Poem: My Wings


It has been a cold morning.

Nethelweiss, The King of Frosts, has

Stretched his hands over the grass,

And turned all the plants and grounds

Of the land into palaces of sparkling



I closed my eyes, and I saw you:

Naked, crouched, in the middle of

A lagoon – pooled in oily darkness


But, for all that darkness, you shone

So brightly – how could you not be

Stirred from your tenebrous

Self-hatred by the heraldic majesty

Of your beauty?


I swam towards you; to hold you;

To be near you – you changed into

A crow; flew away – and what

I first thought was a rejection, was

An invitation to flight – an overture

To play


Up in the heavens, lands of pure energy,

We sparkled, and flew, and twisted as

Dragonflies, our wings beating out

Whirlwinds of pleasure, as we wove

Helices of love



But our eyes speak more

Than our tongues can say –

Ours is a friendship

Of poetry and silence:

Kneeling beside eachother

In prayer, in a sacred cathedral

Of pure sapphire, where no

Words can ever be spoken.


If only you knew how many journeys

I have gone on for you, my dear.

How many rivers I have washed my

Heart in, so I might be pure enough

To kneel beside you.


Let me be your angel – your guardian –

Your protector. Let me cocoon you in

My wings, and shield you from all of

Life’s Tortures. May your blows be my

Blows. May your pain be my pain. And

May your smile be the sunrise that

Lures me into every tomorrow.



Once said, these prayers cannot be unspoken.

And, in the light of a spell that cannot be broken,

My wings will be yours



Poem: The Love of Unreason


Much to my surprise, I discovered a lost

Land upon my doorstep. The face of the

Forest loomed over the Waters of the Deep,

And The Lady of the Chaffinch bore her red

Breast, still brooding with pelican blood.


“When I die,” said she, “bury some flowers

In my chest, so that once I am gone from this

World, I can still paint the roses crimson.”


From this vermillion isolation went I.


“Come into my hole!” said The Mole.

“It’s pure William Morris, don’t you



But, I did not know, for I had already

Fallen further.


This is why I now sit in this garden, and

Read my fortune in the fallen leaves,

Scrying the undergrowth, as I descry:

“The sky is not a black skeleton, but a

White rose – a nest of lilies – a silken dress –

A watch – a sensuous caress that never quite



I said this, and the crumpled leaves were

Black skeletons, dancing the slow pavane

Of finite decay; such fragile, fading fingers,

Every touch a shiver; every lingering kiss

The seduction of substance, sinking back

Into sky.


I tried to put the mute button on my heart.

I had my season. But the tears rose up with

The dawn – and Aurora tapped my chest with

Her opal fingers, saying:


“Come on, now – your time is come”

And I felt sad for no reason.

And I felt lonely for no reason.

And everything was so wonderful,

So perfectly unreasonable, that I

Couldn’t help but be moved by its



“This is it,” said I. “This is the opening of

The well; the chastity of enlightenment;

The milky sickness of nights and mornings

Merging into one. This is the whiteness of

The Magpie’s Chest, and the fortitude of

The Sun. This is the Love of Unreason –

The creeping in of Winter’s Thorns.”


And, as I swept up leaves I would rather have

Left scattered, I turned my thoughts into lilies,

And planted them,

One by one.

Poem: Before The Wallflowers


Prophetic cottage – the silent

Spin of the turntable sounds like an

Unfinished heartbeat, recycling the pulse of

 Infinity. Conversation trickles into forgotten

Coffee cups – music imported from other

Worlds, built up brick by brick, note by

Note: if you slow down your voice,

The shrapnel of every syllable swells into

The Symphony of Ages – bells that ring

Before they’ve ever been beaten; what

Do they herald, but all that could be

Heralded? I want your voice to blossom into

A choir – to psalmify me into a delightful



And then silence. Then the violence of drums

That cannot be broken. Can you break them?

Can you break me? Scatter my relics among

The clouds. Feed me to the choristers of my

Imagination, to repay them for all the

Gorgeous harm they’ve done me. They are

Good to me, my girls, friends of knives,

And the omen of scars yet to be owed.

Let me roost near the thoughts of things

To come – let me take off from mossy

Branches, an offering of mistletoe in my

Beak – a kiss from the good health of winter –

The crunch of snow beneath my claws



Now we fly over hedgerows and sleepy snows –

We press our fingers against The Druid’s Oak,

Leaving memories of feathers in leafless trees,

Refurbishing them in the stairs of memory, curling

Into crooked burrs, and other weeds that stick in

Time’s knotty mind.


As the crow flies – as the crow flies, picking away

The last of the season’s skin – picks away the season’s

Skin, and leaves mystery in its place – a liquid mystery

You can drink from the air, and sell by the barrel.


We’ll roll down the hills, and build nests in hurried

Tomorrows. And from the grave, I’ll steal back the

Book of poetry I buried in your ribs, and, like Dante

Gabriel Rossetti playing God, I’ll create mankind



Poem: A Riddle of Curses


I am not an eater of flesh –

I am a devourer of symbols –

I do not speak with words –

Only eloquent growls


I am the wielder of the serpent power –

The spewer of curses – the utterer of malice,

Look at my Caduceus – the serpent on the cross,

I am as cruel as winter – as merciless as a fist

Of ice


This is my harem: though I am crowned with

Buffalo head, tapering horns to pinion the sky,

A bloodshot third eye, envenoming a perspective

That milks every murder; though my body is

Burden upon all dimensions – though my breath

Reeks of carrion, and my every word dredges up

Bile from the lungs of the deep – still, I have my

Harem – still my courtly beauties take off their

Skins at my bequest, and dance in harried motions,

Frigging themselves against the pelts of tigers –

Singing songs – beating drums – trouncing skulls –

Blowing the conch


To be held in contempt by me is to be accursed

With the greatest of praise:

My blessings are curses – my curses – blessings

And, with this fist of ice, I do now declare you

Accursed; and with this heart of fire, I do now declare you





Poem: The Mushroom Men


Have you seen The Mushroom Men?

They come out each night at half-past ten,

Spreading spores from their stores of spores

To furnish the fens with fungi galore!


They have a secret kingdom beneath the earth,

A place of mycelia, merriment, and mirth,

And once the stars a-shining they see,

Thence begins their mycological jamboree!


Through the use of their mycelial magic,

They spread toadstools, molds, jellies, and brackets,

And ‘twould be considered a sartorial mishap,

If an imp were withouten a handsome ink-cap!


So, let the fungal festivities begin!

Angels of Decay ushering happiness in,

These cancerous mushrooms will rise and rise,

Until they tower like mountains before our eyes,


Death-caps as large at the Taj Mahal –

Custardy molds consuming shopping malls –

(And since Donald Trump won the US election,

The White House also has a fungal infection!)


What a fine panorama atop this portabello!

From its summit I will bellow:


“Come out – come out – ye Mushroom Men!

Though it is not yet half-past ten,

We wish to look upon the overlords,

Who have, so thoroughly, transformed our world!”


Out will venture Oberon and Titania –

And Robin Goodfellow singing ‘Rule Britannia!’

With a charming procession of elves and fays,

Using shitake mushrooms as timpani


Enoki as mallets – and after a few psilocybin,

Soon this party will really be jiving!

Magonia and earth will be as one –

And we won’t stop dancing till Doomsday is done!


Alas! ‘Twas but a dream I’ve tried to relate

To you, dear reader, in poetic spates,

For now, their kingdom is still small;

But, if down the rabbit hole you’re willing to fall

We can grow great with The Mushroom Men,

And The Kings of Shambhala will rule again!


Poem: Thoth, My Cariad


Ancient Egypt in Wales,

Pyramids and ziggurats still punctuate

The Brecon Beacons, coursing down those

Hieroglyphic Pathways

Pharaohs tie themselves to trees.

Their subjects lacerate them with

Holly leaves – bleeding into ecstatic


This is an initiation.


They get carried down, deep underground;

Unmade caverns of coal, as yet unmined,

Anubis and Osiris descend with pick and

Shovel, elbowing out the dwarves and

Dark elves, resenting this mythological



“Ah, Thoth, my Cariad, my sweet baboon!

Shall I gouge out your eyes with Welsh love spoon?

Or ply you with pennywhistle until your sphinxian

Heart riddles me no more?

“I am lost in cobwebs and palisades.

I am worried about my figure. Do you

Still think I look svelte in this sarcophagus?

Or is that limestone fresco just not as flattering

As it used to be?”

I take up my reed – prepare to write:

I Am the great scrivener of these Holy Wells –

Scarcely able to uplift a pale of water without

Severed heads fortifying it with thought – these

Celts are a weird bunch. I wonder what I’ll have

For lunch? Roast Boar? – Crocodile steaks from

The Lands of Thebes? How I miss your sautéed



Of course, all the place names will have to change.

How about Abydosgavenny? Camelot and Cairo can

Couple into landmass progeny. And The Old God of

Oak will build a canal between The Thames and The

Nile, so we can keep the mercantilism of myth



The owls are hooting now.

The bats are roosting now.

The sun is flaring now.

The mountain hares are burrowing now,

Struck by the moon – transfixed by that

Lunar striptease, of Nephthys waxing into Isis –

Isis waning to Nephthys.


Abydosgavenny – Abydosgavenny –

Will the swollen Nile keep the Normans

Out – their cankers like castles – hoarfrost

On the waves – cold winds blowing through

Empty Tombs.

But the sky is still here.

We still have stars to aspire to.

And, on a bed of lapis lazuli wind,

We’ll sleep into The Valley of Kings,

Until Horus returns from Avalon,

With proud King Arthur at his side







Poem: Love In Exile


Not seeing you,

Is like being in exile,

Shut out from all that I love –

Everything that makes me sing out in

Sighs, and believe in brighter skies


What can I say of you that I have not said

Already? What forgotten fragment of my

Heart must I still bleed out for you to sample

And taste – words dug up from the very ground

Of my being, my core, my marrow,

Chosen in haste?


Could these words ever illuminate your heart?

Could these words ever fill you with trust?

Could these words ever make you flutter towards

Me, without your inevitably having to flutter away



I think about moving on –

But how can I move on from Heaven?

How can I recover from these third degree

Burns after being subsumed in the fire of your

Love? How can I move on from an immovable

Beauty that coronates my days with rays of

Meaning I could never have previously fathomed?


I cannot move on from you –

Only closer to you –

Like a ship sailing towards the sun,

I will keep on sailing ahead into those golden

Flames, until I perish, Icarus-like, in those

Fiery waves


There are so many memories I would like to share –

So many crowning moments, immortalized in the

Art Gallery of my imagination. But I cannot share them.

The eyes of the world are upon me, and I cannot share them.


So, instead, I must coil myself in allegory, soliloquy,

And vague, hopeful allusions, cloaking myself in an

Obscurity that wants to tear itself open and scream:





But would you be able to hear me?

Would you be able to sense my intensions

Through the dense barriers of perfection

That separate you from me?


I am on the outside. But, sometimes, when we

See, we feel, we touch, we dream together, I feel

That inviolable membrane become more permeable –

And our two worlds become one, opening up a whole

Geography of imagination that could never exist without

Us both –


Don’t you want to see those landscapes with me?

Don’t you want to see what only you and I can see?


Press your third eye to mine, darling –

Feel the thrill as our thoughts mingle –

Two imaginations inseminating eachother,

Embryos flourishing into pregnant dreams

Which give birth to Heavens, to Joys –

To the redemption of all pain and loss


But, when you are gone, all of that goes away –

My bandages are torn off; my suppurating wounds

Exposed to the infectious dark –

My imagination loses its magic,

My life loses purpose,

My world sheds dimensions like falling leaves,

My heart aches – my truth grieves


What wounded and wounding truth!

Did truth know it would come to this?

Did my soul know that, in meeting you,

It would be scarred, destroyed, and enlivened,

Irreversibly, irreparably, immortally?


Of course it did.

This whole thing was a set-up from the start:

Just how far can we push Reuben? That’s what

We want to know! This bastard’s been too slow –

We need to throw this Queen of a Curveball into

His vena cava to get him back on track again!


And throw they did.

How many times have I died since I met you?

How many mental-breakdowns have I had since

I began prostrating offerings at your sacrificial

Altar? And so many more on the way!



Where will we go, darling?

Africa, India, Tibet?

I don’t care where we go.

You are my world. And I can

Travel further just through looking

In your eyes, than I could via any

Vehicle in the world –


Your love is the wings of a swift –

The agony of an albatross –

The stardust of space –

Your love is the contentment of Death

After a Life well-lived –

Your love is my universe –

It is my Weird – it is the omnipotent

Force that propels me from one day

To the next


Your love has given me the courage

To slay demons – and to love demons –

To face god – and to become god –

To dream – and to realize the dream –


Your love is the pulse that pumps me

Beatingly, through Eternity’s veins



So don’t go away –

Don’t leave me to clot –

Don’t leave me in this forgotten

Exile, the last member of a species

Most don’t even realize still exists


But I would like you to know –

I would like you to know everything

About me – to be the privileged archivist

Of my mind, classifying and categorizing

My every last paroxysm and prayer, loving

The changes and stages of strangeness even

I have yet to caress.


Please, let me in –

I don’t care how many steps I must tread –

How many bodies and lives I must shed –

I would lose all it is possible to lose if

Your love I could finally gain


If I succeed, people will write odysseys about

Us – our love will be a legendary love –

The Twelve Labours of Hercules are just the

Aperitif –I have far more painful realities

To awake, treacherous trials to undertake, before

I finally can unhappiness unmake


Then I will do it.

I will sit on that electric chair –

And as that Throne of Death pumps volts

Of relief through my being, I will know that

It was all worth it –

Just to have known you at all

Just to have known you at all


Poem: Writing Into Darkness


Music, baroque, I hear the notes

Tie themselves into lucid knots –

Labyrinths of spectacle, ravelling all things

In sequential spirals – I am

Not tied in – but enchained –

Where others dance and court,

 I am only Inwoven in ever

Denser layers of suffocating self – my

Petals too populous – my thorns, frothing

Foaming – orgiastic brambles, celebrating,

Denigrating riotousness


I dance alone.

I sing alone.


My notes have nothing to harmonize with

Except themselves; what I sung before being

Destroyed, effaced, by what I sing next – arrows

Fired after arrows – notes attacking notes – melodies

Savaging melodies as combatant serpents, rattling and

Shaking in metamorphosis of self-murder


I sit in the abyss, and my scroll keeps on purling,

Tapering into darkness.

There is nothing here except:

My Quill,

My Ink,

My Scroll,

And the Words I write


The Scroll is made from skin – my Skin;

The Ink is dredged up from the unfinishable

Darkness where I lagoon. The

Words are just passengers – faery-like thoughts –

Phantasms that pass through my mind like sightseers

At theme parks – what spectacle is

Today unfurling in The Land of Poet? Is the Ferris

Wheel still up and running? Or must we go elsewhere

To be nauseated by circularity?


So, I carry on writing into darkness.

I don’t know if anyone will ever receive

These messages. I don’t know if there is

Anything beyond this darkness.


How many different kinds of darkness are there?

How many gods are there in The Pantheon of Night?

Is Light just another form of Darkness?

Is a light-bulb just an immature form of Darkness

That has not yet learned to conceal itself?



I learned to conceal myself long ago.

When the day is done, and the shifting tides

Of Darkness shimmer around themselves, I roll

Myself up in my Scroll, and sleep.


And, as I sleep, I dream – I dream of light –

I dream of Darkness no longer being afraid

To show itself – I dream of no longer Dancing



I dream of landscapes, of friendships, of cities,

Of pullulating possibilities – that the knots of

Infinity are no longer just chains, encumbrances,

But beautiful pieces of embroidery in which I am

A purposeful, important stitch.



Then I awake.

Nothing has changed.


I furl out my Scroll,

Dip my Quill into Darkness,

And hope, against the face of

All possible alternatives, that, maybe

One day, someone will finally be able

To read my handwriting.


Then the Darkness will be Loved.

And I will not dance alone.


Sonnet To Myself


Reuben , Reuben – lonely Reuben –

Why must I always inhabit thee?

Share in your darkness, none can illumine,

A receptacle to all your misery?

My soul hath become a festering thing,

A tumour, demonic, that leaves me not,

This clotted throat no more can sing;

This unhappy heart has all else forgot,

But the corpuscular dimness that muddies these veins,

Drowning all joy, before its first breath,

Choked in its infancy – tutored by pain –

Gasping, bloodily, in its woof and weft,

And ever, oh ever, still I feel in this womb,

Those dead hopes – lying fetus-like – My body: a tomb







Poem: A Troll’s Tale


As I went for morning stroll

I was accosted by two trolls,

Who chose to walk by me besides,

Matching my pace – stride for stride


These trolls were green as green can be,

As scum of pond – as lake of algae –

Their hair was matted, messy, and knotty,

Bespeaking an appearance severely grotty,

Dressed in rags, and uncouth chainmail –

(And a dagger, perhaps, lone men to assail?)


In short, they were an unpleasant pair –

I felt comparatively debonair! –

And I certainly didn’t smell so foul,

As these rogues, dogging me, cheek by jowl!


“What want ye trolls?” said I to them,

“Scourge of otherwise merry men!

Can chap not go for happy stroll,

Without being pestered by two trolls?”


“Well now!” saith the first, “the cheek of that!

Just because we are withouten silken cravat!

Us trolls ‘as fallen on ‘ard times;

We were not always so badly begrimed!


“Once we were Great Lords, respected;

Kings of Caverns, now neglected,

That once did brim with copper and gold,

And much else ‘twas pleasing to behold:

Like talking cats – and magical rings –

And lyres that strum without no strings!


We were men of renown in them times –

Who ruled the land? – Who manned the mines?

We did! – Ah, but fortune struck us from her role –

When something befell us, terrible,

For, when we mined the earth too deep,

We roused something dreadful from its sleep,

Faster than you can say ‘Conspiracy!’ or ‘PSYOPS!’

From out the ground emerged a giant Cyclops!


He squashed our women – he ate our cattle –

And no matter how fiercely we engaged him in battle,

We could barely give him more than a scratch –

Thus, from his tyranny, much more was hatched,

All the land was barren and blighted,

And so our glory days were soon benighted!”


“But wait!” says I, from me to Troll,

No bloody rivers do I see roll,

Abergavenny is a peaceful town –

Now raging Cyclops do I see frown!”


“That’s why we harried you – he’s on his way!

And means to be here by the end of day –

He’s just coming now from yon Brynmawr –

You’ll hear him roar within the hour!

He won’t be content to see just Abergavenny fall –

But Monmouth and Raglan – he wants them all!

And his ire, his wrath, will not be spent,

Until he’s crushed the whole of Gwent!”


“Yes, but surely not e’en a beast of this sort,

Would have the gall to take on Newport?

Tell you what we’ll do – we’ll divert him there,

And by the time he sniffs the air,

He’ll fall down drunk – hunker down abed –

And when comes the morning – we’ll bash in his head!

Then this Cyclops will harry you no more,

And your diamond mines you can soon restore!”


But as I continued on my stroll,

I was no more accosted by two trolls,

No more were they by me either side,

Or matching my pace – stride for stride,


I presumed by their untimely contraction,

That they’d gone to put my plan into action,

And I bid them well – as I strolled on,

Enjoying the sweetness of this sweet dawn,

Glad that just through enjoying my morning stroll,

I could make life more pleasant for a pair of trolls!