Learning to Lose

You lose yourself between the empty ticking of the clock,

The low-brow knock of tick-tack-tock;

The wayward, strident second hand

Beats to the sound of unmanned wreckage

Inside the holy-water of your heart.


You lose yourself between the leaves of sheaves of books,

The smell of well-felled plant-cells planted in antiquity

Permeates the dusty shelves,

And only time will tell whether

They will find a home again.  


You lose yourself in stacks of stones and tomes and poetry,

A clustered, flustered, flotsam-jetsam meld

Of stories bound together by the past;

Held in ship-shape place for

Longer than history itself.


You lose yourself under night’s weighty deep-dark cape,

Walking the fleeting distance from one bright-bite

Pinprick of light in the sky to another;

Wondering under what thundering sky

You yourself will join them.


You lose sight of yourself, you begin to notice, in the meaningless

Of hypocrisy, and the view of infinity from your bedroom window.

So while pre-processed thoughts and lacklustre words

Pour from the jaws of immobile, ignoble people,


You lose yourself again in the empty ticking of the clock,

And learn to love its simple sound. 


Uninspired I

My fingers have ground to a halt,

Their prints run dry and blisters bloat the muscle behind my skin.

Words no longer flow with such fluidity now they’ve been rubbed so thin.

My sight is crinkled at the seams —

Exhaustion is usually a breeding ground for poetry,

But from this early-morning darkness I’ve spun out only fragments of stories;

If knickknacks were words and scrapped books came together,

That would be a picture of my poetry.

I can hardly breathe for fear and cold,

These empty words have stolen the hearth on which I warm my soul,

And I am left alone with little to hold, and time again ticks out its close.

New clichés are born in my head

Whispering uninspired, uninspired, 

To the body rotting in this bed.

We Built This City

We built this grizzled crust of a city
Off of traveller’s checks
And grandfather’s tears.

We broke our own mirrors
In order to call the misfortune
We brought upon our people
Cultural heritage.

We revere the hypocrites
And trod upon the fertile soil of the soul.
What use is poetry in a world of technology?

We built this city out of the corpses of the enemy
Just to be able to truly call it ours.
And we have made homes for ourselves
Between the scrapyards and front-yard junk
Of our ancestors.

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned
Is a synonym for cowardice,
And now morale is wearing thin.
We built a obsolescent city;
It was always meant to cave in.

We built this city on the cusp of something great,
But we dirtied the river of expression,
And as of late encouraged oppression.

We built this city to be broken;
How could we have expected success
From a hyper-caffeinated people
Who toppled the columns of Justice, Prosperity, and Sleep.

We built this city from the charred remains of the last one,
So know that out of tomorrow’s ashes, it will rise again.


The power to bring change lies within our reach,
Nestled deep inside the circuitry we hold between our fingers;
It is now so easy to push the right buttons to rile up society.

The real issues rarely make the cover,
But the adverts, in lying bare exactly what the public wants,
Can be used to illustrate the dehumanisation of our age;
Where girls are given worth according to the length of wires
Wound around their chest,
And boys are given guns with no questions asked.

Media brings about knowledge.
Knowledge brings about change.
But for now, people still sit around cracking rape jokes
On the bus, thinking poverty’s the only way
To keep the unworthy in their place.

And so the boys with guns join forces,
And the girls with stick-thin legs grow tired of starvation;
Both take hold of their mobile devices
And promise to make
The power of the media is at their disposal,
And they throw it all to waste.
So the girls and the boys of today
Both end up chocking up blood-soaked vomit
And whimper the through the pain.

By then, the thought of change disgusts them
Even more that their own skins,
And like that you’ve lost a spark;
Like that you’ve let them win.


We hold pens and pennies in our hands until our knuckles cramp

And our nails turn blue; reciting wish upon wish that the world doesn’t fail us now.


We plunge our palms into the powdered softness of the sands

To convince ourselves that our touch can bring change to our surroundings.

Yet our backs are always turned when the sand pits we’ve dug

Sigh into themselves with a faint gurgle,

Back into the moistened bed of the sea.


The same hands in the sand caress the pressure points

Of a hardened shaft;


The same hands anchor food into the air,

Ready to be engulfed by the blackness 

Behind our teeth.


These same hands find their ports

Clasped in the hands of others;


These same hands hold the gleaming trophy

And spell out V-I-C-T-O-R-Y to the clouds


These same hands mould into the same fists,

And just as in life;

Direction is everything. 


We clutch things in sweaty fists, palms shut up tight

Against the world — willing them not to slip from our grip.


But we all get slapped sometimes,

And our hands only serve to nurse the wound.


That’s only the universe telling us to cling harder to the things we have,

The things we care about keeping, and the things we can trick ourselves 

Into believing were worth it to have loved when we have lost.

Painting of the Lake at Dusk

The lake outside my window

Has taken on a resemblance to oil on land.


The water’s orange, in places, and brushstrokes of dark blue

Seem to give it depth in the wrong direction.


Only a slight shimmer on the surface of the blue

Gives the scene away as 


A picture postcard.


The mix of sunset colours

Created a fog the colour of mustard gas on the shores of the other side,

And in the setting sun, the fall(en) trees 

Look the colour of my sister’s hair.


There’s a pink, glowing cloud surrounding the ski slopes

At the bottom of the scorpion-shaped white runs —


And then —


And then it’s gone.

The moment passes and the light fades, leaving only

Slight accents behind the western clouds.


And as the clouds thicken for night,

Pinpricks of light filter out of the blue-grey hills 

On the far shores. 


The oil spill on the water has now mopped itself up,

And the shimmering waves collect shadow

As the lake quiets for the night. 

Lines to Keep

I came up with a near-perfect beginning of a poem last night,

Sitting on the inside of a grimy, bright bus

Watching the darkened streets fly by.


It might have been a line about the girl curled up and into herself

On a chair in the front window of the police station.

It might have been about the reflections in the bus windows,

About everyone seeing everyone without the burden of eye contact. 

It might have been about a pharmacy, 

Or about the festive lights that drape across the alleyways and squares;

Little shining stars ashamed to find themselves so close to Earth:

A string of half-hearted message cards dutifully reminding people

That this is the season to be kind to others. 


But most people here can’t stand that thought, 

So the lights turn into haunting annoyances — a voicemail on repeat-

That no one dares take down or take the time to understand.


It might have been a line about all those things combined,

It might have been the one defining line:

One defining line to fill the emptiness inside the cracks between my bones.


But, of course, I lost that line-

I lost the whole damn fishing pole at the same time,

Swallowed up by the unforgiving mouth of the realm of dreams. 

It bubbled up and foamed and dribbled out of my mouth in my sleep,

For my fingers were too slow to let the blood-turned-ink run out of my

Nail beds and sink into a page, if only to be sealed up tight

And left recorded for the rest of my life. 


I’ve said sorry to the muses of the written word,

And the goddesses of buses, fingers, pens, and sleep.

And since I’ve lost, in return, 

I’ve written them a poem entitled:

Lines to Keep


I wasn’t lying when I said my makeup

Never runs — instead it walks, leaving footprints

On my face, and eventually the powder on my cheeks

Melts away like the snow in spring.

I am a wax doll,

And you are my flame,

And though I fear you,

You help my cover up my flaws

By giving me plasters doused with an

Antiseptic form of love in the shape of your thumb.

I wish you wished for the feel of my fingers

Running through your hair,

Or along your earthly back.

I would count the notches in your spine

And ask you questions over wine-

What would you do;

Who would you be;

Why have you let me see the inner

Workings of your spirit?

I’m nothing.

I’ve only seen the gargantuan sky

Turn purple at dusk, and for God’s sake,

I’m just how learning how to breathe,

Or count stars in the dark.

I think, in fact,

I’ve mostly made you up.

My eyes are raw, and my nails have disappeared,

Leaving canyons of red clay and crimson holy water

Creeping out of my capillaries.

And because we haven’t done anything but touch,

I would have broken the mirage

By asking you about yourself — so I had to

Make you up to keep you running.

And run you did — away from me.

I remember standing at a traffic light,

Talking to everyone but you,

And I heard what happened at that party

I wasn’t invited to.

Instead, I’d stayed at home and learnt my lines,

As if this play would finally teach me to speak when

I stepped off the stage-

But I know better than anyone that that could never happen,

Because the person I am between the two darkened corners

And five blackened planes is someone so different from me.

The lights illuminate, and the makeup hides,

And maybe, just maybe, I thought:

You could have fallen in love with me that way.

But at that traffic light,

I might have been transported back a thousand years,

Back to when that exact point was at the bottom of a river

And my feet wouldn’t unstick from the ground.

The last time that I touched you,

I disappeared for three weeks,

Maybe that’s what between us-

But look at me now.

I have come so far from yesterday or yesteryear;

I am alive and kicking.

Why I Write

I write to put at least the thickness of a page

Between myself and my day.


Pen on paper is my type of speech,

And poetry gives me more time to think.

These words will serve as my script for the future,

And have acted as a scrapbook in the past.


My writing is fairly formulaic;

I sift through the strings of echoes

And flashing words inside my head

To spiral in and in;

Trying to increase the accuracy of my words 

To best reflect what I mean to say. 

It doesn’t always come out right,

But I think it comes out how it best should be.


I write to be able to turn pages on top of

My problems and begin anew

With a crisp blank page on which to scribble

Out a message or a story

Or a story with a message.


My writing helps me put an issue in the past;

Time-stamped, page-turned,

That I can then look back on and think:

I got through that — that’s something to be said about me

A Week of Words (Mid-Feb 2014)

Last week, I saw two lovers (teenagers)

Crawl out of a beached boat at noon.

I wondered who they were and how they’d met.

Today, I have an abstract cluster of splotches

In the centre of my palm-

I dug my hand into my spoon

When carving out the iced ice cream

I had before my salad.

This week, I grew scales behind my ears

And a textured roughness on my throat.

I looked myself in the eye without makeup

And recognised myself only on the third day.

But I learnt that people will still love you-

Still miss you-

Even with bloodied bumps upon your skin.

They are only surface wounds,

And you are most beautiful under your skin.