Must have been in a pretty strange space when I wrote this one. It is one of several thematically outcast, different, strange, other.


Eyes that see further in the darkness

they set one part

crystal clear with clarity

frugal and austere

sounds only to others, of a hyperborean heart


Closed and closeted in the Aspie mind

where Occam shaves

those Vuitton cases

back to basics

cold to the touch, Apotamkin sees


Bloodless lips hold hunger

warmth that is denied

pariah and outcast

hunted and now so alone

hated for his understanding and sight


Feared for his Swarovski mind

where fading facets glisten

in the clear light of night

into the darkness

of men’s palisade hearts


From a distant galaxy across the heaven

the lost star shines

in the sleepless sightless silence

where the wee small hours

offer comfort to condition the fabric of life


Bound ever to walk the other side of the tracks

where he cannot be seen

wearing the fatigue of camouflage

by day-long, day, long, day

and all freight trains morn at level crossings


Haunting in his quiet and black-hole eyes

now phlegmatic at his fate

enigma coded even to himself

as the centuries pass

each that little harder to bear 


Apotamkin has an icy touch

it keeps others safe

safer, far from him

he wraps his aura mantle

tight around his neck and he swings


But the galleon gallows are no respite

for this jolly roger

the black, black pearl inside

will not give of his bones

at least not to the likes of Davy Jones


The glamour is what the purple Goths seek

and all the romance of moths

carrying stardust on a wing

what they now ask

he does not want to ever, ever, bring


He takes the YKK zippers to his lips

and meshes close the teeth

no more to grind

and needs an abysmal well

into which to seal the keys gone bye


Thence to find the earthly tomb

a mirage of a mother’s womb

none shall pass

and get  so close to this,

this walking ghost


The cold one shivers now

at all that he has done

never again shall he hurt

not even, a single one

thirteen billion light years is safe enough?


In space no one can hear you scream

let people make their choice

it will not bend to his voice

he has no belongings here

no more does he want their fear


Time now for him to banish

and again in mist to vanish

he is too cold

his touch of ice

freezes blood and thickens twice


From a distant galaxy across the heaven

the lost star shines

in the sleepless sightless silence

where the wee small hours

offer no comfort to condition the fabric of his life… …

On the Other Side

This morning I have been pondering on what happens when one redacts someone from a narrative. No matter how well spun subsequently, there are tell tale signs, phantom signs, of the intentional omission.


when all their talking

‘tis finally done

peace for him

if not them?



despite all the stirring

no solution



a glitch

an upended hiatus

an anomalous man

who cannot be fitted


a rogue narrative

now crumpled in

the wastepaper bin

discussed ad infinitum


that is all he was

a rejected chapter

a struck-out verse

a remnant


the unfinished

cannot now close

for the space,

the vacuum


the void of

where he was




a strange ripple

unease amongst

all those dominoes

stacked so close