Sprung trap

the nunchuks


had me

cut my head

blinded me with blood

as I fell

the boots came in

I dragged myself up

holding on to a leg

stumbled to a bench

struggling to find something


to clear my eyes

while one behind me

more cowardly

than the rest

rained blows

on my head

I was beyond pain

could not defend myself

& remembered dimly

advice for dealing

with abusers

silence encourages them

let them know

they are hurting you

said: ow

in a flat voice

& again with each thump


after the third

maybe the fourth

I could feel him stop

take a look


& he ran away

I no longer cared

I was happy

he’d stopped

that bit was over


she loved matisse

wanted me to copy a design

for a window blind

hang on

I’m a sculptor in materials

writer of words

no matter she said

so I set to

managed to draw one leg

on the blind

not being good with 2D scale

no matter she said

I kinda like it

though I never saw the blind

or my drawing ever again

she loved matisse

& only told me

she loved me

much later

after we split up

no matter

In absentia

She was talking to them, engrossed in a conversation about nothing much except as conversation. It was then that I spotted IT…
The fatal flaw, The minor blemish, The look which would disfigure her for ever…
With another a tooth extruding crookedly. Another the glint of sun from her spectacles as she awoke from an afternoon nap. Yet another, a crooked smile. At first minor detractions from their beauty as beautiful women, people. Petty hurdles, mere happenstance, Then;
Then, then they would grow, mutate to become unscalable mountains of hideousness, oceans of unfathomable depth wherein lurk creatures of unspeakable horror…
yet. Only a spot. A beauty spot, a freckle turned mole, scar perhaps from a former lover. An operation sliver of silver tissue. (Long nights anointing vitamin e cream)
sections of tattoo, three cherries, butterfly, darlin’ly cute, eventually tiresome.
She was talking to them and I saw her blemish, the look that made my blood slow, diminish erections: hormones take a holiday… Don’t get me wrong, I loved this beautiful woman, loved her with all I could muster, my balls would tighten when she gave me that other look, that look sent my tongue rolling after her down the street. A dog on heat. But, this look…
Tore away the veil that hid worms feeding, ripping into flesh, decline of beauty, slow degradation into Oil of Ulay (and surgical tucks) End of warmth, sweat, lust. Bodies straining…
i cannot love them then, turning away until fear subsides, turning in a vain attempt to save the vision. Wanting to keep the photograph clear of greasy thumbprints, away from ice cream soured, now dried and staining the picture.
This is impossible, I look again, positioning to catch IT, IT, that look, that frame. Finding myself straining for the same gaze, being there, looking, staring, seeking that momentary glimpse which will destroy beauty…


feel they run the world

will out themselves

at every opportunity

as the silent majority

knowing they hold popular opinions

that all other normies share

they love institutions


the police

the tv

loving how the world

revolves around them

it doesn’t of course

but they feel it does

know it does

for that is the normie

normal way

has always been so

& those of us on a stranger journey

seeing the world

organised in a different way

as set up for a select few

not the normies

not us

learn to be quiet about this

because the normies

love to punish


that goes against their grain

Forget feelings

lets do


on facts

run the world

on logic


we are stupid


don’t listen

make irrational decisions

based upon

the weather

how our shoes fit today

how long since

we got laid

kind of breakfast we had

if this is how

we make poor decisions

how will we ever


clothe the poor

end disease

comfort the lonely?


like a dream he said

he was fourteen maybe

the snow was drifting

about a foot or so

the cold was slowing him down

where he was

had been

was never quite clear

everything stopped

went slo-mo

& he stopped dead in his tracks

looked around

did not know which way to go

I could feel my mind going numb

as he told  this tale

he was letting me know

this was metaphor for his life

as he drifted in & out of view

here one day staying a month

then gone for a couple of years

& when he died

I went to his funeral

to say goodbye old friend

meeting people who too

never knew him deep

having different names

for this one man

caught in a drift

never knowing

where to go

call home


for Tim, Ted, Tod, Tug