At Night – a poem

Awake all those nights,

Hearing the unseen voices,

Ripping up a sleep model

Made standard by one removal.

Envelopes of dreams,

Dances amidst doldrums,

Tripping on angel’s hair

Left in their windless wake.

Books barely told

Of such possibilities

As these,

Fables rolled and hand-held,

Dense knotted mysteries.

Ghosts roam

The glass city,

Cat’s eyes hover above

Ramparts, the dark clear walls,

Trips raving too fast.

Stay where you are.


Illumination across the desert,

Badlands of whisper quiet,

The bass vibrations of old feet

Rumbling in older walks

As our running tongues turn dry

For the remembrance

Of tales forgotten and vanished,

These hallowed halls of lies

Suddenly populated after time.

Silver nitrate production,

Lines arrayed on the walls,

Crystals glittering in the flashpoint,

An event horizon made

Of feline eyes fleetingly bright

As the sleepless gaze roves

This way, understanding racing

To the heat of the rising sun.

Soon shall the Fire God awaken,

Make light this land,

Prove foundless our night fears,

Yet naught for the foreign

Aspects buried in sleepless

Moments hanging upside down,

Bats fleeing before cats

In the city of glass

At night.

p.s. – the majority of this was written with a cheap biro on the back of a post office receipt whilst on the bus at 7am in the morning

Spheres Past the Veil – a poem

Lurid, orange, yellow

And neon red,

A nuclear sunset

That colours a strange horizon.

Shades from an alien spectrum,

Light coronas fed from

Unknown star stuff

Glimmering around a velvet black veil.

Illumination of a kind unexpected,

The coming of change approved

By barely conscious minds,

Used to simpler finds.

Looking past the veil

We glimpse the odd visions

Of other worlds, non-Euclidean landscapes,

The nuclear sunset making new shapes.

The Sensitivity of Scales – a poem

We can measure you
Equal amounts at 2
Decimal places.

No mas, the equipment
Lacks such further subtlety
And skeletons vary.

Bases make the means
For the end product variation
To tip scales.

Compounds expanded onward,
The limit in the manufactory,
It makes physics.

Pereira never knew such weights,
Magic in micrograms and structure,
The quaintness in a drachm.

Dreamnesia – a poem

Amnesiacs wilting in torrid summer sun,

We stumble en route to the stream

Coloured in shades softly forgotten and running

Like the tones tied to unworldly dreams.

Tripping up the superstructure skyscrapers

We look to the rails below, unsupported

With wires and betwixt them soaring higher

Other travellers along lines from flesh unfettered.

Level 5, hyper-dimensional complexity,

Totally real, the ultimate state of void worship,

A goal end reached in brain-centricity,

Calcium channels shut down, the ions licked.

Where are we now? See the wall?

What means the infinite door?

Reach forth, grasp that handle,

Pull and downward tumble…

Butterfly Rust – a poem

Butterfly rust, a sparkle in dust

Taut dancers in winter sun,

Faded when heat sucks

At melting concrete, knocking sense

From heads held in heat up too long.

When will the bees awaken

From winter’s hibernative slumber?
Now that summer has come,

Spring a strange foreigner,

Bypassed and the icy rivulets away run,

When will the bees awaken?

Shh! Do you hear that?
Gandharvas mayhap, in the forest,

A signal told in whispering leaves,

Echoing in the boughs, the eaves,

Wind sighs a song apropos of now,

Of love and laughter heard hollow.

Rust falls in hoary flakes of red

From the backs of butterflies,

Out there with wings outspread,

Looking for precious nectar,

Yet I wonder, when those others

Shall awake, and come back for theirs.

SHH!! I think I hear that, a new song,

The blue blur of bee wings

Brr’ing quiet and long.

A Taste Named

Voices in the morning birdsong
Conversations and long whispers
Tics in the keyboard pinging
A dream disturbing moment.

Repetition, frequent flashes
Of old songs, beat machines
Drumming a diabolical tattoo
Under smooth elliptical vocals.

So minor and silverfish
Terrariums shine magnolia
While rising messengers loiter
On silk running effectors.

Wedding Season – a musing

We always muse more
At weddings, now that season
Has arrived, the time of summer
And us singles are heathens.

Questions, questions, all
From all over the place;
Random aunt arm links
And stories heard to stew

Lines at the bar,
Ceremonies started late,
A holdover from other times
And soon to die before
Next few generations’ end.

Social pressures and expectations,
Natural reactions of the ego
And updates to the family
Who ask but rarely hear.

What mean these odd meetings
With 5 or more generations gathered?
A grouping for dancing and
over-eating, yet strange lie
These meetings, all and one.