Monthly Archives: June 2011

On reading about Alfred…






‘The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated’ ~ Mark Twain


The mottled bathroom mirror
confirmed what she already suspected –
she had indeed died in the night.

Later, water from the rusty shower head
dripping down her face,
she wrote her obituary

on the glass walls
of the steamy chamber,
recounting the pertinent details of her life;

age, place of birth, parents, education,
occupation, principal mourners,
attributes and accomplishments.

As the steam blurred her history,
she thought of Alfred
and began compiling a list of awards;

a prize for punctuality –
her father had always joked
that she would be late for her own funeral,

one for housework –
for paying more attention to the vacuuming
than the complex structure of villanelles,

a shield to those that tread carefully,
always weighing up the dangers before
diving straight into the mouth of adventure

and a tiny crystal goblet
for those that practiced restraint
in matters of temperance.

But the final accolade would go to those
that would read neither the lines
nor between them,

who would disregard
both her successes
and her failures

and simply judge her
by the mark she left
upon their mirrors.


~  Alfred is a reference to Alfred Nobel. On reading his wrongly reported obituary stating ‘the merchant of death is dead’ which condemned him for a lot of his accomplishments, the most famous being the invention of dynamite, he set about creating a legacy – the Nobel prizes, the most coveted of which is the Peace Prize which flies in the face of a lot of his life’s work.

This piece is about not being remembered for our perceived successes and failures but about something much deeper, the effect that we have on other people, how we make them feel – the mark we leave on their mirrors.


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He spent the day at her grave;
the dry earth spotted
with his bitter sadness.

It began to rain
and he returned to the cold kitchen
for an even colder supper –

she thought he was digging a pond.

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Sunrise over the Pharmacy








Nursing caffeine;

watching Belenus
fight Arianrhod
for space in the sky,

dawning –

her only blithe warrior
the little white lie
she allows to slipslide

down her throat
each morning.


Filed under Free Verse, Uncategorized

Corpus Opus







No-one in our real lives gives a shit that we write,
that our raison d’être is to drag definitions
from the depths of our guts
and needle scratch them into our skin.

I wonder if,
when the words that ink us,
that silkscreenprint us,
have dried and cracked
and not an inch of skin remains,

they will gather around our naked corpses
and read the story of our lives.


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Ice Storm

She locks them in a cupboard safe from harm,
four little funghi hidden in the dark,
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.

A single blue flash serves to raise alarm,
the dog roused from her slumber starts to bark,
she locks them in a cupboard safe from harm.

Her beauty now no longer serves to charm,
as always, vengeance will be swift and stark,
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.

The thunder in his mood she can’t disarm,
before his fisted fury leaves its mark
she locks them in a cupboard safe from harm.

The blows that rain are interlaced with smarm,
they soak her skin but fail to douse her spark,
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.

Their tender looks will be her salve, her balm,
when shifting glacier scrapes its chattermark.
She locks them in a cupboard safe from harm
until the raging storm gives birth to calm.

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On Darkness

‘when we fuck we go to the dark gods’

Just hold that thought between your glist’ning thighs
resist the urge to let the bastard in
for penetration’s sanity’s demise.

Moist oral appetiser’s a disguise,
soft whisper merely heavy petting’s twin;
just hold that thought between your glist’ning thighs.

This stark desire still burns behind the eyes;
all thoughts of chastity will soon wear thin
for penetration’s sanity’s demise.

Crepuscular embrace would be unwise,
as flesh parts, darkness slides against the skin,
just hold that thought between your glist’ning thighs

lest it give way to grim dysphoric guise.
Beware the false serenity within
for penetration’s sanity’s demise.

Dark gods will bathe in rapture and baptise;
anoint with balm of rank addiction’s kin.
Just hold that thought between your glist’ning thighs
for penetration’s sanity’s demise.

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Filed under Villanelle