becoming detached

my head hangs by a thread

with calm and unshaking hands

I hastily glue myself back together

before my circulation ceases

and I collapse, without life, on the floor


unfortunately I miscalculate the aftereffects

and now have a ring of overconfidence

assorted drips of superglue adorn

and stick to various parts of my anatomy


now, disfigured, I wear a shroud

and hide myself away in a monastery

with all the other crossdressing fools

keeping my beliefs in a bag in a side drawer

remaining detached from all that life represents



Copyright July 2017



Chthonic Cycles


a calm has settled upon me

the tumultuous thoughts of this morning

have settled somewhere safely in a corner

a part of my mind where hurts go to heal


sometimes there is such loneliness in depression

a need for love so strong it manifests as pain

a huge lump in my centre cutting off air

and a blank in my brain where hope once was


this morning I walked with heavy steps in the sun

Churchill’s black dog strained at a tight leash

choking me with tales of nothingness and no need

outsider, no-hoper, social-misfit, crone


it is true, if you wait, another mood comes

hours, days, months later it ventures in

highlighting a flower, a photo, a word

and a small slither of hope enters the world



Copyright June 2017





it happened by accident

I woke up again this morning

a biologic imperative, they say

one day, of course, it won’t happen

by accident, or otherwise

and I will never know


clouds and doonas and other fluffy things

analogies to blanket out despair

{or perhaps find a place for despair to rest}

bigger reality hits me over the head

my reality takes quite a time to kick in

on these grey, disturbing, nothing days


how can I hope to explain

that Oh Shit! feeling, I’m still here

to people who feel their purpose in their bones

I have so much to do but most of it seems

even the voices in my head are still asleep

when they wake I’ll beg them to re-wire my brain



Copyright May 2017

Tell Me A Story


all her stories end with death

and a loneliness full of desperation

so quiet that the chest pains

can be heard as they crush the life

out of all the joys enclosed in bones


sometimes the story teller lulls me to sleep

on bitter sweet tales of sex and love

and all the indistinct possibilities

that abound in words and rhythms

before they turn and become sour to the taste


for a while there her tales were muffled by a fog

a brief reprieve where life was lived without sound

and taste and touch and imagination

where words were only words and not pictures

and the shades of life were never heard


way beyond the tales I sense a life unlived

brief glimpses creep between The End

and the raw beginnings of Once Upon A Time

but still her stories end in death

I follow them in quiet desperation



Copyright April 2017