dear grief – 12

I miss him.
I want to be five again,
ten, thirteen, twenty two.
To relive a moment when he knocks the door,
and we knew it was him.

To not even let the door knock,
just to hear the jingle of his pockets,
keys, coins, bags of shopping in his hands,
not even,
just the rumble of his car in the driveway,
and meet him at the door once more.

We had to love him silently,
that’s how he loved us.

Head down, heart up,
eyes averted,
mind occupied, with the future of his family.
Do they have enough, do they have what they want,
am I enough, maybe I can carve another piece out of myself,
maybe I can give away a bit more of my health for them.

The things that race through a unselfish man’s mind,
double, triple shifts,
and still,
he came home every morning, every afternoon,
smelling of cedar, leather and muskiness of sweat with a hint of lemon zest.

In 38 years, I never once smelt body odour on him,
a testament of what was inside him,
if ever I saw evidence of a man’s insides.



it’s a piano key tap,
a candle flicker,
from the pits of her, a sap,
his salivate liquor.

there’s velvet hair,
there’s chafe and stubble,
clavicle unaware,
hearts in trouble.

where fingers start,
toes end in appreciation,
a moment apart,
leaves aching desperation.

madness of perspire,
settled with heated eyes,
put out their fire,
with rapture cries.




i’m tragically obsessed with you,
the tragedy being,
you don’t exist,
and I have to love to death,
bits of you,
I see in others.


And I’m leaving behind a murder trail.

Victims who don’t even know it.
They’re satisfied with bits of me too.

In the end aren’t we all hunting bits from everyone,
to be able to conclude on our deathbeds,
to console our hearts, just before the soul departs,
there is no such fucking thing,
you should have been content with what you got fool.


Rust – The ever lustful


rustRust on wet Iron, the appetite is lust,
Devoted Iron, undress and bare skin to moisture,
Water is selfish, observe its transmutation,
Dissipate, dissipate, osmosis of a different kind, in rewind,
Alchemy of love, annihilation of mind.
Spectacular! Majestic unison is water on bare metal,
Two hydrogen’s and one oxygen – one molecule of consumption,
Otherwise life essential, now the serpent of lust.
Utter fixation, the selfishness becomes selflessness; the hydrogen separates from the oxygen.
Water, devoting a part of it, carving out its life giving force, a sacrifice to Iron.
Separation for procreation; gives birth to love,
Fungal beautiful, you long to witness cancer take form , to cause destruction.
Slowly, eating away, and the Iron, does not resist. It too offers itself.
Into cancers sharp incisors it donates its flesh.
“Consume me whole or don’t bother”, it says, but to a hungry serpent, tis a sweet invitation, un-refuted.

And what remains?


The echo of orange stained crying,

Blood stains,

Of the violent nature of loves most haunting affair,

Splattered, evidence of the purity of a love,

That can exist only in nature,

In primal, unadulterated, innate nature.


Forensic evidence of love’s presence:

background texture

The  picture above is by Stephen Scullion.
It has been used with his permission. He is a genius at capturing oceans, seas, stills at times where it seems all liveforms have ceased to exist.
You can find him on social media Instagram handle @surfpi
The original picture unfiltered is:





Longing feels like….


is a sharp knife having its way

It cuts, it carves,
It twists, it halves,
It severs, it starves
At our pain,
It laughs.
This sick accompaniment,
rotting your carcass,
the doing,
of longing,
the strive of us imagining,
back to an earlier time,
to the beginning,
where once was poetry,
once was singing,
where once was joy,
where there was living.
And now…..?
Please let me be,
an inkling,
With my thoughts,
With my memories,
Leave me my longing.

Take me back and leave me there

dareof you

Take me back to when looking at you was a dare I challenged myself to.
Take me back to when staring at me was stolen in gaps of attention lapses.
I want to be spoken to with red cheeks of bashfulness.
Cheeks that make me look down in respect and avoid talking over you.
I long for the moments of timidness and mutual disarray.
I want your modesty to numb my masculinity.
My masculinity will embrace your femininity, make feminism redundant.

But if you want to use me as a doormat, you’ll receive my eyes of scorn, my full attention to your every flaw, my whip cracking voice that will make your cheeks red in shame, not bashfulness, my chin will be up, nose arrogantly pointing to the sky, brazen confidence, brazen hardness and tunnel vision. My masculinity will turn into nothing, your femininity will be nothing, we’ll both be reduced, to exist only as expressions of carnal disgust, dry, soulless and guards up, blow by blow we’ll find a fresh axe to chop each other down, until we’re firewood for our children to use.

What I long for


As I get older, I don’t find myself looking forward to the future. I want more to connect to the ancients of my ancestry.
I am disappointed that at least in my dreams, I cannot return to live with those extinct.
Even though the future has the lives of my children that my soul bleeds for, I want the past for them too. I want them connect to what’s real, as increasingly I am becoming detached from the illusion of the future.

As bright as the paint is of the optimists as I see, and loud as their voices I hear, I see straight through their lack of conviction and understand the need for them to play the salesmen of future, to sell the unseen to the world, ironically, they prattle this and with the same breath proclaim their is no God, but I still trust my predecessors more as their colours are the colours of the earth, grounded and solid, a sure thing.

Nightwriter – 10

nightwriter series 10


My wife found out about her

So she tied me to a stake

Out in the desert sun

Burn my addiction wide awake

She didn’t know she had a companion

Turned blue to black skies

Darkness was her accomplice

As easy as closing my eyes




Nightwriter – 9

nightwriter series 9


Yesterday evening, we had a fight

I kept calling her Layla

She insisted her name was Night



In Arabic, the word for night is Layl. This is where the name Layla comes from. Layla is the choice for Qays in the famous love story of Qays and Layla or Layla and Majnun.

Majnun literally means madman. I.e. someone afflicted so much that they have lost their senses, in Majnun’s case he lost his mind over Layla when  they were denied their love. Layla married off to someone of higher status eventually committing suicide and Majnun wandering streets smelling walls, caressing objects, talking to animals all because Layla was part of those things.

Therefore, the reference in many odes, poems and anecdotes of Arab and Persian writing referring to Layla is referring to a divine presence. The night is given this same reference as it is understood to be the gateway to the divine where lovers meet in secret pursuit of His pleasure.

My references to the night and it’s addiction bares the weight of these greats before me.

If you haven’t read the story and are a sucker for classic love odes, grab it and sink into some Arab classics.