Language Has Revealed Itself
I hold my eyelids apart,
Exposing a widened eye
To the tip of a playful flame.

Language has revealed itself to me
To be as ambition is to the lover,
As love is to the young and untested.

It will serve me, It will betray me,
A sweet, caustic substance, multiplying
Beyond the ambits of control.

It will subvert my power
With a force like a revolution
Or a curious child.
I haven’t yet found the first word,
The one that validates all others
And so when I move my mouth to speak,
I reveal the tragedy of empty sound.
Were I to accept this, a final decision,
I would walk til I reach the quiet mountains,
I would cut off my tongue and eat it, then,
It would better serve me in the form of food.
Dream Famine

A child in the wasteland, an orphan and a waif,
wanders between islands of faint luminosity,
checkpoints marked by licks of white smoke
that flicker randomly and dim without warning.

This night-walker, dejected and weak,
recedes into the darkness of a silent mind,
a mouth with no tongue, a face without eyes.

The projector that would so readily flash into action
in the untitled subspace of his being,
tonight, remains still and makes no sound,
the film reel frozen by an unknowable hand.

A prelude without potential, an ancient right denied,
his eyes turn back, then, and the mind utters a law:
‘Alone in the dreamscape are thee’.

A cleft appears in the underworld, colours seep in,
then a mounted charge of spectral light
as dawn’s light peeks, morning’s streamers fall,
the new day rolls in on the breath of a hungry dog.

Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
Gourdon, 2017
Running on smooth tires,
we, beaming diurnes,
cut the day in two;
into the sea of yellow grass
that stretches to Forfar
and the land of bold blue
That expands
toward some lesser infinity.
Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
Turin, 2017
I have not yet committed to Italian beauty,
I am simply a tourist to her sandstone buildings –
Cattle skulls adorning great, pale archways.
Maria bows, weeping, over every boulevard,
The honesty and ubiquity of graffiti
That has been sealed into the skin of the concrete,
The countenance of her olive pastel veneers,
Silent, unchanging, the unspoken history
Of her alignments, once reale, then fascita.
The demigods still scowl from their mounts,
Though the men who had created them
Were banished by the righteous wind,
Their fiercely pretty idols still slumber,
Undisturbed, in the shopping district,
High towers, superior and unashamed,
Watch over boutiques and rooftop bars.
In the presence of these marble monarchs,
And of the very city herself, I am not unwanted
But I am not welcome.
Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
New Pitsligo, 2016
Up north past Ironfield, the Blackdog Rifle Range,
Trump’s pompous golf course for unhappy millionaires
and the unassuming limbo of Old Deer,
there’s an hexagonal diner with a view;
solid green blocks the windows on 5 sides,
the place is a tree-house lodged in the canopy.
The patrons seem to know each other,
red and blue lights hang from black pipes,
a middle aged hippie woman sits next to me,
crosses one leg over another,
welcomes us and takes our order.
She works here, apparently.
A wind-up gramophone and an electric organ
sit patiently in separate corners of the room.
Spirit in the sky‘ plays in the sound system,
sound running parallel to laughter
and the rattling of toy train wheels
against toy train tracks.
A red LED sign repeating:
How on earth will I find you
when all my searching is done

… out of this world, you remind me,
there are more worlds where this one came from.
A cuckoo clock chimes.
I feel I am inside the mind of Ivor Cutler
or in the waiting room of some pleasant dream.