I remember everything…

I remember everything…

Bound and gagged by memory.

The sweat forming between our palms,

cold toes seeking a warm calf;

my atoms trying to fuse

into your touch,

to become more than

my own molecules,

more than the DNA of my birth.

I remember everything…

How they spoke in hushed tones,

not comprehending what I heard.

Squirreling away their insecurities,

secretly storing misinformation

whilst my adolescent mind hibernated.

The fat added to my young bones

as I gorged myself in a no-mans land;

exiled to my room for being too much,

exhibiting too much emotion

for all of us to handle.

I remember everything…

Them desperately trying to stem the flow

of the uncomfortable reality of being human.

Distractions so short-lived.

I became mute, playing charades

with an audience blinded and paralyzed

by their own inadequacies.

My voice raised,

only that they should hear

how lost I felt trying to be them.

I remember everything…

How desperate I was to confirm

to their understanding,

to learn the lines of their script,

of a life that can only be improvised.

Rule upon rule became my yard stick,

constraints doing nothing more than

enabling my own dysfunctional mind;

tricking it, confusing it,

beating it into submission

robbing it of innocent fascination

reinforcing lie upon lie;

that the world belonged to everyone but me.

I remember everything…

The Whole Shebang

I caught a glimpse


of what could be;

the potential of

the whole shebang.

Another kindred spirit


lost too in a familiar life.

Shared dreams, aspirations,


by circumstance,

united by certainty,

by the belief

that there is so much more…



to us both.

Continually searching,


purely by thought.

Everything… And More

Quick as a flash.


Train well…

Life doesn’t excuse.

Doesn’t say,

‘After you…’




Living winds you.

Carries you high

upon clouds

of euphoria.

You slip.

Concentration lapsed.


by procrastination.


allegedly in hot pursuit.

The Pied Piper’s flute.



The truth.


that you brush away.

An irritating buzz,

the perceived sting

of waking up.

Squaring up to life.

Shaking her hand.

Courageously making

your very own stand.

I dare you…

Dare You!

To shake it out.

Shimmy your shoulders.

Undulate your belly.

Reclaim your groove.

There ain’t nothing to improve

in the total perfection,

the sweet recollection.

That You.



And More.

IF – by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:


If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:


If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!


Fertility plan

Birth plan

A sleep deprived and sexual ban

Development plan

Life plan

The parents start to look deadpan

Educational plan

Indicative plan

Perhaps he’s not the next Chopin…

Project plan

Contingency plan

Is there anything at all in his brainpan?!

Game plan

Intermediate plan

Will he ever get off his damn divan?

Phone plan

Travel plan

An open ticket to San Juan

Online plan

Flexible plan

The boy, he starts to be a man

Business plan

Wedding plan

Loving additions to his clan

Physical plan

Economic plan

A second home bought in Milan

Central plan

Pension plan

Reflecting on how it all began

Perspective plan

Death plan

Life’s to be lived and not outran


The dictatorship of man

The musty scent of testosterone

hangs stale in every corner of civilization.

Feminine intuition drenched.

Oestrogen driven saviours

down trodden, weakened,

by the muscular sinews of masculinity.

Their strength visible

in the eyes of every living creature,

except man.

Whose continual struggle

with his own ego,

will reduce life to a pile of rubble.

Worthless to everyone

but the puppeteers,

whose pockets we mindlessly line.

Loose change

thrown absentmindedly,

into the outstretched hand

of a begging nation.

He averts his eyes,

in contemptuous judgement

of the playmate of his youth.

Grace tugs at the veil,

continually conspiring.

Her soft scented hand attempting,

to remove the heavy scent

of the dictatorship of man.