Café poem

I’m in a café drinking coffee,
pressing poetry to my teeth,
sipping coffee as I leaf
through charts to find the poetry.


The Reconstruction of Sennacherib

The rider passed as nightly stars
melted, distorted – silent and still.
On and on his pale steed heaved,
gasping, unbreathing, in the deep of the chill.

There, beyond, the rock-beating host;
The spray of surf – leaves blown from the tree.
The rider dismounted with rust on his mail
and there lay his lances into the sea.

The Angel white and gleaming came,
of dew, of snow, of wolf, of Death.
The rider looked upon his face
and neither rider nor Angel drew breath.

And now alone, on deadly wings
The Angel rose, withered and pale
And passed as nightly stars returned
And breathing wind, O deathly wail.

Self-Portrait Prose Poem

Spends a lot of time indoors, in debt; wants to be outdoors, open doors. Owls at night, breaks later than many. Remembers most of his dreams when he wakes up. Smiles at mirrors and frowns at photos. Oils and leaves to rust and repeats; owns a well-used shovel. Appearance: always wanting changing mane; always wishing for a beard. Lazy like a house cat and just as nice, though restless. Amateur, self-trained brain surgeon often in theatre – looking for a new career. Watches the sea from [the safety of] the sand.

Brown, dark green, balancing between two things, forgotten companions



stone                                 stained

skinned                                  glass

cast            stone                                      deflects

over           over                cover                          reflects

self             skin                 your                                       light






We sat in some forgotten field
Contently staring to the skies.
A white and floating star revealed
A shimmer in her pale eyes,
A pleasure she would soon revise.

She turned to me, her beauty bare.
I know her eyes were shining white.
With parted lips she drew in air
And we became a floating light
That reached into the empty night.

Here we lay, lost within our field.
Content, I turned to look upon
My lover, but her face revealed,
To my dismay, the glow had gone;
Her pale eyes no longer shone.

Her eyes, instead, were empty and
Fixed on the silver stars up high.
She stood, then reached out with her hand,
And stretched and strained as she did try
To pick one from the fruitful sky.

She showed me her hands were empty,
Her eyes were silver as she said,
“You have nothing to offer me,”
Through lurid lips of ruby red.
From emerald eyes, colour spread.

Her once bare face became tawdry,
With brazen hues and sapphire eyes.
I tried to pull her back to me.
Undeterred she parted her thighs;
They rushed to fill her with their lies.

She threw her head back, let out cries
Of pleasure, or possibly pain.
Licked her lips, closed her crystal eyes,
Detached her body from her brain
And revelled in what she would gain.

In that moment I saw her sink
Into the field, numb and supine.
Her final tear, I truly think,
Was something she meant to consign
To me and in it, her last shine.

She turned away, her body bare;
I know her eyes were burning gold.
With parted lips she expelled air
And screamed in her new lover’s hold.
I touched her skin and it was cold.