The Day I Disappeared

I decided to disappear
into the sea beneath all thought
to find forgotten silence
and siren songs of gold
beneath the waves and storm
the day I disappeared

I decided to rage war
against the sea beneath my feet
to fight the pull of quicksand
and pitch black pool of night
beneath my feet, against the sea
the day I raged war

I decided to start fires
in the hearts of hollowed books
as I watched their spines breaking
into diamond shards that split tar skin
and turn gazes to shrapnel
bursting through bright ceiling skies
the day I forgot to watch my fire


[One from the neverending draft folder]

Stolen Twilight

You sleep in the restless rooms
of twilight stolen from the birds
in the broken hours of watches stopped
and roof tiles ripped away
when storms come in muted colours
and bright flashes of memory
as all is searched by outside powers
for inside reasons to run for the tide
as all topples and houses collapse
while the murals on the walls
of your veins explode
and take subway stations with them
down the new moon tunnels
down, down into the world
between daylight saving grace
and merciless seconds filling up
the minutes taken by surprising light
into dreamless void.


It’s been quiet for so long,
you forgot you’re undercover;
you painted your walls,
you bought some plants,
you got a library card and a job

and when the door bell rings,
you get up from the table,
leave your friends to their meal

there’s a man with a forgotten face
and a pizza you didn’t order:
you used a wrong gesture
last night at the bar,
you blew you cover,
and you need to leave right now —

Origami Words

You fold your words into origami
long before they pass
through the grotto of your mouth:
paper cranes and butterflies
flapping through tunnels and caves
and sticking to your palate
as once colourful thoughts dissolve
into flakes, pigments running together
until your tongue is dusted grey
and stalactites drip pulp,
pooling in acidic rivers
around the remaining islands
of butterfly wings, clustered
in their race to the exit,
tumbling over and under
and tearing themselves to strips
in a last attempt of linearity.

Interludes (Phases)

Swimming through treacle
everything sticky and icky, all over
but no-one’s to come to help out
of that air-bubble pocket
in tattered hand blown glass,
space invisible,
for it’s not in their dimension;

The multiverse doesn’t smile today
on those out of phase
pleading for interference
in the wee hours
at the bottom of doomsday-vault days

And if stairs might lead up
they’re fractal, endless and Escheresque,
yet with nothing to tread on
but descending ascend
there’s nothing but keeping moving
through treacle-verses,
loops and hoops and alternate lines,
until treacle melts to glass,
to fogs colliding

Ordinary, Silk, Destruction.

A waft of silver-blue gossamer
not quite miasma, yet undeniably …
something; sad, lost, a haunted air
trailing behind a figure of fleeing speech
as castles crash and ruins burn:
an ordinary day, the average casualties
of boardwalks thin as slippery grey,
narrow as words
barely distinct from fog —
and clamouring boulders rising
from pits in charred soul-hollows
clawing, grasping, trying to shred
gossamer and skin and day
yet you pass and the day passes and
… and. And not. And all the worlds
and all the words
and all that is ordinary destruction
wrapped in silk.

Time Tides

you are blurry around the edges
while the sea rages up walls of sound

you will be fine, firm as sand
but the land is fading

has been washed away
will come back
did leave
will ebb

Interference / Shards

Hidden knives in the corner of a smile,
the slight curve of a saber

and there’s the the lost magic
of moments of firsts
like hearing for the first time
the ethereal whispers
of a number station at night

and you can’t drown
in an ocean of blades
for the stars they form are solid

because as you grow older,
there are less firsts left to find

as sparks dance along
the flat of a sword, a bridge
to the back of your hand

but there are still wild secrets
in the blanket folds of the aether

and the real battles are fought
behind your back,
between fingers curling, uncurling
and deciding the fate of the universe

static crackling

silently letting go of one idea
or the other, dagger or thunder

numbers —


I want to burn the mountains
into my skin,
etch the golden trees unto my eyelids
because seeing, seeing is never enough
when there are blankets to weave
from mists and myth and desire,
to wrap heavy tapestries of glades
around shoulders sloping
in wistful days
down into forests, down to cairns;

and it’s mind games and half-worlds,
dreamt up in dawn-cold car rides
decades ago,
still playing at getting lost
in woods that have grown small
in a world disquietened;
and memories tattooed to
the back of eyes
in moments stolen from without time
forever tint the view
of seeing the world with eyes closed:
behind grid lines, branch and bramble,
forever asking for more