featured in the poetry forum December 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

He was so wrapped up in himself he couldn’t fight his way out
Clung to himself like cling-film
Cocooned as a spider’s prey
Waiting to be devoured by the arachnid conscience of self realisation

editors note:

Succumb to that inner spider; empty the old self to fill the new. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum April 26, 2015  :: 0 comments

I’m constantly looking forward to looking back,
Tired of falling awake.
Though it’s never for long.
I drift into it then find myself
Slipping back to slumber.
Sleep walking through life,
Remembering things while they’re happening.
The present in past tense.

editors note:

Sooner or later, we’ll all get around to this. Didn’t we? – mh clay

Dogs Life

featured in the poetry forum March 21, 2014  :: 0 comments

We drinkers like Rodin’s thinkers
Sat perplexing over the bar,
Contemplating what went wrong with our lives-
As if set in stone.

You may think we live the life of Riley
But maintaining this lifestyle’s a chore.
Drinking to recover from the hangover of life,
With the hair of the dog like inclement clouds
Meshing with the odour of stale smoke,
Living life to the full glass-
Which is always half empty.

While we remain all alone
Crowded out by our thoughts,
Going over memories.
Our unsettled sentiments left semi detached
Amongst a terrace of personalities.
Their dislodged expressions beaming upon us,
Causing us to cast a shadow
As if we were a gnomon.

And we’re left hunting that elusive enthusiasm,
Wanting to lift our spirits
While dragging our weight behind us,
Like a cadaver heavily decayed
Over years of treading water-
Our eyes callused with internal tears,
While remaining the freshly slain victim
Of our sense of worth.
Our insecurity a vanity
That’s patently selfish.

editors note:

Collectively, singularly, in any light; all cast shadows. Selfish to think otherwise… – mh


featured in the poetry forum May 7, 2013  :: 0 comments

He was a jay amongst crows,
Too dazzling and vibrant for their funereal garb
That suited them to a pernicious throng,
Mocking his harlequin attire
While internally shades of green, red, and blue
Flagged their discontent with caulked success.

editors note:

All that colored angst locked inside explains the parched crack of their cackled call. Let them crow and strut your stuff; jays, peacocks, eagles, all! – mh


featured in the poetry forum December 29, 2012  :: 0 comments

Diving into the music
Keys splashing melodic
Mists spraying until drenched
Listening to the iridescence
Of monochrome mood
Following vertical smoke
Of Beaufort zero
Drying off in the cool
Insane tranquillity
In the eye of the storm
Wooshed up
And thrown off
To find the wizard
Off guard

editors note:

We sustain our holiday hijinx in the warmth of good company; musicians who never die so long as we hear their tunes. That’s a fine brew, indeed! – mh

Brown Study

featured in the poetry forum August 22, 2012  :: 0 comments

Ok, let’s cut the crap!
No barman ever slung a drink down the bar at me,
No femme fatale ever struck a match off her shoe-
This is as glamorous as it gets.

Life never turned out how we expected it to
So we don’t expect anything more.
We pursue our dreams in our heads
Imagining what was while living the reality.
Filming scenes with our minds
Fading in and out
Tracking thoughts through jump cuts
Trying to reassemble the life we drink to forget
Until we no longer know who we are.
With no sense of self,
Fighting our reflections.

We’re our own worst enemy,
Fools to ourselves
Though wise enough to know it.
We flirt with life
But keep coming back to ourselves.
Our sanguinity dishevelled by cynicism,
Optimistic about how bad our luck is.

We’re such sensitive souls,
Over-emotionally stoic,
Ardently subdued,
Like cats curled up to the bar
Resting our eyes on our elbows,
Banging on about the barmaid everyone’s banging;
Mad Martha with her cigarette dribbling down her lips,
Her tanned fingers against her enervated flesh
As she goes out for a breather,
And we haul our abdomens after her
Like dead weight,
Hoping to get into her-
Our visceral conscience
Slumped at the end of our wits.

If you could hear me speak I’d sound like Clint Eastwood,
Talking through my teeth,
Sick of this half-arsed approach to life.
Not living life to the full
Like those who’re full of shit,
Eating in posh restaurants
Ordering bites by the plateful,
Trying to discover the sense of taste they’ve lost
While searching for something that’s right under their nose,
Fulfilling their emptiness with themselves-
Not starving,
Only hungry for something better.
Not realising that everything tastes better when you’re hungry.

With us there’s no pretension,
No falsehood,
Booze brings out the best in us,
It cuts the crap,
What you hear is what you get.
We like to get to point and be blunt about it,
Too eager to judge others for our own faults,
Having succumbed to a life behind bars,
Feeling smug about our damnation,
Begrudging the lives we wouldn’t have any other way.

editors note:

Not bedazzled by the glamor, just content to hammer’em back. That’s truth serum in that glass! – mh

Public House

featured in the poetry forum May 29, 2012  :: 0 comments

They said he was quite spiritual
Seeking sanctuary in his chapel
Where he’d stand at the alter
Waiting to receive communion
The lifeblood that would placate his soul
With the tepid insinuation of humanity
Before taking to his pew
And resting his head on his hands-
Taking his life into consideration.

editors note:

Absolution is dispensed by the ounce. – mh

Towards the Morning

featured in the poetry forum March 8, 2012  :: 0 comments

The doorways inhale and exhale
Their intoxicating breath amidst the silence

Satiated by the insomnia of musicians
Playing to crowds that gather to be alone

Hoping to absorb the evisceration through their pachyderms
And nourish their sallow faces

Disappearing in a puff of smoke
Signalling their distance from each other

Drowning their sorrows
While waving in the throe

Not wanting to be brought ashore
But left to consolidate their fate.

editors note:

The disconnected congregate to communally ignore their elephants in the room; the only camaraderie they enjoy. – mh


featured in the poetry forum November 25, 2011  :: 0 comments

How the out-world shines upon this lonely bar,
As I dwell here,
Drifting into the mild fantastic.
A recidivist recluse,
Preferring his own company,
The respiration of my tides
Bearing the vast consciousness of the somnambulant.

While my mind sanctifies the moment
With the inanimate right to breathe,
Sensing the instigation of lives foregone,
Returning to contiguous affairs of coeval enlightenment,
Rearing an examination of character
Amongst such dark interiors,
Becoming sufficiently acquainted with spirit.
Exhilarated by the sudden lapse of time
At the expense of indebted memories.

While the suns auriferous glaze gilds the sands,
Shaped by the ocean—like consciousness,
Reflected a thousand fold by the ebbing tides of night.
With reminiscences cleansed upon the shore
Marooned by this frivolous presence,
In a harmonious façade of contentment,
Braver than any emotion,
Conversing with ghosts,
Haunted by salvation
Within a world that’s dead.

editors note:

Be absolved in whatever sanctuary claims your consciousness. Salvation comes through settling in with ghosts. – mh