I once had a new pair of shoes that kept leaving marks in the appropriate places. So I investigated this phenomenon and watched stuff about them, trying to imagine a little of what it might have been like, by metaphor.

each nail of judgement

sinks deep into my flesh

hammered home by reason


the leaden, blunted edges

pierce my ankles.

I try not to get cross.


the sharp verbal point

drains all the fluid

out of my lungs, my sails


the vinegar sponge

is brought close my lips

for me to suck upon


the cup of myrrh

full of bitter tannins,

rasps at my palette


all my water-colours fade

wearing a pendant

of thorny, bloody tears


I am the Stigmata

who no-one wants to see;

am I here or am I gone?


to be such a Stigmata

is a sign of the times.

A pariah knows his place.


He clasps his palms together

Bodhi, Mind and Heart

Ajna, Mouth and Core


and the Stigmata

genuflects before God

for he brings only, a temporary stain


To be washed out

To be cleansed

To be deodorized


a Stigmata, stigmatized

abandoned, desolate

and almost entirely alone.

My Salacious

We can become attached to doing dodgy stuff like gossiping or stalking exes etc. on the internet, sorry I meant “intelligence gathering”, silly me.


Oh my sweet salacious

I am here again



Oh my quickening pulse

I could almost touch



I know you feel me

My eyes

Upon you


My prison slats

My bulging album

Your words


My heaving breast

That sweet and sour

So piquant


The luxuriant black

The velvet cloak

Of my darkness


My awesome power

Your naked

Vulnerable, quiver


And all those leagues

Between us



As I tap my veins

For you

My salacious


I pull the leather strap

Tight for you

My salacious


I flick the drops

Off the needle


Oh my


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… …

The Dweller on the Threshold

In the deadly nightshade of digitalis dreams

the pupils closed so atom tight

n’er to let a single photon pass

to live a life in camera obscura


Where nefarious necrophiliacs line all the tombs

to languish lurid in gloom and shadow

each sepulchre tainted by the ochre fading sheath

which sheds the mamba skin scales

both as autumn leaf and lost leper’s fingers


Blessed with those primordial cataracts

in the labyrinth subterranean tunnels

ever to walk the fateful string in the penumbra

lest the retinas are scarred by even faintest light


By chance the weary Dweller stumbles on

tripping toe-wise onto some carved out stairs

harsh cut deep and in the cavernous wall

a sense of archway, doorway, door

how did he sense the Angel’s spoor?


The umbilicus of the vampire darkness

sucks the belly blood fast from him

the succubus’ pull of the old familiar

whispers warnings close his ear

“Step not beyond your cloying fear!!”


Sweet honey wafts winsome in the wind

borne hummingbird happy on busy wings

where golden dapples the translucent,

faint feathers of a mountain stream trickle

far from the land of morbid doom and her sickle


One more step through that golden gate

and the snap of tripwire seals his fate

a trumpet calls the amphorae of the Gods,

the pilgrim takes a diamond dusting shower

he washes wet in radiance of an infinite hour


Far beyond the spectrum of man’s open eyes

he feels that subtle shine of wisdom wise

soothed and healed and now soothed again

he hangs for aeons in the gap between

for dark he knows and light is as yet, unseen


The Dweller takes yet more a single pace

to earn the crown of olives, for his race

his heart now facets rainbow light delight

and into the utter radiance quiet easy strolls

the magma of white magnificence does him, now enfold


The mellifluous melody of ecstatic shining white

washes the cobwebs and decay of the Lord of night.

He the Dweller is yet a boatman too

he has been both vessel and its crew

between the clashing rocks, the portal

has squeezed him self, a simple mortal


Yet further the now enlivened Soul

he marches onwards to his goal

in the pure and white, white radiant stream

at last he has fulfilled his dreams.

The clear-spring clarity now does him fill

he has gained this by both his act and his will


Bows before the triumphant triangle, golden ore

he waits as the rod strikes a new lightning sight

it sears his being deep into his very abstract core.

He has earned this most rare and Holy rite

the Rod of Power him has total changed

and all his atoms are most re-arranged.


There is The sacred emanation font

where source of stream it can be found

There is not much that needs or wants

for he has sought the simple and the sound

his heart hears what others fail to see

the only block knows he now to ever be


The Dweller was always him

and he had sat on the Threshold for,

 … … an endless


… … …eternity.

Not now, not ever

There was a time in my life when I used walk late at night, recklessly, through Brixton. I contemplated how thin the line between safe and warm and homelessness is. Where do the disappeared actually go?


Sodium yellow faded night

in trash can alley

where all the dreams go to die

the Neon signs buzz wasps


Rats scurry into their KFC homes

for that last bite of chicken

the deep ammoniacal doorways

still wet, pungent and steaming


Tin foils and methadone

bottles lined up on a wall

if one should accidentally fall

what would Odin do?


Strung out for Yggdrasil

a strange fruit pendant

where all the Stigmata

still bleed in his palms


He has no more

alms to give

his bowl now

stamped VOID and empty


From out all the alphabet soup

can find not now a word

though he can see plenty

and hear all, those whispers


On the sidewalk of shame

he sees the resting place

a white chalk line

shaped like a man

… … his totality


The resplendent banners

fluttering triumphant in the breeze

saying; “Do Not Cross”

are bathed in the flashing blues

… … of his final siren song


they were too late

John Doe was DOA

clutching at straws to the very end

there a single celluloid lay, crinkled

… … beside him


No one noticed as the city wind

carried it silent away as

the first teardrop rain

lands sidewalk slowly

… … the night it sobs just a little


The pitter-patter of tiny feet

with chamois softness

start to work on him

and before the commuters

…  … he will be gone


His Etch-a-Sketch life

all iron filings

has drawn its last

and no photo-fit

… … will ever capture him again


Not now, not ever.