blogging since 2004
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in a view that looks the same nothing changes except time the rain washed away the early morning silence leaving in it’s passing patches of white like tiny barren islands are all that remain of the snow on my block
Is it true all men must die? How many faces will you meet before you meet your maker or your fate? Faces of me Faces of you Faces of each other as one because we are all together and i am not the walrus but i like to see them...
Isolated by my own strangeness I try to bridge the unbridgeable gap between us You with your good looks and blonde hair, ice-blue eyes that beguile bewitch behead those with courage to look longer than a stare I think of something Prince would say: “Now move your big ass ‘round...
You don’t want to go where this leads I dropped my airpod on your breasts You never give me your honey but the coffee you serve is the best I stroke my terror to find joy Oh I’m going to burn in Hell alright I promise I’ll burn well though...
I awoke this morning to the hammering sound of rain. Just what you want out of your Monday morning – dark, wet, gloom. I made a batch of strong, dark coffee to match the mood. I turned to my one true source of motivation – books. I cracked open Matthew...
I’ve decided to blow up my blog theme again and try something new. Actually I’ve had this theme for a while, just never used it. I’m undecided as to whether to do full blog post on the page format or some variation of the grid style blog or the read...
I wasted many years chasing windmills and waterfalls. Now I finally act my age, and my friends feel uncomfortable when I’m serious. So I play the clown, the eternal court jester, the fool. I’m a nightmare hooligan with a bloody nose seeking the Book of Knowledge and the Truth, if...
I finished reading a selected work of Emily Dickinson’s poems. She wrote over 1800 poems in her lifetime, although only a handful were published while she still breathed. I found it helpful to read about her and then read her poems. The understanding of who she was as a poet...
A lone car rumbles down the street the morning yawns you pretend to sleep not ready for the hustle just one more wink
I’m dog tired tonight. Weekends make you weak. The only thing keeping me awake right now are three pieces of spearmint gum and the promise of watching Walking Dead later tonight. I have some neat pictures from my Bristol trip over the weekend which I haven’t edited yet. Bristol left...
I felt like reading some Bukowski over lunch. I landed on the poem Mademoiselle from Armentieres. It’s a contrast between old wars and new wars. All boys like to romanticise war. There’s something in our DNA that makes us want to run around the neighbourhood playing army-man, cops and robbers,...
She reminisced in my name. Fire, meltdown and the sanity they let lose in a tangled abstract fantasy of post apocalyptic let down. She reminisced in the attic for the wind, the damned, and the free. Her shadow slipped further. Soft she lay as the boys came for her body....
Here’s an excerpt from my poetry collection, A Thousand Bullets Gone Astray: all the paths i could travel All the paths I could travel are pointing me in 360 directions Which path I choose is hard for me to imagine. If I move in one direction the circle collapses and...
Already clustered full, my morrowed eyes looked beyond her vintage lips. Can we breathe, once again, marked and boundless, a broken wing, crushed by ignorance. I could have wandered on, lived my life asleep like an old door. I never really understood why she said she could only hate what...
