Everyone’s asleep

But me.

I’m branching out.

The possibilities drone on

Like a tedious speaker

Killing the conference vibe.

Bifurcating and swearing

At my selves,

I duplicate Fs into infinite exasperation.

Thoughts are fungal threads,

Blackening nice wallpaper and

The clean insides of my eyelids.

Every dimension lives -

Peeled and paired,

Sliced and sta...

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Love is

choices.

Love is choosing which voices you want in your future.

Love is to stitch and re-stitch,

patching punctures with a stronger suture.

Love is silent smiling hours spent together –

not a “ball and chain”, but an intentional tether,

Love is

my granddad,

in his old Ford Escort,

driving to a distant port,

to retrieve my errant grandmother –

desp...

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A clean, cream carpet,
Glittering glass: a squeaky carapace.
Grand, old, oak bookcase,
Slide in spines. Covers carefully confined -
Embraced between the dust-free shelves. Enshrined.
Polish the coffee table to a gloss,
With wax from bees – cold cream for deceased trees.

The toilet protrudes from plaster like a
Porcelain-capped tooth.
My pearly bath, each nacreous tile agleam,
And showe...

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A sleek, scintillating surface quivers,

Supple perception spills liquid flickers - 

Faster than a blush – a rough rash rushes, 

Pulsates and flushes: cascading shivers

Her nebulous body shifts fluently,

And oozes – slick as subtle deception

To palpate and manipulate matter:

You submit to her brutal scrutiny 

Suddenly unsafe, amorphous, and nude

As she is, She p...

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A galaxy is growing in my bin,

whilst comets crash into the Chinese rug, 

a blackhole bobs beside the biscuit tin,

and minute moons revolve around a mug.

The white dwarf in the fridge could curdle cream,

spacetime inside the dryer steals some socks,

a wormhole warps the washing; starts to steam,

as pulsars tick-off time like cuckoo clocks.

A silky milkyway sleeps in my sink...

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The capers in the cupboard decompose.

Congealing jalepenos germinate.

The gherkin’s great, green girth no longer grows,

But shrinks: each wrinkled pickle must deflate.

Decaying in the dark since ’93,

The furry, flaccid, festering fungi,

And green, obscene gelatinous curry,

Black jam jars buzzing with a fuzz of flies.

Foul fluid in the tins begins to clot,

And...

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I picture you in someone else’s room -

In bed - a stranger’s ceiling overhead,

Awake in the gloom; feeling unfulfilled,

Cheerless and chilled by secrets left unsaid.

You’re wearing your usual man costume –

A routine face; average arms for regular embrace:

The suit you assume (crustacean casing)

For slapdash debasing and slipshod disgrace.

Whilst I, si...

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