A small collection of poems, with original artwork, is now available to buy here: https://wordsforghosts.com/book/
There is also a downloadable PDF version available
All money raised will be donated to Spirit of the Rainbow Heron.
The Forest
Through the Forest,
through
a thousand years of struggle,
I finally find the clearing
but see nothing,
only
empty space & the remains
of all those who’ve been here before.
There is nothing here for me
so
I’ll continue to wander through the trees
until
I can see
the sky,
where
true beauty &
meaning
hide as
I lose myself in the story
I read yet still
don’t understand.
Twisted Nostalgia
Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
mocking us
like a metaphor we wanted but could never touch?
& so how we turned to punk & the band that
turned to shit
because we fucked up by being too fucked up
on speed, weed, drink &
the fear
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
Sometimes,
I miss those days:
There’s a freedom in nihilism
so often forgotten or ignored;
nothing hurts those who believe in nothing
& care only for the comfort of pleasure.
The last man
cannot be turned back after walking the path
for too long.
That place was a contusion upon
the surface of the earth & we
were the worms
crawling in the dirt…
but at least we weren’t alone.
Somehow,
together we created a nostalgia
I can still feel,
& when our mistakes drift away
one day,
they will join the birds
who will sing for us instead.
The neighbour
Closed fists with
nothing in his hands but
the dirt under his nails.
He tries to restrain himself yet
the eyes betray. The eyes always betray.
Loneliness, fear, confusion, repression:
they decay & the rotten
fruit grows the mould of aggression.
All living things deserve sympathy
in one way or another
but we should not mistake this
for permission.
It is September.
The apples will not stay ripe forever.
Heart Rat
Your heart rat escaped the ribcage
trap
too late to save its brain:
they peeled back the skin, broke the skull beneath
to search for what cannot be found.
Line after line we try
to shed our shroud of lies.
I aim too high,
afraid
not of hights but the oubliette
where words forget to hide our fear,
& then the poem disappears
when
you tell me how you held her in your hands
as she died.
Your heart rat was one of the lucky ones:
She was loved,
not experimented on.
If only
we could all be so lucky…
Janus
The Janus face spits as a knife
penetrates just beneath the ribs,
drags a deep diagonal from
heart to liver,
& the organs slither
onto the floor:
Tasseography as grotesquerie;
desecrating rivers of gold,
watching as you piss into the ocean…
You’ve learnt nothing.
Still hiding behind the second person,
still lost in
the hall of mirrors,
oblivious
to the stench left behind;
walking away,
closing your eyes,
pretending that you’re blind;
that symbolic sacrifice will suffice.
So like a coward
you disappear
as penance
& fuck up the last line
again.
