“I am a rock, I am an island.”

Simon and Garfunkel 




First person view.

First person view.

A Sisyphus sun 

Tracing the barrel

Of a gun

Back to you.


Good morning

Good night

Through our

Immense Love and Fright

Believe me

It all turns out


Which Witch is Which?


I'm sick of this bitch

Inside my mind

Monday to Friday

Rooster Saturday

Till Sunday night


She puffs and sighs and thirsts


I keep stuttering

Patiently muttering

"Quell! Quell!" 

And break her spell!


But she casts runes

And playful tunes

And softly spoken lullabies


I rage and hiss and

Clench my fist

I bite my lips till I 

Draw blood

And roar and spit

Like I've just bitten off

Van Gogh's ear .


But I can still hear...

Her moans and groans

And giggling breaths.


The sirens of our rail-tracked


Impending into loveless stations


Imprisoned in unspoken conversations


Still coughing and gasping for air

Choking on words like love and hate

And forgetting if I ate.


I hate this bitch inside my head.

I made her, she is my idea.


Following instructions from Ikea

I build her from the pieces of my youth


I hate this bitch inside my head.

She looks a lot like


Wuthering Lows     

Days have left me dazed 

And divided.

I keep following stars 

And all they do is lead

Me astray.

To find love and comfort

In a warning sign

Is all but comforting.

But I keep trying.

Keep training at train stations.

Keep listening in on stranger's 

Conversations. Trying to learn

How to ask: How was your day?

And How are the kids Diane?


And keep hoping you die, Anne!


Keep learning to reply to 

Statements about the weather.

Keep wondering whether 

I've reached new Wuthering Lows.

And whether anyone knows

How to remove a dearest memory

Through their own nauseating nose.

The Daily Express


I've got moonstains on my teeth

My heart spills like coffee

Every time I move

And I can't express shit

I can't express shit

Because shit is not

To be expressed. And coffee

Laughs every time

I drink it and

God knows what all those

Cigarettes are plotting behind

My back.


I've got sunstains on my fingers

And melanoma melancholic eyes

And milky ways and milky ways

To act. Yet I choose not to.


I have police siren feet 


I skip with my rainbow rope

Through red lights

Laugh like a dear in the


If I smile, it's an accident

If I frown, you could drown


I'm so down, I could dance 

With the heat.


'Xcept there's already a sheriff 

In town

And the dancing queen' s left with no crown 


Someone took it, some call him a thief


And I've got moonstains on my teeth, 

Sunstains on my fingers

Melanoma melancholic eyes

Police siren feet

And I won't. I won't confess. Shit. 

The death of Blue


Where did you go

Mr Blue?

Come back, come back

We do miss you!


Were you searching for something

That you haven't found?

Were you finally eaten

By that black, beastly hound?


Where did you go 

Mr Blue?

Come back come back

We do love you!


Were your irises hungry for visions

Of hope?

Were you tired of wearing that necklace

Of rope?


Where, oh but where did you go

Mr Blue?

Come back, come back

So that we can hug you!


And the newspaper read

Mr Blue is now dead

And there's nothing you critters

Can do

Hypothermic conditions and horrendous


Can keep us apart unlike glue


So goodbye,

Goodbye and farewell

Mr Blue

I find it so funny, when outside it's sunny

But my insides are rainy

For you.

Back in the hood.


No lying please.

With thicker fingers now

Body preparing to "shush!" kids

And put the blame on anyone

But me.


Back in the hood. Adult.

Craving coffee. Pining for coffee.

Ending relationships with the slogan

"Another job well done!".

Dates with alcohol. Without hope.

Recommending dentists and dry cleaners.

Drier. Cleaner.


Back in the hood. Adult.

Non - iron dream shirts

Net working, net profit quarters

Closed borders

Fish net erections



Back in the hood. Adult.

Ronald McDonald, get me outta here!

Mickey Mouse traps and Mini depressive episodes.

Donald Trump's bathroom duck.

A whole lot outta luck!


Back in the hood. Adult.

It's been 20 years since I've sucked my thumb.

And 3 months since I've sucked a nipple.

And my expensive watch always tells me it's too late. 


And my Italian shoes reflect more than my face.

And I feel that I've won. 

And I've lost.


Back in the hood. Adult.

And It was not 

A race.

A strange relationship


Did you speak with him? He hasn't written in a while...

He's fine. Just taking a break, that's all.

Trying to figure things out. 

He's still somewhere out there, though,


He is. He calls me sometimes. Just to check if I'm well. 

And I say "I'm great!" and he laughs and hangs up...

He loves me though, I know he does.

I do all the work, and he...

He sends me poems...

To sleep and wake up to, 

And to put in my retirement fund!

Long time no see


I was caught red-minded

Trying to steal an album

Of cold facts

With my intentions as pure as passion purèe:

To alter and return them

Warmer than my beating heart

On a summer's day

In a frozen-over Hell.

Conservative Labour


I take my human pills

Every morning at 

Hate o'clock.

And every night

The tennis match ends

At Love - 40


Oh, you are a beautiful girl

Smoking in a hospital

While our love's dying

In the ICU


And born again from the womb

Of my pregnant eyes

Every time I see you.

Stick Figure Hands


Lets sit together 
And watch the moon melt
On a lava mountain cake
Of incomprehensible feelings

While our stick figure hands start a fire.

A fire that burns faster than you
Can say I
Faster than I can say too

Faster than the two 
Of us
Can say we

Faster than time itself
Can utter:



She finds the galloping clock

Funny and I couldn't

For the life of me

Laugh at something

So strikingly serious


Whenever I'm with her I

Remember Einstein's

Declaration that time

Is relative and find

It so trivially true that

My heart instinctively

Skips two beats every minute

As if to disprove it.

Then she finally starts talking

And I know that hours will fly by

In an absolute 5 minute reference

Mirror frame


She tells me she hates herself 

And I hate the world for making this

The case 

And hate myself even more, for being

Unable to express how wrong she is

For hating herself.


Now. We move into some other field

Of conversation

Like switching rooms in some beautiful 

Fiesta Latina 

And I hate to admit that I need a cigarette

5 years have passed and still the night goes on and I find myself so mesmerized and troubled

That I will never find a woman so inconceivably interesting

She laughs and I laugh and


The clock spells trouble, trouble, trouble

Eternal Sunshine of you know the rest


Are we simply our brains? 

You see the problem, professor

Is that we are never "simply" something.


Looking in the mirror 

I discovered that I have two legs today.


There's always two legs to the day

And today's second leg ends

Once again

In defeat 

For the home team.


But I do sincerely hope

Someday you'll figure it

All out.

You neuroscientists and you doctors

And you physicists and philosophers


I hope someday you'll put someone

Like me in an MRI machine and

Say "See? That's all there is to this man."

He thinks so and so 

And loves who and who


And his conception of language

Is so strange

That he could never hope

To articulate 

Any of it.

Yes, I’ve been to the movies


Skies of sinister blue

Can't you see we are drowning

In our unrealized potential?

In our feelings

In our failures?

Cut to a reversed rose blossom

A half-smoked cigarette

Tons of concrete.

Crossing paths with legions

Of loneliness

People who will never be the 

Best they can.

An empty Coca-Cola can.

On a rainy national holiday


The flags are coughing in the streets

Wet dreams of power and 

Glory wholesome rain preludes.

Love stumbles around in the rain

A hunch back knocking on our doors

Drunk and dirty and miserable.


Who in their right minds would let 

That creature in?


The flags are dripping now

And coughing their lungs out

And screaming:

"Go on then! Forget us! 

We are tired of serving you!"


Love limbs about.

The counrty is in ruins

And the self is afraid

Of the self.


The economy is doing fine by the way.

And you can ask all the drug addicts

And binge - drinkers 

And madhouse tenants.


Risk fee - Risk free

We stumble on

Trying to ignore

All those god damned flags coughing

And the constant knocking on the door


And we feel young and proud and happy and wild and free!


While love's liver

Begs to differ.

You need to have a plan


And I'll join a party

So that I'm not alone anymore

And try and consume more

Of everything

Except you

And try and enjoy my youth.

But fail miserably

As in days of old

And keep searching and searching

For that heart of gold

And probably settle for silver

Or bronze

Or even one of those big ribbons

That you get for being a participant

And a loser

Mostly for being a loser

Who "at least tried" and all the rest

And I'll finally get what I want

In the end

The end.

Impossible Imperative


You need to go now

Its' real

Too real

The elephant in the room

Squeaking like a mouse

In my brain's cupboard


You stuck-up queen of hearts

That I shovel away with 

Sordid spades 

And beat down

With honourable clubs

Yet somehow always end up

As the only card I draw.


Too many years, too many tears, fears

Destroyed political careers

Machinations, fascinations

Subdued, Divided Nations 



Time to mature like cheddar

Cheesy Nuclear Meltdown 

Off the radar

Wine me, dine me

Bury me, mark me

And find me

In 20 years from now


In a smiling sarcophagus

In a tomb full of precious memories.



Finders Keepers

Blinding pickers

Losers Weepers


You need to go now.

You need to go because every

Shooting star- 


Carries you...

Prosac Intermission 1


“Before you go”, Mr George added, “be sure to make sure that you’re sure about leaving”.

“Sure”, she replied.

Even the goldfish in its shitty bowl, let out a tiny giggling bubble.

The taxi smelled of pine. Out in the street, the cherry blossoms… blossomed

And she applied lipstick one more time, to make sure it hadn’t worn off from all the

Goodbye kisses they never gave each other.

A decade passed. Sure. Maybe more. I saw George, who was no longer Mr George. And his liver was sure that he had fucked up his last words to her.

She was surely doing better. Her new husband loved her more, never hurt her, and never questioned why she was going through 3 lipsticks a day.


“Would you like some more pain?” Asked my mistress, who was maybe French, maybe not.

“Sure”, I replied.