Poetry



My Books



Explore my published collections of poetry, available now on Amazon.




Birds With Vertigo 


[Link to Book Here]


Revel in the crumbling mirth and questionable nature of the human condition when confronted with the ruinous onslaught of deathly rites, delusion, despair, and disastrous carnival thrills.




Strange Medicines, Vol. 1 & 2


[Link to Vol. 1]

[Link to Vol. 2]


A two-part exploration of haiku steeped in body horror, drug abuse, and scatter brained musings.



Pica for Toy Zeppelins


[Link to Book Here]


A surreal and grotesque collection blending deranged sensuality with wanton suffering both revelling in muck and meds.



Samples of My Work

Below is a couple of shorter selected poems that represent the themes and style of my writing.



Quetiapine





Hollow moons mask the keening stars,

Carried by the valley below.

The devil's lethargy dwindles my urges

To greet Saint Dymphna from a bottle of bleach,

Dying madly in illness again.



I have an itch that rivals trap-jaws,

Relentlessly gnawing my vesicant scruff.

I'm coated in fire wherever I go,

With scarred bowels and stubborn lungs.

Luring whispers have dampened,

The wind no longer sends out screams

But I still shift between planes getting high

And my back still begs my violent death.



A tragic surge to gore on meats,

Oozing tallow from the gut canal.

Skin bag seeping pink and stinking,

Swallowed fold of luncheon truncheon.



My chamber: a tip of cups and cans,

A hungered well of piss,

A desperate emptiness,

A finished flagon.

I am an ever-shirking petty king.



One day I will awake to find the time,

And in my palms,

Coughed up blood.



November






November’s pitch‑oil‑tinged breath—

soothing, chugging

like an anaesthetic carburettor;

brooding near‑snow‑capped kiss,

so crisp on rubber‑gum‑chewed teeth.



Coppered smog wisps in cleaved wood—

dank, dark, and rattled, stood

in our school’s environs at the midnight hour,

at the eleventh month

before the festal eschaton.



In bed, I comb the canopies,

soaring cross‑legged, deaf to the world.

I dream of congress with an Amazoness,

my husk trepanned by Kewpie dolls,

wishing trolls smoking glass

in mansion baths.



Although I mostly remember

the airs of November.



I remember the bonfire mushroom trip,

the milk we drank to settle the colours—

anvil sparks of Icarian spirals

that came down thundered, rumbling.



I remember the first whiff of skirt perfume,

lulling me onto her tongue, spoken gorgeous—

fingers locked, splotched with glow‑stick plasma.

A night of beginnings 

to now sweats

of incessant morning.



I remember rolling down the ski slope, drunken,

tied to the waist under manic moon gigglement,

as if bounding after bud‑laced Gloucester wheels

into carking maws of obsidian fractals.



I remember frozen tips fidgeting roll‑ups,

watching the woods part for candied aurora—

high along the grandstand’s parapet row,

hacking up from hair‑burnt bottle bongs.



Each world should breathe this shaking air—

so lightheaded, inviting,

fire beguiling thin film of the soul.




Fit Only to Echo






My child.

My peer.

My mothering shade—



that towers the headless, dystotic crux

and sucks the coffin’s dross.



To them, I am a faded remark—

or the ninth rough draft of cruel theatre.



To the bairns in the pens,

I am a temperless jester.



To associates in bad company,

a mendicant solitaire.



And to the engenderer, forever omniparous,

a pest of ruderous panto.



I have been drawn in chalk

on the flanks of twisted

pantheons in embryo.



My name, a monitory utterance

between cheap cads and sad addicts—

a campfire canticum chanted

to raise me from death to oblivious smoke.



Eternal doom is to be nightly played

as the shock-horror villain,

or endlessly rehearsed in threes

of mirror’s imprecation.



But to have my being unsung and forgotten,

a half-grain measure of a template sermon,

is an even more appalling relegation—

a hell both cloddish and under the clay.



What luck to be judged by eager seers,

obliging the Rose-veil school of disavowal—

to dragoon me into our shadow’s denouncement,

their guilt cleansed through lack of witness.



They brush the soot off smouldering children,

with their sticky-back plastic they plaster

over spurting geysers from beheadings,

all the while scratching out their eyes

and patting their backs.



They hand me a mirror,

but I cast no blessing of self in their image.



And if I do, it must at least bear slighted mark—

or even repulsion that crosses the eyes—

so long as it never lacks

complication.



I carry the vulgar sentence 

of timeless etching,

branded counts of compelled platform.



A long expiration is due,

but I will suffer only the ordeal of reflection—

though it even hollows the marrow’s ghost,

and has pained more men than their bodies can claim,

a reckoning not of blood, but chilled nerve.



My given mirror shatters:

tens of cursory fractures.



And I am left with its frame—

just enough to bind myself vivid,

and inscribe anew the footnotes

of my own undoing.




The Octan Fog





What luck, to wake up

and sit where you slept

the whole day

until next.



For a time, I would shake

open awake—

a snifter’s chortle of gloried drool.



Now I jolt up

with a necked-down tongue,

choking on spawls

of burgling frass.



And I awake anew,

as I did so

long ago.

The same dream washes over me:



a gurgitation of sand through clutching hands,

its shore resenting laps of drink.



These grains are not mine to hold;

their flow, a hollow inheritance.



I have felt too the coursing might

of lodging throats with my own effortless length—

a recycling of boundless fulfilments,

the salt of worth

hazened on arrival

by the tepid sun’s roosting.



Limen brainscapes, memory’s link,

limps through a fugue in vestibular reels

and falls at the altar in anchored blood,

where I wear its shape in evaporate.

Like a pledge to death in cloistered fever,

mind blurs before the wet of words—

unmaking its utterance, voided, profane.



It is the start of the octan fog,

and a smelted isness fills the eyes.

I stand at the ready for capture:

feet together in sedent purple,

locked in penitential stance,

shoulders pressed

like petrified lime rinds,

hunch fat fossilled

as oxy.



The kettle boils pots of piss,

and rat-ground civet coffee

piles atop the pauper’s shortbread.



I am bolted to a puddle

and squat under leg cocked mongrels,

forcibly evicting my one true estate.

I shuffle through the malls of infamy

as the Truman muzak plays.



The last time I felt such bristling incongruence,

I was stranded before endless coffee stores—

each one lolling with jaundice, rumple vizarded,

fettered bingo-wing slug herders,

with tongues poked out to tell the weather,

and, of course, the imitant draugrs of corporate finance,

slumped and slack, yet readied to run rampant.



I saw the queues slathering over sneeze guards;

above their heads hung migraine-thundered

pop-art paintings of African warlords.



That was a halfway cry

from my brain-taxed disjunction

I still brood in today.



The only thoughts—

echoed ruminations

from more interesting times.



But something fatherly,

residing in my forethought,

once told me never to dwell

on the complexities of death…



…the worry could well kill you.



So, I never worried.



And each scolded draw of smoke,

each thrombotic crossed leg,

each uncleaned abscess,

became an actless protest—

a refusal to embrace

the simplest of change

for the better.



I was left to die by my own hand,

too heavy to lift,

through the sin of complacent stasis.



And when summer came,

the meat flies landed,



and the world became louder

and livelier

without me.