Phantom Desert Herd

Out on the never-ending stretch of desert sand,

Feelings ebb like the air just before the rain,

Heavy clouds hanging close to the skyline grand,

Casting an equally vast and pale shadow over land,

Like a single giant footprint of an omnipresent being,

Made up of the tiny footprints of a herd of antelope,

Out there in the vastness still in the pre-storm freeing,

Huddled together in separation like fantasy and hope,

Just purple smudges against the infinite white,

Beasts of a temperament that could never harm,

Black outlines shaping the time bringing into sight,

The subtleties of the chaos disguised in the calm,

Softly the ink drops free falling in a whir of fate,

Gently punching miniature holes in the sandy floor,

A subdued rumble comes with the breaking of space,

Trickles in the foreground already telling of a pour,

The thirsty sticks and yellow skeletons brace,

It’s been a while since, since before, since,

The last blur that majestically washed this place,

Never any time exactly before any of this,

A lime neon flash out the corner in the distance,

Splits images of an utterly dry world undisturbed,

Against a back drop of a somewhere quite different,

And yet familiar through the gushing feeling unsure,

Hunters have pierced hearts here and eaten them raw,

Danced on the thick blood around red blazing fires,

Always thinning the herd knowing there was more,

That after the next cleansing death itself expires,

Bringing benevolent sunshine that promises nothing,

But the very dryness from whence it all started,

Out there in the great open there is something,

That comes back to life when all is departed…



Purple Scarf

Purple Scarf

Half a perfect laugh

Moments before the scar

Perfect when life was

You were for her

Beautifully magnetic

A gift of no price

Natural how she moved


She couldn’t stay

But the memory is branded

Forever didn’t seem like agony

Then when she was a perfect ten

A friend who filled a longing

A white shadow dancing

Always just that far farther

Me chasing like a forever late commuter

Train left

Ship sailed with perfect purple sails

Purple Scarf

That would have comforted her shoulders

Reminding her that I was there

From day one

Till now

Now that nothing remains

Except you Purple Scarf

A gift never delivered

A hopeless smile

For a while it was everything

For a while


Enough for me to remember

I was somehow better

Like how it first felt

I thought I had found something else


Right there where it shouldn’t have been

That last moment was insane

Searching for strength

 We were both found wanting

Like a Purple Scarf with nobody to give to…

Sounds of the End…

This day I hear a different song, one that’s low and robust as it hums,

I hear it from within as if it beats for me, but somehow I know it is not of the heart,

This song that permeates right through me, with lovely, vibrating and attacking drums,

So natural, so clean I can hardly pretend I cannot hear it – as its rhythm slowly pulls me apart,

My sugared façade wilts like onion skin as I listen and hear the sounds of its truth,

The sticky dreams and fantasies that have held me together cannot resist my unclothing,

Reinforced they were by the love I had for you, feelings that swelled the more they were refused,

Now exposed rather awkwardly at the very core of me like the pips of a ripe melon un-supposing,

That’s where you once were – before I heard this song – back when you were my only music,

When folly ruled and I truly believed you were here and could see me and want nothing more,

I had eyes for you only – lonely – I tried time and time again with the strength I had to prove it,

And all that did was fill me with fear and despair, and everything I thought I knew suddenly unsure,

Hollow and uncared for my world became chaos, my negligence leaving my very self in the quagmire,

I reached out to you but all I found were cobwebs and the echoes of my own sad and endless whimpers,

For a while I ignored my own voices, believing what I wanted and dancing to your tune – so inspired,

Pretending it didn’t hurt as if things would, could and probably should have got much better and simpler,

But all there was in the end was the empty, the pit of sorrow that welcomes the sound of change,

It feels like an awakening, a certain twisted acknowledgement, if only by me – undoubtedly for me,

And I sway to it like a ghost in the mist – a whisper in the wind – letting it bear me with its range,

As I move with nothing else more to lose, only certain that of this love I am free…

Find Me

Find me my fine soul, that rare bird,

With invisible wings that span like time,

Bedazzled with white stars that mesmerise my blindside,

Wake me back lovingly, into that first,

Into that captured feeling, imagined sublime,

That magic of the bursting cries inside.

She was here just not too long ago,

Smiling with her sad eyes effusing charm,

So mysterious, she escaped the shadows when she took flight,

Before I had even a moment to console,

Hue her rotary colours soothingly back to calm,

Trying to bring her to my simple world with feeble might.

My ambling curiosity discovered her unsighted,

Then when I was preferably disposed of vain notions,

Oh so it seemed when we were in one moment extended forever,

Her body speaking to me not trying to fight it,

Our sensuality melted together into one throbbing emotion,

It all seemed to be breathtakingly shaping with no endeavour…



A healing feeling bubbles in my bones,

Causing small vibrations that ripple forever,

Silent mileage gathering like a Sunday storm,

Promising chaos that can only leave me in peace,

Steeling, revealing something in sparkling tones,

Pausing expectations, those inner wild endeavours,

A violent climate, just another being of my ageing form,

Encompassing the very best of it, as well as the very least,

The still chill shattered, its pieces splintered on my skin,

The aches and pains just echoes that work themselves out,

Faded, cascaded down beyond the basement of all the organs,

There’s just no more space for it all, not even in the soles of the feet,

The will killed spectacularly with the passion of a dark sin,

Signs of mistakes and stains right there where bad thoughts sprout,

Shaded and tainted with the fears lumped together in gluttonous portions,

Undoubtedly the work of a murderous saint, bravely and exquisitely complete…

Misty Hollow

Who really knows what treads there?

There, in the silent hollow,

There in the thicket of great gnarled,

Trees that look like starving beasts,

Bent, bulky, dark and menacing in their eccentricity,

Agreeably ominous in their collectiveness,

Uninviting, yet morbidly gorgeous,

Forever shrouded by a heavy mist,

Hardly a foil for their sinister demeanour,

More a majestic coat spread elegantly,

Incubating their festering emotions,

At their clubbed feet,

A mashed up fusty carpet of dead leaves,

Twigs and insects,

Where other unscrupulous insects burrow and make life,

 Almost in worship,

Of the demon trees towering above them in colossal fortitude,

The little insects hardly count as intruders,

As they are just creepy extensions,

Baseless minions who ogle but threaten nothing,

Everything is a stranger here, everything that is of this place,

Indifferent, haunting,

As is everything that is not of this place,

Judging, envying…

Home Abandoned

Withered flakes of dried skin nestle under the bed,

Far away from any eyes that would behold,

Something, anything that may qualify them,

The wooden floor, dark brown and scratched, stretches,

Cracked and pale, towards the edges of a near empty room,

The paint on the wall aged and no longer what it once was,

Wasted from its original definition, changed, faded,

There’s no mattress on the steel bed, its skeletal frame,

Looking like a bizarre spider’s web hardened in time,

From time, of time, stuck in nowhere’s memory,

Loose hairs, frizzy and mouldy, mingle with the dust,

Becoming one dank jumble in the dark corner of a cupboard,

A tall antique cupboard, shameful in its false pride,

Once the vanity of a lowly carpenter, a husband who laboured,

A single coat hanger still hangs, still with a purpose,

Holding an old green coat, perhaps forgotten, perhaps…

The photo of a face in the inner right breast pocket,

 Betrays the truth, knows something, a blank downward stare,

Emptiness, the room echoes stillness, the silence mocking,

Like the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall,

Reflecting in on itself and the room, but revealing what?

The sallow ceiling sags, dark stains like bruised eyes,

Signs of the tears that have fallen still visible,

Between the frayed edges between wall and ceiling,

Brackish tears squeezed through wrinkled stiff eyelids,

The water pipes still trickle – bleed – although the flow long died,

A lone man’s size eleven shoe lies on its side like a capsized boat,

As if an invisible foot were still in it, the owner laying infinitely asleep,

A door on rusty hinges, with a broken lock… key still inside?

The sole window to the room – closed – let’s in weak light,

Through four misty window panes, filthy on both sides,

Specks of something unflattering, smudges, more dust,

Moss on the sill, even on the inside, where a lone candle poses,

Still stuck in its own melted and hardened wax – in denial,

Wick, as black and dull as frozen oil, uninspired, no light, no life,

Offering nothing to the room except what it has been- maybe,

A smattering of irony, emphasised by the scattered five, maybe six,

Lifeless shells of nondescript insects, creepy-crawlies, pests,

No longer bothering anybody as they lie piously on their backs,

Basking in their own defeated glory in the muffled gloom,

Miniature feet pointing heavenwards, as the foul ceiling leers back,

A discarded rag lies on the sprawling floor, crumbled up, caked stiff,

As if somebody tried gravely, a long time ago,

To wipe away the last sordid residues,

Of an abandoned life…