Equality in Agony – a poem

​photo artist: hardyyy

The infection has spread, invisible creep

Parallel with insidious elixirs heavy

Prepared in alembics rot shiny, bubbled

Through with Lethean features, evolved

Over years long with wishful forgetting

For the nature of casual horrors soughing

Along routes and branches corrupt in twists

Of synapses a’sparkle from fires dully formed;


Where we think without savage trees poisoned

By distance crushing like coal over time

With the immense weight of years defining

Vitriolic cosmic wonders wandering wary

In case they should see sodden sights

From eyes drawn, tired, drained of dire duty

To see through veils vaulted over torn

Expectations in speech soul weary accepted;


Foreign bodies brazen bear no additions

Without accents added to any affectations

And those voices call from outside, only

Asking for response in agony and androgyny

For such singing sorrow acknowledges gender nay

Nor asks for a different view, equality awfully

Treating us all the same in barely relieved by

Opiates misery miserly, our travails so totally.


Twinkle Dark Star – a poem

My loveless child, my dark star,

How I have cherished you above all

Dark sun, black star rising highly

In a sky bright as bright may be,

This obscenely booming orb swells

With weight of no mass, flashpoint

Retina burn, so black that light dies

To be near such coruscating dankness.


Dark sun, oh my trouble child, succour

Never possible to grant you, despite

All that I try, yet nurture is torture

To keep you soft instead of horror

Roaring through each nerve, sharp throb

Along white phosphorous thrum burning

Muscles tensed in slow agony sodden smiles,

A paradigm of paradox, dichotomy realised.


Oh! My troubled child of unbidden horror,

Dreams, desires, dire hopes, all yours,

All your own and more, force of will

Defined by flower shapes drawn by soul

Telemetry, madness swarmed in old song,

The filed teeth pulled from dead devils

For smokable stories by dark sunlight,

My trouble child, cherished, without fright.

If Razors Could Talk – a poem

We reap what we sow, seeds left to sprout,

Pre-destined dire dreams loom, shock doubt,

Those unclean towers humbly piled, soar

With darkly grasping fingers for ceilings

Sorrowful from these wondering eyes of



For a surplus of pain seeds may be had,

Scattered, planted, flowers to grow

From soil fertile in sadness, growth

Of bulbs with madness and death, razors

Gleaming with songs sung in other lives,



The smoke, storms and sorrow of a century

And more may not have weathered better

An edifice as such which lays claim

To that maleficent moniker, clay title,

The Devil’s own wonderment and opiate



Funny lines creased into faces, arms laced

From blazes found amidst lanes soulful,

Jets in vacuum, the towers reach, the seeds

Sown leave no space free for foragers,

A will of winsome wonder turned worrisome,


Empty Courts – a poem

A queen’s court such as Bathsheba

Or even Amaranthe, before the former

Was deposed, replaced, and the second

Forced to flee, abandonment a hard reality.


Eternal devolution of mirror aversion

And those boot steps which echo hollow

About those emptied halls of eternal eld,

Blessed prayer bells silent, fading frail majesty.

Sadness and Madness – a poem

Hot coffee sets aside the cold,

Those lonely figures in the rain

Standing for a while, waiting,

Caught within some interstice

Invisible and visible, stored



Cheeks resting on the cool glass,

Smiley faces slit in calm visages,

Memories of most unhappened minds…

Far realised, foreign bodies found

On the roadside with eyes drawn,



Fair despite the inner fire,

The curse of sable musings maudlin,

How close one stands upon that yawning brink,

Eminence crested, exalt to dismay,

Rolling chasm yaws, long gullet, single



The fathomless realms of chaos

Which lie like routes rare taken

Are yet so oft too real for hope

Wishing in fervour elsewise sullen

Sore, that tip, tiny push a trip,



Songs of madness and sadness sung…


Secrets of Devilsong – a poem


Secret lives lived in the arcane dark,

Roads untravelled by most but rode

By many yet less than the multitude

Can be more real than the external,

Secret these stories, holy covenants

Kept by palms sliced and over cauldrons

Held for the smoke to seal and flame,

Within burning flames of dreams

To make even the Devil fully blush.