Bind me to the sharpened tree,

the sacred sword you made of me,

tie me with my son’s insides,

poison me and more, besides,

bind me to the blade, a shade

of loathing left to die,

and empty me of laughter, fade,

where Ragnarok’s shadows lie,

for I am the poem’s final line,

the great song, absent sound,

I am the dead gods’ death, divine,

I am Loki, bound!



I return to the scene,

my heart, forever trapped

in those never ending moments

that eclipse all other memory,

the poetry of your kisses,

tickling me with whispers –

like ships that sail

on fantasy.

I snatch specific seconds

from random reflections,

remembering the trembling,

but not whether it was adrenaline;

or the fear of not touching you



Divine Offering

My corrupted conscience,

a gift to gods at odds

with their religion.

The shrike strikes

a bargain,

the grim harvest,


to the empty coffer

at the alter,

altering the faltering footsteps

of a faith –

fallen on hard times.

Again, the view of empty pews,

greets the chaplain.


The Mendicant’s Funeral (from ‘Orphaned Echoes, the Book of Dead Gods’)

We make-believe in monuments,

training our brains to torment ourselves

with potential, demanding

impossible legacies

be left in the wake

of the destiny that could never manifest.

We murder metaphysics,

psychoanalysing philosophers

in an attempt

to eradicate the contemporary,

seeking stranger bedfellows

than the psychopaths

who helped us hide the bodies

(of work).

Do we burn the books?

Or bury our ideals?