A Lay Lament

Desolate fruit stalled in their places,
A torrent of snow and wind erases,
The stains of the baskets tinted with fruit,
And another night dies down ill with repute.

And the tears fall down, how they fall,
O, how they fall to me.
Capricious carnivorous and desolate died,
The young girl with the emerald eyes,
Craving in a peaked, weak way of words,
Said the saddest thing the old man ever heard.
And the tears fall down, how they fall,
O, how they fall to me.
Jaded, wasted, the bones fell out ,
Questioning the vitality of all once devout,
Reaching the hands that signed once a truce,
Before claiming that Hitler was the king of the Jews.


And the tears fall down, how they fall,
O, how they fall to me.
There is emptiness here in this land once called earth,
And emptiness has become of the recyclical birth,
As hatred and boastfulness of the church’s sinning,
Coasted and boasted of emptiness winning.
And the tears fall down, how they fall,
O, how they fall to me.

Red Were The Corpses

The red smeared off his hands hurt

Worth less from the welded words

Of a war he fought fearless proud.

Paced through thundered sound

The nose bled red more potent

Felt, so interesting, in a line he

Walked slowly cased on powdered paused

From tatters of fire and flame.

This was in God’s name, speared

By the men made covert courted cover,

Cobbled in the mounting coasted ground.

He walked through the light, teaching

Seasoned in a golden pathway paced.

Haste! He changed direction

Finding choice rejoiced shelter from

The beltering bullet cased wind.


First To The Brain

Words have fallen on the teacup,

Merried on the waspey wedge , a flutter

Passes piloting a pygmie to his death.

Behold the stolen youth, he’ll never face

In a stable where the one eyed king

Lays on a throne of honey-hilled

Carterpilled plates of golden treasured

Must never ache, he breaks, then sweats

Wets his lips. Then dies.

Mesmerised, it’s a solvent chewed

He’s been cuckooed- cuckoo!

A Lemon latex lays low the lines

Left in a shed of kissed wasted

Passed off grief- leafing through dictionaries

Faeries flying focused faux plates

Figuring the tinseling will stop.

Somewhere On This Island

There was life here once, not so many years,

Passed since the children played their games,

Kicking and calling, rarely falling,

Happy for moments shared, reared,

With life to pass to adults many,

Who wrenched the words for too few a penny.

Shading the Godly images weighed down,

On an island that once kept eternal youth,

Grouped by the purity of the love,

A child knows not in words,

But feels from the air they find,

Falling through the leaves,

Believing everything is fine,

This island has changed direction,

And we may never find it again.


By Broken Trees


By broken trees you left me

The footsteps another lover

Proving herself only human again

Gaining solace through Winter’s air.

Following myself through the outer road

Beholding where would I go

If to never find truth from love

Then I’d find the truth from trees.

Broken branches cracked and waded find

Pacing outwards to the cuttings

Beside a gate so ridged taken

The breaths of other jilted lovers.

Turning, careful not to fall

A wall of wires staring glowingly

Blowing wind-shaded capers cut

The remainings of what was once a heart.

Heartless, say he, will he die

Am I, could I , ever try to mend

This steeper end of unreaching

Cries of love and lacened lust.

Colder winds waged waded wakes

Flying through the seeded trees

Broken brittled for children’s games

Ashamed, I could not be a future for them.

A broken tree breaks in spite

Of a man who tries to fix

Upright to show his smiling face

That laughs another Winter night away.


Another inbox message bears my name, an empty terrain claws the cried calm
Of never senders ending on a rule of miscommunication,
Temptation, to end myself,
Dripping betters batters me, flattens me on another night unfinished boxes,
Claw this kitchen sink staved saturated night,
Wafting, swelling, more and more it smells; hurting
The eyes through insulted plights of misered rights
Of passages uninteresting, unwanted, unwavered
Tackled through a ticking time,
Unsocialised, I realise this is my life.

A Pint On Byres Road

A Pint On Byres Road

The tattered, pattered stands walks the man for a pint

Three pound and fifty sends him longily

To thoughts too bright for life

Passing by the rigid light

Of sobered speech too weak

For signs of a rising biding

Busy climbing both Catalan and Irish

Smiles the tired man whose drink

Still finds itself on lips so ready

Headed for change

Remains in fair change

Of resonance stated

Elongated, to cheers for a road