Rainbow Ghosts

Terrorized by my own skin and bone
running away from myself 
my skeletal passanger 
always with that rictus grin 
along for the ride 
till all the baggage sinks. 

Cover all the mirrors and be done with this 
no more saving face
for me and this circus there is no ‘safe space’ 
even my brain is a hostile place
got rainbow road ghosts groveling 
for position in this railroad host 

I’m about to freak out
can’t breach the surface 
suffocating in my own body bag
Mummy, please, mummy, why did you have to birth me? 

My hearts never been enough 
been stitched up and sealed with gore-tex gaffa tape
patched up and wrapped up in a jiffy
posted to the nearest seat in coventry city

Calling Dr Frankenstien 
because no one else can see me
but all I get is a dial tone 
Mummy, please, mummy, I’m bleedin’ 

I guess i’m on my own 
dragging my own corpse with me
bury myself down low 
It’ll be like I was never here…. 

Hell, 
looks like no one will ever know….

Authors note: 

The Idiom: “To Send to Coventry”

  • Meaning: To deliberately exclude, shun, or refuse to speak to someone, acting as if they do not exist. 

    I also feel it’s appropiate to point out that this poem/potential rap (I can’t write music) is not supposed to be a negative slight towards my mum, but to depict the desperation inside of me where a child like version of me feels lost and alone. 

    More than anything it’s about society at large and the way it has shunned me. The way I feel like a freak. My anxieties at being in my mid to late 30’s with a heart that is expected to go boom at any moment and some more personal stuff I keep strictly private. 

A Book

Written for W3 

Me wife found the book 
back up nowhere, no how
on the pavement collectin’ rain 

She comes burstin’ in and says
‘I found this book back up nowhere, no how!’ 
and she slams the filthy thing down
and when she opened it
it creaked like it were an old door on rusted ‘inges
Then, with a rustle of dusty, yellowed pages, the damn thing gobbled ‘er up! 

I was mortified! Then I ‘eard us a voice in me ear from memory
‘I’d love to lose mesen in a book!’ 
And I thought, ‘Damn it! You always were so bloody literal!’ 

Ghuttan

We were each, the others kasak
with the walls painted in our dolour
A silence no heart can comprehend
And so came the hissing in our ears
A watched kettle never boils
You looked out the window
A dour expresssion on your face
A Tree too well studied never grows
The air clawed and clung between us
You heard it! As the crow flies
You motioned your hands into wings
Qaraar, that way we have never been

This was written for W3 where you can find the definitions of the title and the bold words used.

Every Damn Time

I carry this world on my shoulders
‘You can’t save the world.’ Says a voice in my ear.
I hold it in the hollow of my skull, smooth as a pebble worn by the babbling brook
Each syllable I have worn down
I have turned them till each edge is smoothed, childproof.
I know the words. I hear the words. I know what they mean.
but I don’t grasp them, quite.

I live under
where all sounds are shorn and clipped
dulled, distant.
Yet, clearly, I can hear my own eyes with each blink
clinking like coins.
Neon light spills over my dirigible head, reflecting back from the slick wet pavement
beaming up to my twin coins
splitting my head into that ache I always carry.

The rain is cascading down like a waterfall.
Extreme weather events
Say that to someone
They don’t say much; they might even shrug their shoulders.
‘Don’t look up!’ I tell them.
They always look up.


They see nothing. They hear nothing. They look back at their screens.

I see it in the eyes of the wild
bewilderment.
I am too.
And each time I see that their freedom isn’t all that
that we each suffer in our own alien way

My head expands with a whimper
We expanded ourselves with the clang of hammers and tongues.
We clash, we break, we fix, we mend.
Stick a plaster over the gas leak from my dirigible head.

But what if not all things can be rooted
held secure, anchored, fixed?

I have seen girls with spiral eyes, staircases up to the light’ouse
Seen boys with ‘em too.
Irises gleaming white against bloodshot kintsugi porcelain plates
the white lotus pearl of electrical snow bleeding into all of us eyes
Lost in the splizer zeeth watching white noise in a tubers teeth!

Politicians smiling on TV with teeth for the radio
Roadkill badgers zipped past burred windows
a nation of nature lovers

and Tom foolery knows as much as fuck knows; ask him, he’ll tell ya.
You can’t save everyone

 and it kills me.
Every. Damn. Time.

R.I.P Flint.

The spectre of death grinned behind my flesh
While my muscles dragged my lips into a frown
holding you in the grooves that etched themselves in my face
the memories of you behind tight lidded eyes
And before long you have become a summary
something no longer held or absaloute
abstraction pulls and pushes
And you ripple and fade
and I carry the burdern of this change
This silence that was here before you, but now its shaped like you
You were so small
yet the the sum of you was bigger than any whole.
My hands have since been washed
These same hands that held you
As your tiny heart slowed
And you slipped away.
I said, ‘i think he’s gone now’
And like that, you were gone
I said, ‘you’ve been my best friend’ and I lifted you to my face. I meant to say goodbye, i meant to say a million things.
But none was forthcoming.

Neon Shapes Of Absence

Written using a few of the words from this weeks sunday whirl

Neon shapes your absence
on the slick cobblestone
my pulse startled into suspended animation
where the night never turns on its axis
Behind the silence comes the blue that comes with the sirens
as if we lived lives worth saving
the jazz band detonated music out into the street
And the wind whispered your name
And under the green-blue halo
I almost fall to my knees like cain