The Priest… – a poem

He has learned the right spells,

The priest of now and before,

future seer and past holder.

The correct words he knows

To allow us to grasp

And scrabble for all the magic

Left in the world.

We see through his eyes,

We hear through his prayers,

And we follow in blind faith

The teachings of aeons gone

So that we might clutch

At magic otherwise lost.

Arcane words elsewise

Without meaning, the

Symbols long forgotten

And import strange

For us to learn of

For it fits nothing we know

Any more.

But we follow,

For the priest

He has learned the right terms,

Knows the hand movements,

Wills us to follow him,

And in blind faith

We trip straight after

For our health

And our souls.

Troubled Talks – a poem

Troubled, the talk grows
In circles flat, removed
From the loop and cooped
Up in sick beds disinfected.

What sick rose grew
In the dead afternoons,
Those ash passionate hours?

The surprise in sordid outcomes,
It shocks and dismays,
But the disc revolves on,
And the black rose grows,
Thorns in the gut,
Dangerously alone.

Kubla’s Musings – a poem

Opium dreams whisper colours
In shades listless but sharp,
Gem cold facets glimmering
With pill dull lab dust.

What shadows grow over
The mountains slumbering?
Vials tell stories of frost
And ice vines eat lust.

Space foreign rhymes
Set to formal pentameter
Ring out over the trails,
A Khan’s song on a rail.

Under the world and far below,
The Khan of Kubla sings,
Of dreams and toothache juice,
The poet’s uneasy truce.

Ice snakes slither with crunches,
Crackles of a cold world living,
Metastasized wildlife unfeeling
Lives on, and the poet, for forgetfulness,
Goes on weeping.

In the Mountain Hall – a poem

Caverns aeons long unoccupied
In mountain crevasses crenellated
Echo epic with a dropping drip,
Series in unheard ice formations
Cracking as only ice can.

Stillness in rime
The end of light and time,
Pools stored and never released,
Echoes in caverns unheard,
The unfriendly ice tales told
In caverns never upon looked…

Take a Bite… – a poem

Biting into the celadon neon

We shirk away

From riding pear storms

And arriving after the fray.

What strange memories linger

In mists of our experience?

Do we listen to singers

And cherish knowledge delirious?

The middle of the apple

Has been reached, and not

Green does it cause us

To become in a wayward bite.

This is one door to hell

That we dare not leave

Open for the feel alone.

Veils of secrecy common

To the land of coin

Shock and surprise in tandem,

Though recognition be desired.

A break from the human race,

A vacation to no place,

Taken at half past never

When hell freezes over.

The Middle of the Apple… – a musing

“You Inspectors aren’t qualified to judge my sins.
Only the fallen may judge me.”

-Shogo Makishima,

Psycho Pass


And so we reach the middle of the apple.

How amusing!

Look forward to that line coming up at a point in the not too distant future.

I type this amidst clouds of Key Lime vapor, strangely named ‘Chastity Belt’, by Carpe Diem Vapor.

This goes out to all writers.

Do you find it difficult to maintain writing and your life?

I’m sure that we all do, more at some times than at others.

I began a new job about four months ago, at a finance company. After writing solidly, chasing the wordcount dragon, for a few years, I put aside those energies to focus on giving this job my all.

Now we have reached the middle of the apple, the c- n- OOPS!!

Almost used a line there!! Anyway, yes, the balance of one and the other. I’ve managed to get writing in the evenings after work again. Nothing major, a few hundred to a thousand words at around 8pm. It isn’t a lot, but it keeps the story going, keeps an awareness of the multiple revolving jigsaw story pieces alive.

I’ve mentioned before that this work environment is a very social one. There are regular nights out and meals and get togethers, and my social circles have expanded exponentially as a result. I feel, biting into the core of this big, crunchy apple, that I may have struck a balance at last with the regular short bursts.

Meanwhile, other social engagements draw my attention.

Last Saturday found me dancing atop a giant table of noughts and crosses, at about 2am, with all of the windows and doors open in case we could disturb the neighbours. Molotov Jukebox was playing, loud.

It wasn’t my idea, nor my house, but the table dancing was happening when I came out of the bathroom. Who wouldn’t join in?

Social things are cool, as is writing (the neverending quest for the word dragon continues), but it is the balance that rules over everything.

I hope that you can all join me in a crunchy bite of this apple core…

Asian Mist.


A Purpose Fragmentary – a poem

Tiredness of lazy made synapses

Spark slower than normal,

Though at all

Is better than collapsing.

Wishes made in secret

Last little out in the open,

A series of compounding links

Fractioned over shining trinkets.

Terse conversations midweek

Forgotten and foreign seeming

Dissolve out via resinous leaks

Over the hubbub in snowy cold.

Elbows on the table,

Cross conversations

Going five ways or more,

Not a single one slacking.

Expectations and ravalations

Meet a social shock

Lubricated by yeast concoctions,

The solemn lipless tricks

Of loud noises

Made for no reasons.

Cold without sleeves,

Sunshine a distant memory,

And all willingly done

For a purpose fragmentary.