In the underbelly of a discontented beast, a steaming stillness sounds

Echoes swallowed entirely in the folded spaces,

As if agony has died,


Where now dust never settles, the boding is screaming loud

Every moment here seemingly baseless,

Partial to a side of pride,


A small belch heard on the outside, can’t even save those who drowned,

Bathed in acerbic thoughts behind pale faces,

Forgotten all that’s outside,


A bottom ribbed with green mushrooms, happy as if in the ground,

Something about it hinting at further strange places,

Only seen by hungry eyes that pried,




Wearing a crown made of bone shards, the bearded figure harks,

Who goes there? Creeping there in the shadows of his own heart,

Twisted tendrils spread the rumours that he follows, deep in the hollows,

Instinctively in pursuit like a bloodhound, with only the conspicuousness that irony borrows,

Wet ears pricked, squinting eyes dart from side to side, there’s nowhere to hide,

Cloaked to bite back the cold, he suspects it’s the sound itself that’s lied,

The spark of a twinkle or the twinkle of a spark, surely not so in this dark?

If only he could see his own countenance, then surely he’d know there’s nothing to ask,

A quick thought of the royal mirror hung blindly on the bedroom wall – not so small,

Were it here he’d use it to suck the very space into itself – this world and all,

Aha! There’s something of it again, like its mimicking him with smug disdain,

It shouldn’t be here, does it not understand alone? This love’s purpose is vain,

A fatigued mist descends now as he holds his breath, what could be next?

Stillness tugs his vanishing bowels, time now making him ever perplexed,

A second quick thought, this time of the castle’s vast dungeon – yes something,

Whatever is ferreted from here could be dragged there, bloody and wondering,

The moment now heavy his nerves stilled, his sickle ready and ill,

The sound alive and gruesome, with one foul swoop the bearded man becomes the kill…


I stand breathless like a statue frozen in time,

Beautifully horrified otherwise sublime,

Dreaming mine oddity an artwork with a smile,

To an eye kind but only for a bent while,

A sculptured profile with endless ends unrefined,

Taking up space and yet remaining undefined,

That which is inside was not created on a high,

Although inspired it was never part of the design,

For chiselled stone doesn’t cry let alone feel alive,

Although daft works are said to have their own drive,

To somehow survive the piercing of prying eyes,

That swell with green tears as they tell rosy lies,

For nothing cries for what is mostly despised,

Especially when wonderment can’t act surprised,

All’s surmised from here where I can’t hide,

Something non-living that claimed to have died,

Contempt filled spies attend to attempt to socialise,

This private exhibition uninvited are the wise,

The size of their pride hardly something they’d let fly,

Given their prickly reluctance to even ask why,

It all goes by like these dull grey thoughts of mine,

And all these cement like feelings holding up my spine,

I wonder if I’d shine if more of these onlookers were blind,

Then maybe more of I would be less like our own kind…

Fingertip Reason

Fingertips part like a man on a cliff and his reason,

With a silent motion deafened by its meaning,

Speaking loudly of feelings as tidal winds twirl,

In the drop there is acceptance of the different worlds,

A faint hope that the words could have been cradled in hands,

With a reaching touch that made one simply understand,

The contours of the land show rigours of expression,

Reflecting back at the peering face a bewildering connection…