This circus of catatonic performers
little pieces floating away
is fine with me
watch the cirque
colours blurring
into one pretentious head spin.
These jesters chords
in your own kings court
at last
your strings fall,
a puppeteer’s reward
contented and free but not free at all
your painted face
still performs.

Ode to be a writer

In fields of grey
My pages wait
How can I live in this cage?
Career waiting every morning,
on a crowded train.
Dappled light falls through a forest of trees.
Made of wishes and hopes of what could be
And it seems like memories
Of a life not lived
is just within reach.
Words are my transient sorrow
A longing for a future
That will never be
my tomorrow.
Perhaps it is the people
That keep me here
On my knees
Never shedding a tear.
Emotionless and alone
Telling myself,
That I’ll achieve it
If I work to the bone.
But all I see
Are all the regrets
A motionless sea
That lies ahead of me.
Lets pretend like this space is mine
And the concrete walls
Don’t contain me.
These faces that I see
Wear masks with labels that say
‘set me free’
My imagination boundless
insomnia relentless.
The place where mountains are endless
I see myself.
And even
Before I imagined them there
I learnt the lesson
Of a writers mortal air.


The sky was painted
An unusual red it seemed
for eyes animal and human akin
Hath watched
their unprecedented wisdom
Now we know
who they are, and just how far.
Those fists of gas
tossing idiosyncrasies, admired from
are forgotten, these eyes do not
see, evermore
their galactic beauty.


How on earth can I live when I want to be free?
I’m enclosed in a ghost of a shell, the remnants of mortal combat, sand dances in
the air as feet play thunder on the ground.
His hands are modest when they play the song of passion on her soft skin,
Warm and glowing
Sturdy hands still grip him from past demands. Scars where swords had ripped
Trace a finger down the white lines, past memories fall like tears through the sky
And shatter

Stay little Valentine

Sultry trumpets play
Sink into this haze
Of warmth & wine
Once again
with willing hands
While the candle wick burns low
In light of sleepless eyes
An old feeling
Burns anew
Arduously off-key
Creating sensations,

Chet’ a Muse

Lonely wanderers go home,
Lonely but not alone
Clouded eyes and stiff feet
Ask your father how do ya’ fall
Like a leaf sitting on the ground
Good for nothing except kicking around
Maybe you’d be satisfied to never know why
Sometimes, someone just wants to die
An empty hand stretched out
A hungry mouth
And a mind full of doubt
Some rivers will never run dry
Other mountains move
The silver linings of every sky
Those cuts on your hand
Simple love so easy
There’s always someone carelessly fast
There’s always questions nobody asks.

Chaos collective

Faced with something extraordinary
Do you quiver
In the face of defeat
Let it conquer
And plague.
A sea of black abyss
Pours forth
Tearing the seams of reality
Killing every composure
Stale air getting closer
An emptiness
Contorts in the shadows
Dark and unnatural
Hesitate in front of an ‘other’
Not from this world
But free as any other creature
Approaching curiosity blurred
A fluttering of breath,
Is all to be heard.
It turns
And your faced not with a foe
But in light of the courage
You had not yet known.

Dead Romance

I’m so tired of these games they play
Like twisted ropes
Old and frayed
Wise thoughts
watch your moves
and shake their heads
As you stir the cauldron
full of empty heads
Laying plans come thread bare
Don’t look for me
What’s last and what’s left
is an empty chair

Brooklyn Bridge

Girders thick
Impressive steel
Taunt suspenders
Soft souls do feel
Wires overhead
That cage you in
Each piece of metal
A man made sin.

On the Chair

They talk of psychological acts
the condensation on the glass
the sound of their voices
pouring useless
they think I don’t know
what they mean when
they say schemes
I bite my tongue.
Material representations
they use the term
but don’t even understand
where in the mechanical mind
it would burn.

Inmate 43

As time stood still these chains do shake
fear in the heart that does quake
solitary thoughts silence brings
for all those pondering the root of all things
They have much time on their hands
no longer restrained by past demands
what little light enters here
where all that falls is a lonely tear.