I was you…

The end goal,

their sole goal.

A shallow life

bereft of real soul.

They ask,

what it is like

to be old.

To be a postscript

to their prologue;

their ink soaked dreams.

These girls count

their age in fractions.

Eager to experience everything.

To wear it fast and loose.




Blind to their

own beauty.

Individuality main-streamed

A Selfie redeemed

social popularity.

I was you

I tell them.

I was every uncertainty,

every weight,

the hormonal fate

of alien limbs.

Contorting my will

to hide my ignorance,

through a detached indifference.

Perfection is flawed.

I assure them.

I was you,

before I became me.

My Christmas…

Mrs Brown went to town and bought…

diamond encrusted collars for the Westies,

boxer shorts,

avocado pears,


a copy of Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,

oil based paints,

an octopus,

a hairbrush,

a spring-loaded pellet gun,

an Indian headdress,

an 8oz fillet giraffe steak,

a forgery of van Gogh’s Sunflowers,

fungal cream for athlete’s foot,

a bottle of Gaviscon,

‘Gorilla’ lubrication for him & for her,

a pair of pink knickers adorned with a red feather,

a ping-pong bat,

a Christmas tree,

6 Cristal champagne glasses,

a Singer sewing machine,

a jet-hose,

a Pansy filled window box,

a red bow tie,

and a shopping trolley…

Within Reach

What is my life,

by which I seek accord?

My dysfunction the result,

of opinions squatting, uninvited.

My unseen mate,

anonymous in his visibility.

A bond forged,

an unbroken potential,

of another who sees me

as he sees himself.

Torn open by my longing

of his unfeeling touch.

Knowing me,

as I know myself.

To share the love

we both kept distant,

now within reach.

Leap of Faith

Your dreams filled my mind,

replacing logic

with a desire

to escape from the drudgery

of a dog-eared life.



in its offering.

A one-sided expectation,

to leap into the arms,

of not even a promise.

Abundant willingness,

tethered to the reality of experience;

the scars of my healed past,

rightly lighting my way.

Both of us deaf,

to the pulse and beat of the other.

Judged by tone and geography

rather than the sensory magic

of meeting in the flesh.

The Fettered Mind

The inner doctrine, a curse

of life’s latitude.

Stumbling blind

amongst the obstacles.

Blocking nothing more

than free will.

The clear path, veiled

by the obstinate ego.

The resistance to rise

to new levels, for fear

of the depth of failure.


in opposition to thought,

unknown by the fettered mind

drunk on its own confusion,


by its longing for sobriety.


The shards of truth

shine light,

illuminating the fable,

embellished by time.

Multiple tales

of a self-created fiction,

that forces itself

on the facts, that the

conscious mind

seeks to hide from itself.

A hall of mirrors, protects

the heart’s dishonesty.

The irony of the projection

destroying self-worth,

as the layers grow deeper,

reflected only, by the

white purity of the lie.