it doesn’t cut – the port
in the picture, leaning
on a shirt under the bed,
or the ticket stubs
on the walls (old dates,)
the photos of gifts
from better people.

more than one face
brought that old grief,
the past can’t bleed
unless it’s all you know.

“Thalassocracy “

Watered fading histories,
misted failings,
forgotten pasts and worlds
laughing shrinking names
shirking foreign shores
where Bran’ll pass his time
all wrong and stagnant,
burning his way
through the blurred
edge of stories,
from elven islands
of hosted royalty
to darkened shores
of emerald islands,
and the fading skeletons
landing there.


How are the colours growing?

steadily, without much thought
to how people liked to see them
before and after their transformation.

Where do the footsteps fall?

sideways, lengthily along walkways
well-trodden and traipsed by travelling
decades in just a few mere moments.

When will the worries stop?

soon, depending on stepping stones
letting them leap over water-filled rivers
bank-bursting multitudes of mild memories.



Is there much worse than a moleskin notebook in public?

To publicly profess poetic intent is power giving,
but not to the poet.

His sphere is smaller still, interwoven servitude to sentences
sensibly written smaller than they should be.

It’s not long before legendary losses intercede and loosely lead
us flat-footed into a thinly forgotten manic-bending future.


It’s all about memory
when you boil away the fat
leaving just the sinews
tenuously holding the whole
earthly monstrosity together.

Take away the taut skin
too thinly stretched on fraying
muscles and let bare the soul.

It all gets a soul, eventually,
but more often than not
it takes a lot of time and hurt
to get there; it’s born in blood
and baptised in forgotten futures.