The Great Observers

Sometimes you have to take the observers
With a pinch of Sodium.

As their self-indulgent eloquence
licks the end of every word and their egos
Nurture the thoughts that precede them.

They can only take one step
In which direction
To say their own opinions.

They snort, they scoff and push
Until their sore insecurities
Have become a bully of their own making.

They’ve learnt to stare with
The steam of Smaug
Drifting from their nostrils.

Of course,
Their talk causes concern,
But not as much as our silence
Causes them.



It is strange
How with so few
Different variations,
The whole Earth
Can shift around
And face you from
Yet one more direction.

As, when the sun is on your skin
You remember the cold as only thought
As if it had never really happened in any reality
But your own.

I have taken the same walk
– Step for step –
Three months apart,
And the only similarity was me.
And even I was only just.

It is a journey we are on; these lives of ours,
Each step along the paved and wild ways
Are more than enough proof
For any man, woman
Or child (who is older than their years).


A deep message in a hard crime

Leaves us wallowing in our fears,

Our terrors.


Blood red hands meet the eyes of every

Internet viewing,

Social media user

And a man who has lost his mind

And tries and be heard,

Butchering his own message

With the blood of a patriotic symbol.


I’ve heard weak

And soft,

Enfuriating opinions

Diluted with racism and propaganda

By people who need a man to hate

A reason to boil

And bring the bubbles to the ugly surface.


I have heard a petty rhyme scheme

Speculating the victim’s death;

Glorifying the institution of murder

Hiding behind the image of crisp uniforms,

Clean-cut faces,

Keeping hardened souls

And corrupt causes.


We are at war,

And yet we believe there is no battleground at home?

We are at war.


A British soldier stabbed a ten-year-old boy,

While drunk,

Where is the justice in that?

Our soldiers fight for no just cause,

They are only lost, directed by the madness

Of those above

Who play God with others’ lives

And mislead with their rhetoric and guile.


People blame religion,

Fighting the building blocks of mosques:

These are the ones that cannot see the truth in the spaces of the politicians’ words

As it trickles through in the tears over those lost and never found.


The war on terror

Becomes only as absurd as those who scream at it.

As fear becomes an excuse

Not an explanation for war,

And retaliation.


The high lights that drive past

With shallow fame,

As the high rollers

And stretch limousines

Light your fading smile.


It’s been a while since you first stepped

In front of the cameras

In front of the lights,

Now you find the carpet

Is not quite as red

And the flashes

Are too bright for anyone’s eyes.


When the thread is pulled

To dissemble

What you thought was reality


when you find your trophy

Isn’t gold,

As glitter coats your hands.


Our voices come together to meet each other’s ears,

This is the culmination of our evolution

Society, biology and technology have

All arrived in the same place:

So we can talk.

The dinner table

– it was time to talk –

to explain.

We have emotions

And somehow we know what they mean.


They are ineffable shapes within us

With no meaning other than something chemical.

And yet, they mean something concrete.

Happiness, sadness, tears and laughter

All mean nothing

Unless you put them in context.

If I am laughing

Am I psychotic, or am I ecstatic?

But this is why we are here

Just us two.

Sitting round this circular table with two

Empty seats.

As we both have emotions,

And we both communicate.

“I am going to ask you questions.”

These are words to both of us,

It is not long before neither of us understand what I am saying

But only what I mean.

We have known each other for twenty one years,

And yet it is only know that we can ever understand.

My words fight your very soul

Your heart

Just as they help you to see.

But they are doing the same for me.

As I put shapeless form of thought

To words, and to your eyes

We can start to see.

I could shout at you

Or scream.

But what could that do but blunt your ear drums

And my voice.

No piercing insight into

Giving ourselves an understanding.

We do not need to patronise ourselves

By pretending volume has effect.


The complete acceptance

Of the bodily warmth of your Surroundings,

Leads your thoughts astray.


Even the crook in your lower back

Occupies your time

More than whatever it is

That you are supposed to do.


How many hours are spent

In this lost limbo?

Somewhere in between your eyes

And what you really see.


White noise

Distinctly holds

The space between your temples.


You know exactly where you are

And what you are to do,

And yet,

You cannot see.

For the soft distraction

is internal.

It is fatigue.


There is no more that can be done now,

Accept it:

You must rest

And try once more

When your eyes are fresh again.



Every person is the same,

According to science.

Our noses, mouths, ears and eyes

Cannot escape being a human.

We may be different shapes and sizes

But genetically,

We are 99% the same as every other person.


How genetics are wrong.


Others may have eyes as you have eyes,

But their eyes are not your eyes,

Their lips are not your lips,

And their smile is barely a smile

In comparison to what your mouth portrays.

The 99% does not explain the truth of who you are:

Your soft and understanding self,

Your sweet kisses upon my ill forehead,

Your lovely hugs at the airport,

The way you want me to meet your father.


Much more than just 1% of who you are

And who I love.


When you gaze at me,

Or when I hold you in my arms,

No numerical value, percentage or otherwise, could ever show

Just how you soothe my heart.






Undead Nights

(I haven’t posted in ages but I have had exams.. #petty excuse)


Among the empty streets we find

Our own post-apocalyptic vision:

Empty streets and

Blacked –out windows with

No sound, no movement.

The cats rule the tranquil tarmac.


A stranger passes you by,

Just a man

And yet we will never know

Where he came from,

Where he is going

His aims, his passions

His secrets.


Just one more zombie of the many that

Pass us by.

Finding Home

Each footstep makes a crunching sound,

As the fire burns all around,

The old man frowns and stares on down,

Is this the land that he calls home?

Every eye sneers on with menacing force,

As the old man carries on,

His question holding forth and strong,

As his face portrays what’s wrong.

He has been walking all his life,

With hardened skin throughout his strife,

At every place he turns his back

And keeps in mind what’s right.

Everywhere is occupied by another watchful face,

He keeps his stride on-going and his mind on his fate,

Where is his resting place, the place that he calls home?

It is not clear as he’s the one who does not let us know.

As more time goes he rests his weary legs,

His eyes fall shut as he lies on a natural bed.

The heat has made him tired, and he lies by the way,

A scene of tragic beauty is what anyone would say.

But fear not weary travellers his time has not come yet,

He closed his eyes for a moment as his home he has met,

Before him lies a wondrous lake with all to be seen,

And only his reflection can see where he has been.