Poem: Deadlier Vision


I don’t believe in innocence;
A deadlier vision ever lurks, untapped,
Unfulfilled, canker worm not yet exposed,
Too soon to see it come full bloom
Yielding the fragrance of darkness distilled

I cannot make you out,
Befogged in Neptunian mists, spindrift,
The cloaking device of lunar repression,
On what chopping block has your head lain,
The hard edge of fate so sharpened?

But you cannot make yourself invisible,
In the conspicuity of absence,
Trauma is revealed
In the coarsened thumb-marks
Still chiming on swan-like throat

The score is continuously re-written:
The fumbling of incipient notes

Poem: Impossible Colours

(c) Bristol Museum and Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation
(c) Bristol Museum and Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation


For the Mother, only the Child

Exists – can’t you see her moon-

Struck, Diana face? It is completely

Subsumed in the soul of her daughter –

All other things in the world only matter

In so much as they pertain to her child’s

Danger, enrichment, or protection

But, for the child, everything exists –

Everything is ablaze with infinity’s candle

Flame, refracting endlessly in impossible


The mother does exist to the child –

But, it’s almost as though she exists too much –

Exists too frightfully, omnisciently much, that

She must, perforce, become invisible

Like a god

Like a goddess

And since worshipping you, Tara,

That is how I feel –

I always feel too much: my heart

Overflows with aches and sobs, so

Consuming me with the compassion I

Feel for the world, that I become invisible –

Completely invisible

It’s bad enough having one child –

But what about when everyone,

And everything, is your child?

Oh, agonizing, heavy heart of

Bodhicitta! It’s amazing to think

How hard I worked to attain you!

And the fruit of my labours, is the

Most loyal of pains – a wife

Who will never, ever divorce



For pain is selfless –

She knows no boundaries –

It’s why she moves so freely

In the prosperity of chaos;

Though she can always be

Expected to spring most

Profusely from a heart that

Isn’t afraid

To selflessly love

Love like a mother

Like a Goddess

Like Tara


But, I must confess –

This mother has a favourite –

A daughter whose beauty,

Inviolate, she would lay down

Her life to uplift

So, take my life;

‘Tis my gift –

Stay true to me

Through strife or rift

But, most of all,

Be true to you,

Though your mother be miserable

She is too much –

She must remain


Completely, utterly,


Poem: Medievalism, Oh!


Oh, glorious, glorious gloom!

You give me so much more room

To manoeuvre

My strange, windy ways

I’d much rather an underworld

To a glittery sky palace;

Give me those burning pathways of fire

Those strange canopies of skin

From unknown bestials derived

It is a horrid factory of immaculate earth

Churning out planets in manufactured succession

The torment of tears

In every galactic eye

I ascend the bruised mountain

Searching through its scarred face

To find the erotic teachings of the past

This is my bestiary – my own private menagerie

Housing monsters and gryphons

Both shewn and showed

Down the musky, dusky husk go I

Into the perfume of Empyrean

To steal the stars from their own night owls

And teeth plucked straight from the mouth

Of the pearly, opalescent ocean

Thereat, I will plunge into

The Cascade of my potion

Dribbling into the furnace

And the fetid potluck

I swear has alchemical powers:

First the Dragon – then the Fly;

Second the Tiger – next Magpie;

Crossing across the roof of the world

To join with the moss

And the lossiest Loess

Ah, Frantic Medievalism!

Medievalism ornate and deformed!

Take me back to your DARK AGES

When books were pillows

And the sacred castles of Oddiyana

Were still ariot

With treacherous claws

But to the archfiend and the nemesis

Subdued in wrath by designer sedatives

Are now only wending their way

Through the Tartarus of Modernity:

Old People’s Homes

Arguing about who

Last saw the TV remote

And whose dementia

Is progressing the fastest

And the worst

“I’ve forgotten twelve thousand more gigabytes

Of chaotic data than you!”

Exclaims lusty Belial,

Twisting his sandwich

Into a tridental narrative

“What?” says Satan, subdued

His is brain is now only

A tuna fish sandwich

And he thinks he still sees his children

Though they died long before he ever did

It’s a sad state of affairs

When demons need enemas

And harpy-faced nurses

To put spittle on their

Unraging bones

Still Medievalism howls

In every village

Of the British and the Welsh

Wherever crows still rule

With their iron caws

And their iron claws

But I have lost my marbles completely now

So I tuck myself back in

Inside my own inviolate scrotum

And within Involution’s allure

Mark off the beginning of the day


Poem: Descent into The Atrocious Palace of Yamantaka


Heaven and Hell

Are exactly the same

It just all depends

Whether you let the flames

Heal you

Or destroy you

Though they must destroy you

Before they can begin to heal you

I descend into

The Hall of Abominations

Climbing up –

So many heaps of corpses

So many heaps of gold

Desolate gongs

Throng with oscillations

Cleaving the air

Into merciless ripples

Reaching the inglorious throne room


The Father of Deathlessness

Bathes in a corona of atrocity

Cleansing himself in the scalding flames

Whilst ravenously merging with

His hideous consort

Swimming, mouth open

Through galaxies and galaxies of blood

My transformation is incomplete

But insanely exquisite

Sitting down at the table

I eat Sunday Lunch with my parents

As though nothing has happened

Knowing I will return

When my heart mantra sings