Boxes

I.
This way up, 
a life scissored -
leaving home, divorce, whatever.
Air courier? A con’s descension.
Bubble wrapped
‘though slightly bent…

Brighter Days

We are candles of different colours,
packed and ready for the flame.
Some are destined to brighten worn altars,
others for New Year’s…

No News

The news no longer trickles
in soundbites with the mornings;
no longer bleeds in black and grey.

Today, we have our canted views — 
ego-fueled with clickbait link throughs…
Like, like, clap traps:

One Way

The strangest guile is hidden 
beneath the eaves 
of a white lobby,
where the sunlight stalls
all, but the ailing shadows

Artemisia

Blood calls and like death, I follow.

Callista’s Kitchen

A globe’s spun whiteness in inertia’s grasp
reveals the painted women on the wall.
One leans forward, as if to hear a call;
the other stoops to perform her homely tasks.
Callista’s women, with their Eastern pasques
stare valiantly against the renovator’s maul.
With darkest of eyes — drawn to…

Lilith’s Eve

Amaranthine describes
the dystopia of our garden -
how we backtracked
from kneeling on the green 
to stand in the coldness of sin.

Control

There’s a gun in your mouth
that points out at the world.

There’s a hole in your head
that fires blanks with every word.

Poet Penpal

The pen is a poet's pet
that for some, is a cat

Hooked, Line And Sinker

These are our minute rituals of possibility -
nibbling at sordid stories;
submerged in cults of personality.