My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

‘We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee’
poet.

So to you I said ‘I’m ill’
‘Care to spill?’ she hisses.
‘Yes’ I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
‘Prince and King Godber’
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, penile, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain’t slept…
Small cock? Na cock, but let’s not go into it tonight,
naked.

In her dreams he’s laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn’t know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

‘Do what thou Wilt’ says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do – boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don’t you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to kill myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming fuck this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half pissed,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that’s saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal quim, she bleats
‘look it up in your encyclopedia of shames’
you’ll just find a picture of a woman.

It’s intoned meaning
It’s poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, vomit on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna kill us.

Already has.

Fuck it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don’t go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.

Just you and me and the silence in between things
hello cruel world, once more Venus in pearls
hollow echo:
the only way to conquer your fears is to face them,

to splinter a beady eye with glowing heart
first explode out your heart and intellect
combined in a style not
unlike Omega man.

to
ritualise the intent
to
combine the helix
to
hypothesise the meaningful
to
to forge cast irons in the realms of
the imagination

Fky high Omega, manufactured man
manufacture ideals
create new deals
and fielding questions from
professors draped in death black cloth;

Try and just lie back and relax
lie back and relax
relax,
relax.

It’s worth not thinking too hard,
being silent in your  backyard
it’s worth keeping that silence
as it’s golden, yes
sometimes it is golden,
always it is golden.

sometimes the silence is all we have
and all we should have,
it’s the unsaid things that hit you most
on dark nights, unsettled in a house that
shall not breed indifference
this poet writes in the third person.

In a forth wave of inspiration
something emerges which
seemed previously impossible;

Happiness, contentment
a form of therapy, a method
that does not breed indifference

These words are my fire
these words are my soul
please take my words
and burn them
into yourselves

cage your skin, and enjoy the silence because it’s
where we all will one day return to globe of
warmth, death, a deep slumber, an afternoon spent napping
by a fire.

An ambience of merry mourning. Sunlight drapes in through window
reminding me of her. Ethereal glow, sheltered presence.
Who is she? And who am I,
really?

the silence ringing
Ringing, ringing
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing

language is a power
unlock yours
and smile.
Smile wider than the sun
knowing all will be well
and all is.

the silence ringing ringing, ringing,
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing
worlds collapsing

It’s late but still I am awake
slithering soul, tears in a city of angels
hidden and alone, mourning day.

A sheltered concave anonymous cackle mires behind,
I look for something in this finality
and find nothing, I always could before.

My mask falls late at night and early morning,
in a moment with my back turned to the world,
I let my mask slip, and all I find is raw –
the visions seep, all that I saw and see.

A final moment I can never undo, even though I want to
I wish I could save you, I know I can’t now, time
machine come, a chance to say a proper goodbye, why
has this happened to you, in your hour of need
I was not there, I remember the way you laughed despite it all,
and smiled.

I can’t look at machines anymore, it’s a reminder of that.
That final tragic moment that I can’t wash now from memory
as much as I wish to, weeping willow tree, alive
with the memory of a man I once knew, living and free.
Your face frozen in my minds eye, why?

I think my mask must fall, and let you in,
a way to grant you access to this world again
for fleeting moments, from the beyond.
Goodbye my blood. Double eyes, seen.

This Island sits in ruin
split down the middle, ruined
tune of the howling dog
lost in the fog, black
and brazen beast, hair.

I walk down sunlit streets,
immersed in the solemnity
that is my want. I reverse, rewind
and play it all back, the screams,
the endless chasm of the undertow
lying on the other side of the street.

All God and no religion, all zest without
meaning, It’s enough to drive one mad –
it has.

Tracing back memory to find the skin
all I find is a wolf staring back
with hollow hungry eyes, the beast that feasts
at cock of dawn, day by day, inside.

The Island is split down the middle.

The Dog lays leaden over a hung court,
we want a world that makes more sense
but we can’t really see it, albeit in
distance, no it’s not here.

Yet, the Island is split down the middle.

What’s here is the sound of dizzying cries,
the flesh of the innocent burnt for Mamon
the burnt umber of the spirit, it provides no comfort,
none.

I dream of someone or something to pull me out of this
perfect calamity, peace is a world I can scarcely remember –
such pain, such leaden cliches.

Nothing is ever perfect, the Tertiary turning of the screw
the wolf howls and paddles in his boat towards a fresh death.
Whimpering soul of me, drowning in a cup of coffee, lost, afraid
and lacking faith. I swim. Drown sometimes, then resurrect, unfortunate and unwilling Lazerus. Blinking into mortal light.

Each day is another trial, the end seems far away, and close at the same time.
I don’t think this one has a happy ending.

Divide by 2, create 1.