The easiest way to put it, is that I want to be saved.

The easiest way to put it,
is that I want to be saved.

I believe we lie to ourselves,
everyone is waiting for reassurance,
a promise that there is better awaiting.

Everyone thinks they’re worthy of prophecy,
redemption by default.
Ah that lurking thing!
That hovers between our sides, that aches and moans for conviction,
we’re sentenced into madness.

But she waits for no one,
she’s poetry,
and she never has to write a word,
speechless servitude,
graceful and clear,
tunnel visioned,
loyal to her cause.

I’ve seen women drown in prose,
who wear fire on their eyelids,
and they’re hardly the soul you’d want by your side,
and others mute,
hiding behind a veil of concern and courtesy,
and you’d never know who they are.

Choke on your mind,
gag on your ability to put another man down,
feed that insatiable self until gluttony is so habitual,
it’s inevitable you’ll be the only one,
left to your wit and mock,
the lonely laughing stock.



If a bird is rustling away,
in a man’s gutter,
racing to finish it’s nest before the storm,
if a grass blade flicks back dew into the air after being stepped on,
if a car rolls it’s wheel with a nail in it, percussing down the road,
or a child tugs at their mothers dress, unable to speak,
but longing for a suckle,
I hear, see and feel it all, so much at once.

Of the hardest thing to have learned,
is to muffle out this influx of stimuli,
only to relearn how to open it’s floodgates.

I unlearn when ugly is the streaming of happening,
I relearn, when I need to write it all for you to know.

The sight of stringing along a man,
cowardly taking material from him,
in exchange for the faint notion of a proxy security,
is the hardest thing to attempt to un-see,
and yet the most etched image in my mind.

Your gender,
does not give you the right to consume souls.



All this time,
you think this wall of me,
is the reflection I seek?

Swollen solitude,
until feet in one place assures you,
you have no place.

There’s nothing as caressing as silence,
when your life has been cavernous with noise,
bottled up rage is louder than any scream vocalised,
and that is why her silence is so appealing.

I despise the man that inflates his flesh,
gorges his appetite until he is inflamed with pus,
with the trickery of trophy women,
loud, lusting and yet longing,
and they both assume,
their flamboyance will carry them,
into the memory of pages,
into no ones poem.




I don’t have ball in my throat
I have a boulder in my neck
A mountain on my back
A planet in my prostate

My universe has always imploded
And now the residue is about to find its way out
Into streams of hurt and rivers of torture
This gap is so wide to walk around

How, how do I not fall
Not choke
Not crumble under the weight
Not gasp and quake

How ever do I knead the mend into my being
When the one ingredient needed to make this soul rise
Is you

How, can this colon heal
When I felt your absence all those years ago

I held on
I held on for so long

Do you know how hard it is
To use food as a bandage
And pretend all is well

Easy to swallow
Hard for it to find it’s way
And fill the gap of your attention being diverted

Cancer doesn’t just visit one randomly
Something has to die one way or the other
Perhaps lose someone
Until cancer becomes the intimate lover

Thus it embraced me with its claws
Gnashed it’s teeth into me thirty years ago
And I’ve worn its wedding ring ever since

Now we celebrate our vows
In sickness and in health, till death do us part

My colon has burst
My kidneys have rotted
I’m a man apart
Cancer, has my heart





am i any more
than a handful of remorse
a fistful of anger
and palm raised skyward of regret


Living with volatility is not the spouse you always imagined.
What many peoples idea of being with a poet is like, has been stereotyped into oblivion, but in self fulfilling prophecy, every Tom, Dick and Harriet, has assumed the role of madness at the mic, darkness through the lens, or blood splutterer at the paper mill, oh…. and the broken ones, I can’t forget the broken hearted love fools, constantly telling the world how they could never love again. Meh!

Still, whether an act, or sincere volatility, one has to ask if they really signed up for such disarray. Either way, there is something wrong with the person even if they’re acting the part out for popularity.
Whether a show for fulfilling the role or a living up to pop standards of trending themes or legitimate mental abstinence, it doesn’t snugly fit into our minds, because we’ve been lambasted with caricatures of poets for centuries.

Take Rumi, my beloved Jalal Ul Din Al Rumi (bet many of you didn’t know his first name). The utter master of divinely inspired poetry.

The mass of readership, of hashtaggers, of meme makers and of ‘life coaches’ (please someone show me what uni degree I have to take to get qualified) would most likely be mortified to know, he was a Muslim. Not just any old run of the mill Muslim but a theologian of the highest order. (ten points to those of you that can tell me of what disciplines he was a master of)
That means, he’d look like the typical stereotype of media propagated imagery. Gowns, beards, turban, brown skin, and speaking a language that sounded like you needed to warn the air hostess before your plane takes off.

Shock horror, not your beloved quotable Rumi who fills your hearts with self reflection, only long enough to last for the rising likes on your latest social media post. Really? You mean he doesn’t look like a love struck Leonardo Di Caprio? (those who’ve heard, know what that’s about)

Where’s your stereotype now?

So, I’m sorry, but when people say Shakespeare, Blake, Wordsworth etc, the imagery that comes to my mind are just people who have whether by natural disposition or repetition of habit merely learned the art of piecing together words, mastered prose but people who get annoyed when they are distracted away from a conjuring, people who are volatile, angry, depressed, fragile and at the same time, robust, rugged, hardened.

Don’t assume them to be hopelessly romantic, or utterly bent of soul, drunkards in a tavern longing for loss, or bathing in a sea of spring blossoms. Sometimes they’re just pieces of shit, who hate themselves, know their lot, know how unliveable they are to be with and quietly go about their relationships with loyalty as an expression of their love that they cannot manifest through any other way because all those roads have been uprooted for whatever reason.

The poet caricature is evolving, as the mic, as performance poetry, as slams and spoken word takes over. The real ones, you can feel in your bones, they still exist but fuck me, there are so many of you that are mic bitches, that are media whores, and social panderists, panting, wagging tail and painting a picture of what you’re not.

Out of all things you could be,
you decided to fake a character in poetry?

To build a personality, decided to jump on trends,
and in the sea of conformity blend?

You decided your mend of semblance,
is a spoken word event attendance?

That a sentence construction,
is what appeases your attention?

And then you disappear,
when popularity shifts,
when your mind is adrift,
when you have to pay rent,
by taking another shift,
in that menial job,
oh you poetry snob,
and you realise that,
you’re not exactly that literary gift.




all women have secrets.
most men are afraid to ask.

for them,
marriage is a burdensome task
do I ask, don’t I ask,
do I ask, don’t I ask,

he afraid to,
she reluctant to tell,

both wearing masks.


ask her secret
or you won’t be able to hold her down
ask her secret
before you don’t find her bound
ask her secret
if you want to keep her around
ask her secret
and forever she’ll be your crown

tell your secret
if you want to keep him close
tell your secret
and he’ll heal you like aloes
tell your secret
and he’ll raise hair on neck and curl your toes
tell your secret
if you want to hear his prose



IMG_1518-needy  pair


there is nothing quite as gracious
as a woman
giving you the whole of her


“And we created you as pairs”

I am utterly at a loss for words sometimes.
What did I do to deserve my wife?
A woman who is the definition,
of the other half of someone.
She gives me her whole being entirely,
emotionally, intellectually physically and spiritually.
I ponder over men and women that shared bed,
that shared bread,
who have lost civility,
abandoned humility,
and become barbarity.
Now, vexed against one another,
ready to cut each others throats.
How on earth one can get to such a degree,
to forget the subtitles, the intimacy
and live so detached
in such disharmony.
I must have done something right
to receive such devoted sincerity.


which home are you making
at the expense of the home you’re wrecking?

and this societal approval, selfless offering
senseless offering, nay, hurt covering

perhaps all this time
we begin the process of exiting
the minute our hearts are broken
and we can’t do this thing
called humaning

because it hurts too much to sing
harmonial, matrimonial
discord of no drumming-
-heart we’re wrecking
but our houses look so pretty
props and posturing
ah you homemaking, homewrecking
on we endure the suffering