An Idea Sleeps

In complete isolation, blanketed in silence an idea germinates
feeding on an abundance of potential that is both vigour and stealth
and that which historically has been the cause for much unadulterated rage
that which will consume oneself before the page turns over
to the ancient streets emptied of its dreams
where once the occasional woebegone man would run out screaming
of heartache and the loss of god, wandering in hopeless nights
now abandoned of any such dramatic performances
where this new found idea now sleeps
yet too somber to be made ridiculous into a misplaced dilemma .

On the road (Rendezvous)

Hither the traveller find themself on the road
the fabulous yellow roman candle existence exploding like spiders across the stars
The traveller carries on rather not cajoled by ten different voices speaking of the otherwise
and hither they carry on their unapologetic rendezvous with the road
the stories, the songs, the symphony that dissolves the day into the night
and the night perhaps precipitates to let the day breathe
and what remains of this is the romance with the oblivion
the love beyond all the loving of the world, the embrace of the unknown
the thrill in what the road might bring just around the bend
the kiss of the wind, the gaze of the horizon, the dance of dust, clairvoyant clouds
and this timeless dialogue continues


You are a vision

You are a living, breathing entropy

of estimates, ambitions, assessments, foregone identities,

All that was about to be yet materialised otherwise, everything that could have been, but rather was not.

You are a vision realized in its unfulfillment

You are abundant in your incompleteness, convinced in your quandaries, absolute in your relativisim.

You are a vision nurtured by a longing that in its own humble self is a stable quantum of possibilities, made relevant by their ability to remain a possibility, an isolated continuum of potential in preservation.

You are a vision conceived in the abyss of your latent intellect, spiralled into the realms of existence, like whispers of sweet promises whilst you are tickled by the routine passage of chance, or perhaps you are leaden with delirium. (for that is what possibility feeds on, your indifference or your preoccupation and everything in between)

The Lift

3 square foot in fashion steel
and on either side in between concealed
by the doors on brute magnetic force
as well the reflection running its course
which to the passenger multitude
was much comforting in its delude

as the mirror image and the retinue
in this journey continued
while from above and through the walls
a silent zephyr of might too small
for no human sense could it touch
yet the nascent wind aphostrophized as such

that only a petal on some cascade fall
was the solitary listener to the breeze’s call
for every vein on that surface red
chirped in joyance in good stead
and contained the joy in an anxious hurray
lest this moment quick fade away.

The Serial Killer

The daylight dissipates, fade away, retreats

While a serial killer roams the street,

whom lizards chased and mosquitoes preached,

as the scene of crime lay washed in bleach

The night permeates, polymorphic and pensive,

prejudiced , prerogative, comprehensive

the elemental design

that which is, the promise of moonshine

Mesmeric murderer armed with a gun

At the break of day on the run

The serial killer this full moon tonight

Perched pretty atop the twilight

As lovers poets and werewolves alike

their humble self like embers of lignite

breathe life at the touch of moonlight

left enough for some yonder night

Existentialism 1

You are an idea,

an independent part of a grand scheme,

that on its humble part

is at peace in its quandary.

You on your own is self assured

you are an idea that is timeless,

you’re futuristic, fearless, tirelessly regenerative

running on shampoo, smart wallets and supplements

the firm belief that some woebegone way

you somehow fit into this paranoia

is how you penetrate the complicatedness of the entity

which has thus far percolated to be the grand scheme.

And the choice is and always will be yours,

The decision that is, to be or not to be

that one resolute, headstrong choice,

among choices that may be




It is us and them

moulded strong and beaten bad

down in the gutter, washed by the sea

in your pinch of salt and cup of tea

It is me and you

standing tall, of molten malt

thick and thin, sober and stoked

in the air you breathe, it is up in smoke

It is the life you live and the dream you see

it is your strength and your disease

it’s holding you together on your feet

you could not swallow, but it’s o’ so sweet

It’s crawling slow on your skin,

and coursing through in your veins

to ease your pain and make you numb

face up to the day, like we are Venom.