Bipolar City Stride


Sometimes the city is bad.

I don’t like the smell of industry.

In the city, I walk thinking about rural born soliloquies.

It’s all concrete and tarmac, steel and bright lights,

But I’d rather chirping crickets and timid fireflies.

It’s sirens and honking, petrol fumes and the cold.

Those beaten down, conditioned, given up on dreams old.

The parks smell like urine, cheap beer and dog shit,

The people reminded constantly of the wealth and how they don’t get none of it.

Men in suits and women with ties in their hair

Held back so they can be everyone, everywhere.

Trust is forbidden, compassion a scam,

We all walk with heads down, it’s shameful and bland.

Of these cities I see death in a hundred years’ time.

There is cold, harsh hostility with fear replacing hearts on the frontline.

We battle, we battle, trample our way to the top.

But what are we gaining that’s helping to water the crop?


Sometimes the city is good.

Here the industrial metropolis gives rise

To the thought flow and creativity of souls old and souls wise.

Lost amongst the many bodies, but here found a hub

The city is the field of niches from the penthouse to the underground club.

It’s here we all meet, come from lands far and wide

Contributing our flavours and music and pride.

Where the insomniac knows there is always someone awake

Sounds of traffic soothe the lonely, ease the sleep of heartache.

The city is distraction, it is colour and sound

There is possibility here, those lost can be found.

Hustle the crumpling pay check, bustle your way,

This is where you make your dreams happen, so they say.


Photo: Flickr

Louisiana Nights


Torrid Taryn, tempestuous, she was ten at nineteen

Unsure about the world and lost in what she’d seen.

Never been with a boy, already ruined by a man

She was cold and confused, bearing clammy hands.

What of the world? What of where she stood?

She was under close watch by the boys in her hood

As she blossomed like a rose, petals stretching to the sky

But she couldn’t have a thing, not even if she tried.


Inside it felt black, like vacuum, like a hole,

Like what had she done to deserve that unforetold

List of scars on her shoulder, bruise shadows on her shin

As she fled, as she ran to where she might just begin?

To start a new life, untainted by that man,

She saw in his eyes irises of ‘no you can’t’

But she knew that she could, she wanted so much more,

Just to be one of the girls, not called a “prude bore!”

Or worse, just a whore, never destined for more.


Cold sweats break the night up, rapid heart, wake up,

Wander on the back porch, light up, feel raw

Replayed each time, it’s a stumble as she runs

Through the moss walls – he sees her – he finds the pursuit fun.

It’s heaven and hell in the different minds,

It’s a goose chase for one girl, her cheeks are vivid and he’s wild.

But each night she awakes before taken in his grasp,

Up from the wet pillow and out into the night,

Where crickets call softly, to soothe the dark fright.


Photo: Flickr



Rain fall. Starlight.

I hear the battle calls. Starlight.

But the rhythm the run the drum the gun

walk this Earth tonight.


Feathery haze. Moon glow.

Reward at the end of these days. Moon glow.

The sound of the war dissipates in the air

and nebulas light up the way.


So, circular sun. Supernova.

Rotating angular, rotund. Supernova.

Gravity throws us around into the hollows of sound

as atoms collide, broken.


Heavy abyss. Black hole.

It glares right at my soul. Black hole.

Where you stay carried away in a day so they say

walk parallel lives at the flames.


Photo: Flickr

Grey Britain

UK storm

Dark light and strange creatures creep up from the depths of the offshore.

And the wind moves steadily at my back, reminding me

That my time there is done. And crosswinds carry the heady scent

of tigerlily and honeysuckle; exotic and tantalising my senses.


Grey rock outstretches into midnight waters,

Interspersed with cobalt flashes and whitewash

Washing white onto the shore; deadfoam rising.

Historic tears trickle down each estuary path, past eels swimming the familiar route.


Landmass lies consciously out yonder,

‘cross an open and avid ocean

Of dangers worth facing as they render you open

Bare-backed and broken but heart full and hoping

Not hurtful and gloating.


Ben ticks over desolate lands.

Ben deals with his commands and the endless demands

And feels a painful surge growing in his thyroid gland

As he recognises the symptoms of the sick in him.


Grey and grey and white and grey;

The clouds part for no man living in the root

And carnal darkness of day

And a third eye clogged with arsenic.


Photo: Flickr

Under Thumb


Under thumb:

That’s where you like me best.

Low-down, close to the ground, laid flat and bare

With all weak points iodined and red.


From here I’m easy to get, easy to melt hot wax on,

Easy to spill hot fat on and make sure I’m clean-up swept.

From here I’m no fight, dehydrated and shrivelled up

Under your sterile medical lights

And an easy win, really.


From down here amongst the scum, fag ends and bubblegum

You’ll run your car tyres twice til you’re done

But once more for good measure.

Then you’ll check me in your rear view

Just to be sure there isn’t a wiggle or two.


Off you spin; I smell that familiar burning rubber

Coating all my canvases with that thick stench

Burning the back of my throat and making me wretch.

You shower me in filth with your below-the-belt critique

And judgemental physique

Which I take with open arms.


Because I remember that once I’m on the ground

Decomposing with the peristaltic sounds

Of the reincarnating underground

You won’t be welcome

To my party or my pilgrim.

No, you’ll stay spinning

In your vomit-inducing gaze set on winning

At any other’s expense.


And you’ll be lonely and afraid

Wondering why no one picks up the phone

Or gives you praise

Until one day you’ll see me ‘cross the lot

Sitting up on that machine

And with pleasure I will shrug as I shovel dirt on your gleaming windscreen.


Photo: Flickr