Sex could be a prayer;

You’re on your knees

The lord’s name a whisper between your lips

Your bedroom a place of worship

Your eyes closed

Your heart aflutter

Your devotion piqued

Your hands sweaty

Your throat raw

The end a rapt declaration

Your faith satisfied

But you’re still looking for more

That’s a bloody good prayer.


I miss you

I miss you

You, who took hold of me within places unseen

Who ensnared me with a look and enslaved my inner being

Who lured me in with a promise

And kept me with a dream

Who gave flesh to hope

Then said ‘all is not as it seems’

I miss you

You, whose voice I still hear and eyes I still see

Whose breath is the wind and whose smell is of the sea

Whose touch was on fire and whose look set me free

Whose words I still comb over

Because you wrote them for me

By Design…

There’s harmony to your design

An inspired balance, a predestined finality to your conjuring

An unwavering permanence to your wounds and wanderings

There is an unalterable element to your every atom

Like the pulsing tide within your veins, there are courses that remain invariably your own

The immutable resolve of settled clay

The indomitable Prometheus’ curse

You are who you were meant to be

You never had a choice in the matter

Or did you?

Do you?



I am both optimistic and pessimistic.

I love the sound of laughter but I can’t stand being laughed at

I am naïve and idealistic and I am street smart and cunningly shrewd

I believe in love and I’m also a raging cynic

I’m a sweetheart, I honestly am, but they raised a savage

I’m a peacemaker but I will fight to the death for what I believe in

I hate noise, but I sing at the top of my lungs when the mood strikes

I’m a health nut, but I love chocolate and pizza

I’m sophisticated, but I throw it down when the beat drops

I have thousands of friends, but I’m on my own

The Stains

It must be a disease:
A subtle stink that clings to me, growing more insidious
like foreign mould with the ripening of tone and shade.
Blooming in the presence of misappropriated wealth
an insistent stench gnawing at the conscience
a sobering and enraging guilt sired by magic beyond my control.

It must be a plague:
A life threatening affliction
An army of evils congregating at the tips of my fingers
A nest of demons only exorcised by the spilling of blood,
The religious dehumanising and sacrificing to gods of gold, glamour and grace
And the massacre of a nation on the Alter of privilege.

It must be an extermination…

Never Forget

There are rhythms and rhymes that remind me of home

They feel like moments passed, like memories brought to life by the faintest of familiar refrains, or the whisper of a wandering word.

There are hymns that lay dormant in my veins

That burn through the bloodstream of my bloodline while bleeding through forgotten wounds, as the metallic stench of repressed recollections resurfaces to wreak havoc in places they’re no longer welcome

There are sounds and sentiments that become living lore, hymns and harmonies that hound me like resurrected ghosts and ghouls and wilfully forgotten fools

There are voices and melodies that remain

Like tattooed insignia from battles lost; maimed and marred in the reverence of impressions that will never leave.

Reminiscences that will never end.

Hauntings that will forever return.