Lilies grow beneath my bed.

Shedding all that was mine;
The not-yet and not-past echoing
Before and after me.
Reverberating in this sleepless night
The darkness solid. Sculptural.
Containing my emptiness
In a bittersweet embrace.

Far off lights,
in other buildings,
Light up other lives
That aren’t mine.
The world lives on,
I cave in
With walls dissolving
In a darkness so foreign
That I’m frightened to admit
I don’t know who I am.

Life keeps asking and I remain silent.
Even in the silence of the early hours,
Whilst most – here at least – are sound asleep,
I am deafened by the feeling that life is slipping away
Out of my control, and so out of reach.
I lie here helplessly,
as the mushroom cloud rings widen.
I am alone in the centre
Where I don’t want to be,
No escaping. All is erasing.
Growth means disappearances.

I’m terrified by the solitude of night,
And though my mind peoples the emptiness,
These people confront me with all that I am not,
And that which I am not is also an emptiness.

Smothered from all sides
By my aloneness
I fantasise that light will erase
Night, once and for all.
In a few hours, with the coming dawn
I’ll forget all of this.
Until the following night. And night after.
The final night is reeling me in.

Alone-ache ringing in the ears,
The background hum forever-ending




We fell together, colliding with such a force that our centres fused, neither of us stopping it, being fix and addict in turn.
Eventually you found the space I’d been hiding from you, malignant and damp with a frightened aftershock-emptiness, still stinking from the tail-end echo of a scream. Or was it a nervous laugh? An exhalation of some sort, sucking with murderous need. Hooked, we were both pulled under.



Before I was – staring out at endless ocean, –
She and I were

Her touch, her heartbeat, her being
In sound, sense and emotion
– a distant foghorn from out at sea; elsewhere. And it’s echoing; space –

I am hunger, I am tiredness, I am discomfort, I am laughter and love in that voice and in those eyes, I am that love.

I, too, am her tiredness, her frustration, her feeling of helplessness, her sorrow, her unbearable rage.
– mountainous waves stare down, the thought alone of which could annihilate, seabirds echo a cry

splintering through that unearthly, desolate place –

Our tangled worlds dance in one another’s shadows.

Erratic wind skims across the sea surface, mirroring our dance. A wave gently pushes through.




Ten or so gulls chase another bird through the square, circling houses, writing a poem about space with their movement through space. This space, that would otherwise have a painterly flatness weren’t it for the play between the constant and shifting forms.


Such ephemeral poems must constantly be being written, and unwritten; a moment kept unsuccessfully in thought – imprecise and fading until only an image – that essense flew off with the gulls.




Dusk on the cusp of living

We are lived by an entity that is total –

As inconceivable as the glowing surface of the evening sky, that is not a surface but an endlessness, or the hand that is attached to the body from which my eyes view it, mediated through a mind which is me in opposition to a not me – separate from them, and all of us from the sky,

Which positions me and you neither inside nor out,

Neither it nor not-it.

Life, which is as near and unintelligible as my hand

And is yet more distant and far from understanding, still.

The birds singing in the trees are unconcerned

By the violence of life forcing itself through them. Blossoming tree buds, soon to be lived, weighing heavy with expectant potency, each and every one unaware

– a slither of silver moon nestled amongst the outer branches of an oak, a blackbird’s song uncontained – life on the cusp of dusk.




I let go

Of you


You let go

Of me




I woke up crying, a newborn.
Feeling again the raw sensation of physical aloneness. Soon after we fell apart, I dreamt we were naked in the lake next to the jetty. I feel your skin against mine; We’re innocently entwined unborn twins.

With a slow violent lurch, like the pull of an undercurrent, our closeness sighs with a grief un-named, yet expressed in the summer night skies.