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tear out this heart, take it to the aching hearse

hang the coffin in the carcus of feeling

float a sanctuary around my waist,

then take me to the water to scream.


Thank you for reading! Also a thank you to the mighty Florence Welch for bringing back some of my creativity. Spending a Friday afternoon with ‘Lungs’ was both entertaining and inspiring. My first one of the year.



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To Breathe (Is To Burn)


There is so much more to this.

The music does not make song

but the foetal space

amongst famous walls

filled with such au fait grief

and there a beast floats

to see the fear fleeting

on their new found face

in some unfailing destiny,

there she silently screams,

a flame away

God so violently benign

in his passive spirit-

He forges her-

to breath truly ...

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eight limbs lower so small and afraid,

a two limbed child chases your dance,

dragging their feet and fate to you,

but your step to a web is slow,

to small to catch the beat of their murder,

might they show mercy and turn it down?

for you to dance in silence.


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that boat on the coast croons the waves

whisking a dying infant in

a baptist sea for saving,

brought faith in God to save them,

a baptist sea for saving.

I see them from sand afloat-

a buoy in the water with chance

and such a sacred body

might sinking be belief-

to then arise them another-



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godpoemreality vs religionwateralive

Anxious Ground

this bizarre plea for that dystopia

dug here with slumber  

which might sleep for friendship.

maybe creep and demise passing,

a prayer and an assembly,

me and God in his chamber,

a euphoric chalice

that grasps a spade to dig

but who am I to find such bliss in the anxious ground?

I take a spade and dig

but who am I to find such bliss in the anxious ground?




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My Friend

this mummifying is so glorious

give me the bandages to bury his face,

his closing caricature and the,

the one I desired to decorate

in seconds we slipped to the hours

holding jokes with steady smirks.

Sometimes I doubt we were sober

perchance drunk on endorphins,

fleeting his sorrow in airless punches,

ironic the satire we spoke fell flat,

spiked us stoned and still w...

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Road By Road (Write it Slow)

Road by road I turn the car

and travel a phrase to a line,

move a sentence to plural,

then to verse to vent a thought,

but within the limit,

as speeding is futile anyway.


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fun poemspoemstechniqueroads

Smoke and Mirrors (A Letter to Section Twenty Eight)

If only you saw they loved the smoke.

Know it were the shapes frolicking space

forming air they cheerfully choke on,

take a glass. Scoop it up drink it for them

swallow the haze, spittle on the mirror

mist this muse with thick saliva

so together they can press lips.

in the dusk where ignorance is shade,

the same as she and he did.


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A Side of Me

those thoughts rage ripping the armour,

then to arrive at base under fire

ambushed and falling I slide to the trench,

not where men stood in their barricade boots-

not. like. this. at. all-

Aware this area I’ve been before

where fragments fester inside out

but not the bodies the fallen men,

not. like. this. at. all-

the forlorn cries thirsty turning mild,

there I see ...

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God or a Vision?

you and your psychedelic phrases

did they plunge from your tailing tongue?

perchance I took breaths from the room,

exhaled, and put them back in your mouth

moving, placing my ear near your lips,

pausing for an air lick near my neck-

lifted eyelids and confusion  

so, then the comfort could come

when I would speak your surroundings-

the bed, the door, and the soft sheet


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This Stranger in the Room

you crawl yourself forwards

wearing their feet

among spindled legs,

those limbs are anaemic

and cannot amble

the room into a door,

boughs teeming with another’s blood

it’s soft tissue from another’s film,

I follow it now-

see this copied onto

your corpse I might watch,

and see this stranger in the room,

and feel a stranger feign their face,

claustrophobic bre...

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Her Heart, My Heart

move a beat binding  

pulse together,

two halves holding

the tailed ricochets

making rhythm this

romantic headache,


hammering allure,


ambidextrous adoring,

we could equally,

elope a pre-set,

picking the pace-

a metronome dragging,

the default off-beat,





I steal the second-

with her heart beating-

with my hea...

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in the room full of camera’s

unexposed photographs turn,

they do not stay still- how they breathe

to blur the printout- this memory,

you could not memorise- make new,

find another clear and clear your

mania from here, your camera,

stop pondering and pausing

for a better shot, searching

for the glare that will not give,

you cannot paste a glowing prism

to stick your...

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Morscode (And Blue Tunes)

typed see screens

print the rain

a hit and miss,

brush dashes

from the frame

dripping blue tunes


singing your stirs,

your memo implicit,

a reserved river,

dot, dot, dot,

dash, dash, dash,

neurotic encrypting

for a euphoric tone-

a seaway

sealing all,

do not shift back

up the drum glass

and hum hard these

run- down blue tunes,

remain r...

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rivermental health

Touch The Universe

direct your gaze skyward.

I see your eyes slip through

lens and the light shoot down,

orbit in your twitching

left to right,

left to right

panning light in soft night,

oxymoron of telescope

gathers perception -your feet-

fall here and your stare there

pinned to the pit of ground,

grate your phrase from fireplace.

and divide.

put syllables in pen,

cross out...

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liberationpoemsself criticalcomparisonfreedom of poemsmetaphors

Redemption in the Water

drown in egoism.

how we forget – don’t.

for flicker- shift  

this shell ashore,

revive the rolling

carcass and dissect,

drag that black heart

with the colour waves,

bleaching comatose

vanity that presses

with weight of our bodies-


we sunk like sinking

stripping skin for river,

it rowed,

it rowed,

wrapped with those oars

wallow, watch, wallow,


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Some Distance with No Distance

Diverge from you’re doing.

for a second stray

away ignoring this,

that crag where you fill falls

feel them slip away-

the giver to that graph,

ignorance gives more,

still some distance

with no distance,


that you consider,

its callous, its false.

all the frolicking

to the long mute tune

the peril not here for you,

so still you shove peak,


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covid19stay home


Corners caress the bricks

breading that familiar shape,

in which to pace fingertips,

reimagine and fall

the abode of cliché,

the same smitten desires,

plotted here in prints of feet

the way they moved,

the way they moved,

the way they moved,

nostalgic tracks swoon you low

to the floor, roused but not here.

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longingnostalgiathe samehouse


It has become an incorrigible habit

doing this, an innocent addiction

folding ashes to elegies,

pages fluttering to dust

twisted inside,

slow parching of the paragraphs,

I consume prose and set it alight,

a morbid obsession,

a novelists jealously

but don’t jump to put it out

cast those ashes,

let them call me

to tacit thoughts that cannot still-

feed my munda...

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poetry vs prosefreedom of poetrypoems

The Epitome

Those shadows the epitome of time

let me bruise them so they cannot move,

make those pale moments clearer

in the light of the hurt-

a life no longer drenched

in shapes eclipsing the stopwatch,

now I can pause time when I want to

escaping the minutes for hours,

see the clouds in still shift,

alluding to an illusion

of some fading minute,

the hands of the clock skim ...

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The Pretender

I have given many vowels

let me hyperventilate them

towards your eager resting ears,

and watch you comprehend tone.

disbelief- stoned

but not with the drink beside your bed

but a verse that screams your unsaid words

in some ink of my reflections,

they bounce back at me in your words

crawled from some enzyme spit,

I catalyse those streaming lines

to the poem that dr...

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the creative processolder words

Too Young, Too Old

Sat here again splaying the phrases

almost photographic, tapping minds

into my aged remarks letting frame

pictures grey those partitions wise,

but the room years pursuit for youth,

dragging that pen for a crayon,

drawing foetal scrawls on umbilical walls

confused written out in blind art,

too young to be theirs, too old to be mine.

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I Want To Hold It Close

That scenic chorus paints pride blended tears

as suspended droplets thrum euphoria

those watchers notice, its nuance foreign.

They’ve never heeded- never recognised

the harmony befriending delicate words

that welcomed wrung emotions on inches.

rare colloquial feelings pouring traces

left to the table.

The playing record that tugs at my arm

to appear closer, pulling at ...

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poetrysongthoughtsfeelingsthe rarest birdsalison moyet

Being Human Version 2

Perfection, a leaf stemmed

the art that bore a false familiar,

on that eager tree, tokens

fall like confetti birds swooping

cawing the monologues loud,

low down that traced path moves

with every step it scrapes feet

orchestrating flaws like song,

above nature watches deeply

depicting renditions

in their crumpled mass, all rust

falling so fast from branches


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This Is Our War

Still living

fallout met

by masses,

without guns

no bullets

just mute


creeps fast

striding shrill

in media

mantra, fear-

I could sense

in spun words

on print page

sold for pence


pushed quick,

cutting harsh

and bleeding,

blood pounding

though veins of

arms, afraid,


met impulse

like long fight,


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covid-19differentstylepoems for spoken word

This Is The Worst of Us

Dust settles,

silently against

their skin,

eyes glaring beside

gentle end,

those ticks turn forward

against face,

pacing rapidly

becoming ash,

floating in slow air

carried fast by words,

observed keen

paired with gunshots paced,


in psychotic blood,

some dystopian

past flung like bodies,

without heart

those chants that fire hard,


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different stylepoems


Those dulcet shadows

chased my figure,

dancing. a motif,

that refrained

to end of those pages,

a requiem of endless sobriety

to those euphoric seconds

lost to me.  

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Constant Belonging

Moulded leather feet

marital as those laces unending

began to weave, dictating the vows

in material, aesthetically strung

beside my fingers,

the draping knot tripped

below my tough coat,

falling towards pavement,

unconscious and disregarding,

tiptoeing back to the perceived years

that are mine.

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The Papers

Witnessing their eyes glimmer,

as their lacerated heart was bleeding,

trying. I couldn’t pressure ignorance to clot-

blood pulsing while they leered,

relishing it-

the plasma seeping those callous headlines,

exhibiting grief in a page spread

with the hatred that slowly kills.

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A Shirt

Hands crept into the sleeve

as the buttons twisted

the shadow of cultural masculinity-

the callous cataloguing that jolts the collar,

I want to suppress fascination of scrunched stereotypes,

and iron the burns from my skin.

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The Debut In Philosophy

Stars cloaked the fading pallet,

a shade turning black,

a backdrop to the scene

of ticking mind,

dusk becoming the sightless engineer

that oils those thoughts

colouring them to rust,

forced to start over.

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Those thoughts and minutes

in verses

eighteen phrases per sentence

drifts in structure

ending in a full stop.


ink imperfect to hand that writes those letters

unique iteration of every character

to create those precious words.


that might emulate forte

or just mirror

a persona on the crumpled sheets

bound in the acquainted book.

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The Spring Let Them Sing

Petals coloured beside the sunlight

solace to my eager eyes,

watching germination

into the season familiar:

feet tracing the wet grass

soft and pacing, in the harmony of chirping birds,

liberated- for the spring let them sing.

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spring season


A million moments.


to a picture,

mortality hung to an aged nail

wearing those seconds in coated amour.

a relic to all those too quick to cherish...

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Being Human

Rubber scrapes the soil

orchestrating a path

with feet.

Watching tread copyright nature

with a flawed melody,

a percussion of leaves crunches beneath,

touching gales with a verse of words-

before the chorus fades.

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human naturelife

The Thought

Its dark.

perception shades a retina

eyes charcoal grey.

A blade poised to close them

and stopper a heart.

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drops of a thought

bleed, binding to thick paper,

soaked by restricted flow.

swirling in circles,

trademarking the page,

a hyperbole of constants

too damp to dry.

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Syllables paint the walls

a coherent mess

fumbling from corner to corner,

eroding my haven.

Skin scraped by sharp rhetoric’s

that bounce from surfaced stone,

hard and beating.

I want a smothering of hard plaster

to heal the wounds.

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The Light Box

Filament burns,

fingers touching static glass.

Drunk with self-depreciating guilt

as eye's tap dance

in unison to a scripted feeling.

Ink tracing those familiar lines

cliched by experience.

this time with a heavier hand...

forged through fear,

now's the time to be brave...

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poetry and mental healthmind

Two Thousand And Eight

A book.

Those paperless pages at hands of fingertips,

turning, as ink scattered the first few,

a pen let lose intoxicated. 

Three pages fabricated history.

 a prologue to the priceless beginning.

Page four chapter one: two thousand and eight.


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It is only now I choose to remember, 

Kindled happenings, a painting, 



Brushstrokes, sixteen, 

alive and dancing on the canvas.


turned dynamic.

Colourful memories,

reflected in the candlelight.

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