Thursday, 1 October 2009


When will a fresh leaf
turn in to brown,
autumn tasting memories?
You leave me bludgeoned,
my wires snapped,
my skin, torn at it’s golden mouldy seams.

This season is acrid,
I smell a storm ahead-
Mildew blasts through your halo
made of wool, wire and string.
I am eating away at my own memories;
too scared to stop. Too alive to drink.

Friction heats my anger,
a longing of tear upon tear.
For a mere hour when we could---
Gravy skin and upturned funghi
move like ships through tainted gates.
Examine me closer, magnify me!

It becomes clear, like those
orange flames, that I must
despise you, oh -


Oh. Dear wolf, you seem to have come back to me through a fiery haze of blue. Your officers have eaten half of the moon. It appears to me with overflowing light; a blur on the sky line of London.
I heard a bat earlier, was it you? The vampire you are, come and suck my blood once more, twice, thrice - make it last forever. Bite me again, drink me dry, consume my person and be as one. We can be one tree, one autumn leaf, one frightening prospect of love.

Enter in to my dreams, wipe out my father’s face. Withdraw the boy from my night vision, crouched in the corner giggling like a simple man with red, wet lips. Make my dreams colour.

Be with me, be mine and inhale my heart, inhale my taste, my smell, my last dying vampiric breath.

We can and we will love. I have heard that we do love. I will be yours, honestly true to the laws of Victorian streets and tree lined alleys. Push me against the brick, pull at my hair and lift me high against the wall.
Drop me to the floor, pull me to your side and lay there, panting dear wolf. Your hairless back tells stories of original aboriginal art. It shows a secret deadly pathway to love. If only I could line these up, tie string to them and crawl through a labyrinth of skin like a spider, then I should know how to serve you.

I think I love you. I can still taste you on my breath.

Dear wolf, you metamorphasise. I love. I hate. Your back wet with sweat brings rain to the labyrinth web. Oh but to love; this strange pain in my heart, a constant ball of rubbery ice sticks clear to the bones of my ribs. I would pluck these for you, pledging them, yielding them like the vacant trophies of a cluttered summer corpse.

I light my candle of love. It is black, not red - I know the colours aren’t right, but this is my black candle of love for you, one of darkness, of creatures at night, wolves, foxes and bats. I call them to me. I ask for energy from them, from you dear wolf.


The heat becomes intolerable;
an indescript umbrella saturated
with anxieties, breath, blindness.

Open my smashed window,
the spirit releases thus.
Close the missing door,
promise me a trilogy!

The cauldron boils bats,
the kettle boils relaxation.
Empty their scaly preconceptions.

If this be travel,
my book must be
that blackboard shopping list.
An overgrown, white elephant.

I have become tired
in Pandora’s empty box
of forever. It stings

my scarlet eyes, dripping
with your reflection in
her mirror, ornately decorated
with leafy poison ivy.


Why bruise a fresh fruit
if rotten pears fall alongside?
A sleeping alpine, ablaze, breathes
smoke into a new bloom.

Withered, a petal falls,
engulfed by brilliant arson.
The mountains are testing,
breaking open metal bonds.

Ambushed, I stagger, blindly
like a fool, grinning with red wet lips.
Heart abeating, love and grease
pump through a solid, molten core.


This, unknown to me
has crippled the glass.
A shard, benign in texture,
soft to the lips,
has embedded it’s smell
on black brushed fur.

Oh, this dull ache,
rich with puzzled steam,
releases a haze, an image of you.
Screaming to be true,
he struggles through suits
and frozen images.

Send me your smell,
pocket it, envelope it and
lick the neck of a picture postcard.
You seem so shy, by and by,
writhing with fools
happy again, playing by Canadian rules.

To taste your skin,
akin to the skier’s pillow
is all the eye can muster,
all seeing, all sleeping, all weeping.
Eat away at the moon dear wolf,
bring me a brooch of moon rock.

I cannot beg Captain,
instead, I shall suffer the voice
of a mute. Acute senses
fresh but dead grow through
cracked, white plaster.
An Eton Mess.

It be better that you
rush upon this blade,
than enter the circle with
fear in your heart.
How do you enter?
With perfect love, and perfect trust.

Autumn Begins

I've been out of action for a long while.
I've been busy learning for my work. Not just learning things, but emotions and I think they've really helped, even though they've really hurt.
- Apart from that, I've been internet free since moving to London and felt practically destitute without it. So, here I am, back again with reams of writing to upload.