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.


Epitaph, Entreated


It’s just my bones that lie here,

I want it written on my grave,

as my soul was sold so long ago,

so keep your prayers, and save

your tears; for the years I gave

you are worth more than the loss.

Wherever I am, I love you,

don’t be cross. I ask one last thing

of you, my one wish, my final boon,

live your life, be free and please;

don’t come and see me soon.

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?


Labyrinth (or ‘She’s Complicated)

Stairs that lead nowhere,

dead- end corridors,

blind doors

heighten confusion,

a frightening intrusion

of the soul.

Stone walls, cold,

false floors

and mirrored rooms,

that lead through

to brand new

ideas for tombs.

An architect in retrospect,

can detect illusion,

fall through

the man-whore trapdoor,

and cancel conclusion.



Panelled walls,

the smell of walnut,

and a sense of antiques,

priceless, but only worth

what opportunists

will pay for them.

Brown sugar cubes,

served on the side of a saucer

of a milky coffee,

though I asked for it black.

I attacked the pretentious sandwich,

forgetting all etiquette

as my stomach reminded me

it had been almost as long

since I ate,

as when I last slept.

I kept my hunger at bay

with a book,

swept my memories away

and took

one last look

at the things I wanted,

before retiring

to the other room,

with the tiled walls

and the smell of chestnut.