The Infection

It is the pain
the tongue reminds itself
when probing again,
a duty, which it knows is wrong
but it is compelled

The pain makes
a cycle of a drug
infused mist over

Better to be doped
than aware of the acute
nature of brokenness

draining sleep
face like a Elvis
version of itself
10lbs illusion of gain
Still waiting
then a jump as a
rubber clad hand
presses the part
the tongue know

Well at least my language stayed un blue
even if the colour on my
inner skull

being codeine doped
is a lesson
for later

Damn the tongue that
never will be taught




Sorry peeps been dazed and resting on a gum infection fulled codeine zombie session. 😦

On the plus side if there was ever one been catching up on netflix movies 🙂


Horribly Funny


Last weekend we sat on the sofa in full life
watching movies full of death
nothing else would do

But I can’t just switch my inquires off
so spent the time complaining
that zombies just couldn’t do it
like the movies show
when its brain death, its over

you can’t eat brains
when the stomach won’t digest
you can’t move (or shuffle)
when the hearts not pumping

there has to be realistic mechanics
where the hosts are not dead

nano tech infestation
parasite brain infection
genetic modification

As long as the host doesn’t actually die
I made it more scary
beyond the movie, to the real

But then look to the towns and cities
it takes a lot to compete
with the modern smart phone industry

All stumbling about with the apps open


Well that was my weekend, discussing how the traditional presentation of Zombies just isn’t real, I just can’t switch off that part of my brain. I like to think up scenarios were it moves from the fantasy of the undead and into the how would this would work in the real world.

On that note, I can recommend the movie Warm Bodies as a good zombie comedy 😀


I stood on the metal bridge
watching boats and yachts
in the harbor
all with their potential
shackled and tied to the shore
the lights of building and masts
reflecting in the calm
the sound of lapping and the smell of salt
a choir of gentle actions against
this grief of bondage
I felt my potential shackled too

I felt choices had been removed
and the pound in my pocket
too precious to pout
no longer disposable

Rip 2004 – 2012 the bewildered years
where food became less, beer became more
guilt grew as a sunflower
whiskey in my pocket ciggy in my mouth
and the final rehab was a move to wales
where the inner spirit heals
still I look for Gabriel in the specks of dust
all a parting gift from a star

Our Cat

Our cat
is lazy and black
a little bit grumpy
a little bit fat
he sits by the backdoor
looking to the flap
gets ticked off
when you push him through that
expects you to open the door
never coming to your beck and call
A cat is a cat
it’s a matter of fact


These are the days
When letters cut
And bore you
They don’t post
Butterflies any more
But send you crocodiles

Through the door
Traps to knee jerk
Your hands in panic
Of past lives, thought forgotten

The envelope brown and innocent
Plain elephant skin to remind
The imperfection will cut
You, tiny paper cut reasons
They don’t send butterflies anymore
But deliver crocodiles to the door

Sharks in charge of devil telephones
To collect your soul should it be proven, they will lay claim to owning
That too, my eyes hold black shoes
Double exposed tread still new
Not yet worn from pacing

May be I will confuse these wolves
And backward kettle men

Maybe I will post them

Learning through treacle