again and again

I’m the conversation filler
the space between your wine list,
and your drunken sips,
the gaps in your soul won’t last long,
just befriend me,
find me splayed out before you,
a convenient meadow you can selectively pick from,
when the rustle inside you says,
speak up,
but the coward inside you says,
don’t step out of line.

I’m the opinionated man,
who is palatable because I mince my words,
to sonnets in your ears,
a bashing they may be,
but your fetish of chain and whip,
of bleeding lip,
is stronger than your fear.

I’m gender neutral too,
the bullseye on my back appeals to both,
it’s easy for most to confuse passive with pussy,
relaxed with pushover,
indifferent with naive,
trusting with gullible,
and run with their whims,
through my flesh,
until they muster the courage,
to stand alone.

At that point,
I’m the thing they discard,
like it was them all along,
they sang their own song,
and they were wronged,
it doesn’t take much,
they all run back,
before long.

But by then,
I’m a prison,
it’s gates they can’t pry,
and buried inside them,
they know why.


Immortal comprehension

Some poems are written for the world,
some are just for the poets,
and others, your  neck would be smitten if you divulged.

Whilst we write,  at times to amuse you,
and others to confuse you,
know, the epitome of poetry,
or any art form,
is not to find human muses,
but to be so engrossed in the tapestry of the art itself,
that it becomes the muse.

No longer does a poet need anything but a word to marvel over,
a painter need anything but the coarse ridges of dried paint,
a musician drunk in a simple chord,
to be inspired into their work.

If you’re a poet,
or a writer,
and people are your muses,
you have an expiry date.


Introversion forty three


Your silent treatment is not my kryptonite,
stillness shall only grow my resolve,
you can’t harm me by your shunning,
I will catapult all that is inside into servitude and solace.

What a gift you can give me, by ignoring me.

It’s not by chance that the imaginations of writers of comics, and superhero folklore all flock to the idea of self contained and secretive introverts who are superheros.

Where does your art come from, your science, your music and innovation?
Where do the things you take for granted get thought up, who’s minds are busy at work whilst others bodies are busy using up the privileges they take for granted?

It is a rare occasion you’d find an extrovert at the helm of creation, innovation, invention and deep thought. It is rare you will see art that lasts for centuries coming from their souls. They’re just not built that way.

Next time you see a quiet person minding their own business, smile, don’t disturb them if they don’t smile back, don’t feel ignored or any less, but smile and know there is a process in place, and some of us find it hard to divert our attention so easily.


smiling is a burden

‘Smile mate’,
He said it like it wasn’t ever my default.

Smiling used to weigh so much less.
to conjure,
to bring it to surface,
carries with it,
too heavy an anchor of worldly – of wordy miseries.

Why then, would I smile with such a grim view of who I am?
There isn’t a life jacket strong enough,
to lift me out of the rip,
of murky opinion of myself.

I can’t floss my teeth,
purge my stomach,
exfoliate my skin,
enough to find it in me any more,
and fake one more pearly white,
when everything I do,
is in absence of light.

Lethargic lips,
squinted eyes,
and teeth stained with what you’ve been chewing on,
aren’t very photogenic.




Like him, I don’t say much,
but in writing, I chatter and prattle,
word bloat and fat, like well fed cattle,
the cure he didn’t find, the endless rattle,
mind bend, mind broke, bludgeoned in battle.

How many a man loses this fight,
how many a father with sleepless nights,
how many lay idle, and out of sight,
dormant in quiet, you’d know not their plight.


Where poetry comes from

I’ve bitten my tongue,
Until I’ve chewed off all I have to say
That is why there is no poetry from the lips,
But people recognise when it comes from the inside of you.

Belly full of anxiety,
Liver full of anger,
Gut full of, I just can’t take it any more,
Regurgitation of all you ate,
Presented like a chef’s painting, easy to palate.

Maybe why, the world is in such disarray,
Is we won’t give our bodies the time it needs,
Allow the fermenting of words,
Basement barrels of ageing wine,
Instead ready to drink the moonshine.

We want answers now,
Unable to silence and quell ourselves,
So we’ve normalised extroversion as the default,
The super-being, the all knowing, all seeing,
Rise up and be all you are by being a walking billboard,
Jingle yourself, sell yourself, be yourself,
Be all you are by parading around as all you are not.

Fake it until you make it, is still fake,
Even if you make it past everyone,
You still haven’t made it past yourself.

I haven’t met many extroverted poets,
Their tongue is usually biting them.