Wednesday, 25 January 2012


There's no point in talking to the machine,
it already has what it wants (probably more)
as you shuffle towards guillotine blades of glass
whilst slug-skinned men watch you through cameras
and unrelenting algorithms contemplate your brands.

Faces more built than sculpted from puffs of acrid smoke
shield themselves under profane, polycotton shrouds;
hiding from fluorescent figments of the imagination
as their train tunnel eyes unmake the truths
concocted by their slang-drenched bluster.

Push bar to open: the shadows rush in to cling
to the edges of where light is enthroned amongst
all the banter and merrymaking which merely
echoes a long forgotten curse which turned every,
single word you said into a prelude of the end.

Ripping your memory from my pillows is like
a suicide jumper never hitting the ground;
that fraction of a second extended into perpetuity
where consequence and cause are exactly the same
and all I have to remember are things I want to forget.  

Friday, 6 January 2012


Even the shadows tremble
when Time unfurls it's blood-steep arms,
and the clock with its twitching hands
at once beckons and warns.

In the digits' distant world,
all things fall apart, and You
who where once the centre
I no longer can hold.

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

The Old Ones

There as the dinner table is set
you see it in the middle distance,
someone nodding in agreement
with something they haven't heard.

There's nothing worse then being
normal or "grown up" you know,
as drinks are precisely poured and
food sarcastically served.

You watch the death of friends,
but not all at once or certainly,
as they grow fat and mindless
on a diet of pleasantries and lies.

Dim chatter rattles in the windows as
the neon-plated exo-skeletons of flats
under construction protrude from the dirt
like foreign stereotypes of English teeth.

"Lovely" evenings end all too soon
but not for the woman in the carpark,
stood there on and off for ten years as
the sentinel of a memory that no one ever had.