He believes to be

When did he think
he was possible?

why did he
twitch at
the ray of light?

why did he blink
to the sound of voices?

how will he cry out
where no mercy dares echo?

who taught him to believe in Life
when he was not wanted?

Who will tell him as he awaits to breathe?

Renewed from 2012



Just one drop
Lick it clean
Dribble the last drip
Upon your cloying tongue
Swallow it with pride
Like you drank its remnants gratefully
Suck your teeth
Run your tongue around your lips
Don’t let that go to waste
Just that one last drop

Don’t let it go to waste

You know better than to believe

His lies

But sometimes you want to.


Renewed 2016

touch upon a word

let me reach out
and touch upon a word…

a word that lets you share
that which i feel

But fails to tell

how it scars the soul

why should you not know how it feels?

bitter tears shared have a sweetness all of their own…

and however Love may be praised

it too grows jealous
of not being felt the same by all.

A Selection of the background score to the movie “Azaghi” by Ilayaraja


A fatal brush

The ants continue to swarm
colluding, confiding
in whatever it is that’s rotting.

Something still awaits to
announce itself
its stench is lost to me.

Do they know of their doom?

of the broom that looms?

their scattered demise in one fall swoop?

A fatal brush,
A bristled death.
I look away
let them crawl away
let their beady bodies
cluster in writhing clues.

Addiction’s call

it will only get better
more happiness, more peace, more bliss
more of that oft searched forgetfulness
you can refuse anytime you want
now, later, tomorrow,
did you not refuse yesterday?
then do just quit another day

you deserve it
for sure you do
i know you do

just once then
last time
the very last time
i will not ask again
this is the last time

what is there to be worried about?
what consequence?
what isn’t without consequence?


one life to live
one addiction to relive
find relief now
find reprieve

no other way

counting down

Counting down
the stations
lies just ahead…

worn stone walls and ruddy dull bricks
pasty grey buildings and squashed squat houses
tarmac, rails and blurs of brightly branded trains
the odd garish squiggle of graffiti

cows, sheep, horses, goats
their fellows caught in a yellow repetitious graze
along a lazy scene
too mellow to change

so inconsiderate of my

filmed life

idyllic life filmed through?
leaves us what intermissions to think and do?
gives us what songs left to sing to?
leaves us what mystery to live to?
and when the credits are all set and due…
what will our uncut lives and unsolved ways seem
as we set ourselves up for an unpracticed view?