heat
Where the soul out funnels
In slow realizations,
But few care
Because we melt,
And into the sky slip.

Droplets of adrenaline fall
From curled tongues above
To our greedy selves,
Down below,
Where we writhe and twist
Amongst seas of uncertainty,
Surety floundering in strange seas
Of facts little affirmed
With their own special meanings.

Catch a trip,
Ride the tide’s rip
And wait for the signal
Afore your heart stops.

Strange Noises

A mechanical whir starts up
When I turn off the tap.
Looking about, glancing around,
I see the land
Beyond the kitchen window,
Dragonflies mating in spring sun,
But no owner of said strange noise
To be found,
Out there standing.

Caverns of humankind early
Unexplored time,
Painting on the walls in handprints
And sophistication
Already then unfurling,
But what is this jazz?
Again I test the tap,
And no noise

Checked again,
To be doubly sure,
And right as rain,
Strange mechanisms ring out

What is it,
I wonder.
A bird, a plane,
Some insects odd or
My thoughts are superfluous,
And cracks appear in blood
Crusted up by mythical
Tiger venom dripping from hoods
Extended at signs of a threat,
The sound makes power names
In my head and heart,
Society separate
And inexplicable.

Expectations of normality escape
From the web of regard,
And I glance about more,
Strange sensations pouring
Through an invisible angel soul owner,
Essays in Sanskrit script unfolding,
The ever voiced vowels stretched
To points that know no breaking.

It is a call
To run from Babylon,
The eminent eyrie like heights
Of a lit up telecomms tower,
Matches and batches
Broken by a keening desperation
To seek the source of said sound,
But finding none
I break apart
And flow on back home.

Plans and Train Times

Lesson plans and seating arrangements
Spill soft through a morning mind,
Sunshine warm at last
Like light of the near summer kind.

Delays measured in minute
Increments keep growing
On small screens hardly visible,
Seats in a New Station,
They blink in future patterns.

Silver lunar tears drip down
Over years from the solar space town
To us, each month,
Here, where we smoke rainbows
And shiver as the sky grows
Full dark with a new moon sign
In it’s new form
Of a semi-permanent mark.

After the hours
And all the miles
Of cityland,
I have arrived amongst flowers
In wild fields of sun,
Awaiting post lesson planning,
For the moon to rise,
And wash me clean,
Not yet, but soon.

Under the Geometric Sky – a poem

Should I write an essay?
The law of numbers dictates

It is so unnecessary,

and my hands ache

From typing all already,

So a rest I’ll take,



A cold sky unfolds geometric,

Its edges all strange electrics

And messages caught

From a cybersphere

Out of reach from here.


What essays caught the imagination

When there be but a line

In which have to your attention



Few thousands of words suffice

When doth a sonnet fragment

Open the mind’s eye,

And I wonder at being interesting

In a few lines,

When interest

Can take a lifetime.