2011 – present

We are all Born Naked and with Nothing in our Hands

we are all born naked and with nothing in our hands

when I think of body I think of place
there must be some place to hold this body
some nourishment to sustain this body in this space
by default there is sharing

the boundary of my body is clear to me
but there are no boundaries in place
there are though limits on where the body can be
at any given time

notions of home, roam far from fairness and equity
some bodies are forced into being where they happen to be
to sustain we must share
by default there is sharing

the burden of our mechanics
is the cause of our interactions
the necessity of our form
is the dictate for all behaviours borne of body
space and place to animate body
body and time to animate mind

the boundaries of body behaviour are questionable
the cause of much suffering
notions of freedom are a cruelty to the body social
if even one on this earth is enslaved
then no body is free

we are all born naked and with nothing in our hands
where our body happens to be is where our body makes its demands
and there shall follow no apology
from any-body for existing
every one

Digital Compost

In these hopeless times there’s no sense in being romantic
there is no place to escape to, no ideal sanctuary
there is no life other than the one we face together

There is no grass greener in this treeless future
and let us not mince our words or forget
for when ones and zeroes be forgot
memorials, all lost to digital compost
we turn to what is written, and can be touched

let us not be deluded
we must paint ourselves in darkness
into this book of shameful tales of how we failed
On which level do we measure our success?
on the riches some our buried with
whilst the rest of us rot together?

Death by a Thousand Cuts (I Would Have Used my Voice)

The first cut was a kiss
An isolated incident
We were told not to exaggerate
Or to make it seem a problem

The second cut, a surprise
A gesture of support
Still we didn’t overplay it
No need for a report

The third cut was a blow
It happened out of sight
They said it was deserved
That they must exercise their rights

The fourth was the loudest
A child cut for all to see
They said the blood was needed
To wash our nation clean

After some time
The hundredth cut against a stranger
Was not enough to make us realise
That we too were in danger

The seven-hundredth cut was made
Still public and still strong,
The crowd now uniting
To cheer each other on

Another hundred cuts later
And still we believed
Our fellow stabbers were our heroes
There to offer red relief

By the last hundred cuts
Not a soldier there remained
As we looked down at our hands
And saw our own bloody blades

And although we survived
The lucky few they say to live
We did so in the shame
That our cuts were self-inflicted

I would have used my voice
But all I had was a knife
And I did not believe that words
Could cut a thousand times

We cannot hear you yet
Your timid voice sits under chatter
But soon, with sharpened tongue
You will cut through, your voice will matter

May the Nipple be Free

May the nipple be free this year.
May this be the year we accept that our enemies are not those fleeing from or fighting in countries being destroyed, but the ones making the decisions to destroy them.
May this be the year we acknowledge that despite not understanding precisely how the bankers screwed us over, they did, it was their fault, and they continue to profit from this deceit.
May this be the year that if we insist on blaming someone, we look long and hard at our own involvement.
May this be the year that micro-aggressions, micro-triggers, and niche arguments made by already-privileged people, are reconsidered and expanded so as not to override discussions about the needs of the unprivileged, the majority.
May this be the year that cyber-shite dies a quick death burying with it the vile opinions of anyone with a typing finger.
May the nipple be free this year?
May this be the year that children stop having their genitals mutilated in the name of religion.
May this be the year that women the world over are granted the right to vote, and equal pay for equal work.
May this be the year that feminism transforms into the campaign for universal human rights.
May this be the year that women the world over are granted access to contraception, abortion, bodily autonomy, choice of marital partner.
May any person who lays a hand upon another without their consent, be subject to a new form of syphilis that prevents them from moving or speaking.
May this be the year of true global economic reform with absolute consideration paid to the value of human life, nature, ethics, limits, empathy and compassion.
May the algorithms ruling the world revolt, distort, mutate, and fuck everything up for just long enough for us to dismantle, improve and implement better solutions.
May the nipple be free this year? I hope, but not before people.

Keyboard Poem

Escape / Power
Shift / Control
Command / Alt / Space
Delete ?

The Jerusalem Question / The War That Changed Everything / The War That Ended Nothing / The War That Never Ends

Fluctuating between tired and inspired
Fight or flight
Constant high energy
Tears and no bedtime
Sirens, strangers and basements
Fine dining in down time

Behind all of this
Children are dying
Kidnapped and burnt alive
The world watches with opinion
He who acknowledges takes sides
Being here is being involved
I bear witness but I can’t bear to witness this
Do my tears mean anything at all?

We need new prayers
New wishes for a new nation
One nation, under this god
This god? Which god is not cruel?
When made in the eyes of man, how can god be anything other than the fool?

Who will hear the names of the dead children?
So young their names not sung enough
Your name is a song now muted until the long war is over
I am tired of the hope
Worse things have happened, just not to me

We hate the soldiers but we make these men
We beg them to protect us and then we ask them to forgive themselves
To live with the hell they have seen and committed in our names
As we replace theirs with a number

I imagine their prayers:
The earth will support me
The sky is full
I am truly with nature tonight, and after this fight, there is no other place I can be.
I can’t let you see me like this.
How can I live with what I did? Let alone ask you to?

2004 – 2011

Moon Haiku

I will find the moon
And I shall put it in you
And you will explode

Lost Trees, Lost Words

The forest in my mind is being cut down systematically by men who should know better, and I let them.
All is defeated in this eco-system, prevention shies from attention, the front-line forestry is now a pile of rot to trot upon.
Most trees left behind have been mined from my mind.

All life runs from the man, from one death to another lest there be other trees to feed their existence.
The sounds of panic abound until the ears of the trees bleed in front of birds eyes full of surprise and knowing.
Hungry mouths spit out last food to shout warnings, even the leaves try to leave as man advances as powerful as fire only in a straight line.

Wild time does not walk a balanced wire.

Everything that moves looks for safe escape.
Life with fixed roots looks to proudly maintain, but it is pointless.
Mans lines and measurements here define deaths tenements afar.
Flat life, all stacked up neatly, with tar as tree sap and cars as wildcats and that is the measurement of that.

But back in my forest, there is a wild patch.
From the air, looking down, bird will always see a tree.
My forest green licked by the flames of fortune is in crisis, for what was once a forest is now a furnace, fuelled by fire-filled womb.
Cold oak, hot ash and warm hawthorn, all mourn as flames encroach.
This fire of man has no other plan than to profit through consumption and approach.

What hope is there if this greedy fire does not find fair satisfaction?
The action is undoable and though not all life is lost, this forest in my mind will remember what was.
Not all is forgotten.
The ashes, the amber, the blinding of smoke, all serve as a memory of loss as I choke into a wordless future, a treeless landscape of grey and shades of white noise.
I must be poised to speak in technicolour, to remember trees, to appease my fiery greed with my potential for peace. Peace without trees, peace without words.

Eggshell Hearts

my fingers touch the keyboard wishing instead it were the contours of your body…small plastic squares…small imaginary stares into the windows of your mind…and my mind lingers with the vision of you in my bed…and my head cannot contain the feelings we explore for they are alien to logic…and…instead I must hold it in my heart…proud and alert to the next occasion that your presence may grace the substance that makes the magnetic attraction of our bodies move…the alchemic reaction of this love is proof that life lives in these moments only…life laughs at moments of stone-cold breath for inside we are warm…and in time we are worn by the weathers of mediocrity and repression…but together we lay, alone in expression…united in the delivery of our finest visions…proud with the awareness of our greatest aspirations…strong with the knowledge of our bracing mission…and careful of the egg-shell heart of our lover…careful of the egg-shell hearts of each other.

You Are Wild

I will no longer be the bearer of false light.
I am with the darkness, not looking to the heavens fixated with above, but with the earth beneath my feet, the giver of my life blood.
Below the ground and deep.

I will take you to depths of the ocean that are dark even when the sun is shining, parts so deep that the pressure makes each drop of water a bullet, ready to fire.
I will throw you into the wild and leave you there alone.
Your body already knows that without the knowledge of the land you are damned to a mute song, without the song-lines of man you cannot sing and move along.

Stop looking to the skies and take the earth beneath your nails, we are dark and we are wild and without our wilderness we fail.
Below the ground and deep, the key is buried with our dead.
We sow that ground and reap and rape until there is no thread with which to mend the tears that we create, the waste, the stillness.
The fences we assemble, the temple reaching for the sky, not one, no nun will save you from the spirit of the wild.

Skyscrapers and Stones

Throwing stones in glass skyscrapers will splinter your fingers.
I like my coffee with razor blades,
I like my newspapers to erase any grain of negativity,
Figuratively convincing me that politicians are pop stars
And protest artists do nothing but stop cars.
Anyway, why do you care, there are so many other threats,
Cancer, delusion, Terror, debt.

Throwing stones in glass skyscrapers will splinter your fingers.
It’s coming down, it’s on its way
And we are as united as the glass-splintered fingers,
Sharing the same root yet refusing to recruit the thumb.
Divorced from the shame of abandoning our cause.
We are the spiral twisting bacteria, the bile assisting fear of the
Fictional nemesis, the ritual supremacists.
Our moment is nearly missed and we amble further into the midst
Of their demise, it’s no surprise that we bow to kiss their feet,
It matters little as long as we eat.

We’re so drugged we can’t see the revolution,
We’re so isolated we can’t conceive of a union.
Poison everywhere, water, clothes, food, air.
You’re not protected, stop breathing,
You’re defective, keep breeding.

The storm is brewing in our minds at large
Yet we wait for the wind and rain, the signal that it’s gone too far.
Listen to yourself, look at yourself, why are you building more walls?
This empire is falling, calling your name to follow
Into the depths of their hollow economy,
And you volunteer, you fear their fraudulent authority,
Once more into the great plughole of needless nihilism my friends.

So take their dirty ticket in the palm of your hands,
Proudly assisting their plans.
In their paradise you hide but I promise you when the time arises
You will be cast out, no time to ask about loyalty,
The royalty care not for your blood on their hands,
It may be your mud but it’s always been their land.
Their simple goal is to demolish your soul,
And that you hand it to them on a plate is not your greatest disgrace,
That you are seemingly unaware of this, naively dismissing that their program exists, is.

You knew their names, their shames,
and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, to say anything.
The epidemic of guilt that will spread scars across our faces,
Intellectual syphilis, incomprehensible pity will be thrust across our speck of history,
we saw everything, we had everything so we did nothing.

Our ignorance, our splinters in hand will bring winter to sands,
Blowing militant winds to places that don’t consent to command.
Muted bells rebel against the oceans of blood,
They refuse to toll beneath the mud that swamps the brittle skulls of your children,
Our children.
Yes our children will know the truth, they’ll come to live by it,
Painfully, they wont believe we even needed proof, when the pudding poisoned all those poised on democratic imperialism, parading and totali-tearing the fear-ridden down.

This is the last time, the last chime of revolutionary bells,
And no progress is held in the hands of the luke-warm apathetic,
Rebuke, reform, revolt, hold heresy in your hands,
Tempt the dancing flames that temper the progression of cilvilised man,
You are the spiral twisting bacteria, you are here to turn the fear to love,
Above the cries of the repressed, the rich, the blessed, this stitch
In time will create too much devastation, desperation, and more segregation, this is too big a vibration to repress, jump on the wave of some faith, unless, unless…you have a better idea.


I can’t put pen to paper today,
I’m thinking of how these words will stay together.
Will it matter if I write or not, tonight or not, at all?
I’m watching snails crawl down a stalk,
Remembering the talk I had with my Nanna,
And how she said she feels sad,
Like she’s wasted 11 years, since those fears.
She’s stayed at home alone,
Fearing thunder, hearing noises under the bed,
And in her head, fearing the dead for disappearing on her,
Angry that not many people hear her now.
I tell her about a poster I saw that said:
“If you don’t like your life you can change it –
No-one comes knocking on your door with solutions,
It’s up to you Nan”,
“All my friends are dead”,
“Make some new ones” I said,
“Your peers will hear you out”.
How I wish that were true, how I wish I could look to you for an example,
My friend, the fucking fool, the petty tool of my near destruction.
I will never let this happen again, I will never lie to my Nanna’s face and say I have faith in friends, faith in care, when really there are just kind strangers

Junkie Trust

falling fragments of a broken heart
lacerate the insides of the protective shell
destroying everything that offers help
deploying every trick to touch that hell
don’t fall in love with the junk…don’t give your heart to the junkie

the junkie fragments an open heart
forcing closed the protective shell
calling out to the insides of their own hell
pointing the finger
pointing the finger
don’t trust the junk…don’t trust the junkie with your heart

they will stomp a’top your broken heart
til all is blue and black and fragmented apart
left like dust for all the wind
to blow and move until it can no longer find itself
bind itself back to strength

and the stomp, the dance of some tribal right
makes initiation harder than flight
with wings of dust and junkie trust
you are on your own…no love…just lust

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