You’re worse than Hannibal Lecter, Charlie Manson, Freddie Krueger

Space – The Ballad of Tom Jones

What did I do wrong?
Oh you nearly drove me cuckoo
Am I really all that bad?
You’re worse than Hannibal Lecter, Charlie Manson, Freddie Krueger
Why are we still together?
Oh I can’t leave until you’re dead
You mean ’til death do us part?
I mean like cyanide, strangulation or an axe to your head

It was lucky for us I turned the radio on
They say that music soothes the savage beast
There was something in that voice that stopped us seeing red
The two of us would surely have ended up dead

You stopped us from killing each other
Tom Jones, Tom Jones
You’ll never know but you saved our lives
Tom Jones, Tom Jones
I could never throw my knickers at you
And I don’t come from Wales

Still haven’t solved our problems
You mean we hate each others guts
Still wanna poison your pizza
And I still wanna cut off your nuts
I phoned the marriage guidance
I tied the phone line round your neck
I’m sick of all this hatred
Well that will be the arsenic making you sick

You were about to drive me over the edge of a cliff
As I tried to jump out I knocked the stereo on
You changed your mind and then slammed on the brakes
It was lucky for us we bought his greatest hits…

The Saddest Taboo

Love and hate are not so very far apart…


Not now, not ever

Nor through gritted teeth

Clenched harder than titanium nails


I won’t grimace it out

Not even were he

The very last man on earth


He won’t get the satisfaction

Nor merest glimmer

Of the damn I do not give


I’ll batten down the hatches

Deaden that swelling ache

And suffocate any rebellious word


He will not see a trace of me

Behind the lace curtain

No spoor, nothing, nada


This secret and I shall die

Together, silent, unspoken

I’ll stich my lips so tight, binding


Not now, not ever…


the smoke that thunders

is all that stands between.

I see you son of seer

who hunts ever gold


I fear not any collars

of which you once spoke

unto me

so very, resentfully


leave trace in my den

and Seitch Jacurutu

will hear matters

of the desert


in my Honour as fremen

will I give freely

unto you,

both chapter and verse


no need of artifice

when simplicity might

yet work

its easy magic


may Shai-Halud

cleanse the paths.

It falls on me to give,

oh, most cautious one


you must provide

secure means

and then the Mentat downloads

Insh’ Allah


ever the shadows

is instinct of old

ever the light

I am much more, bold


the morning star

and the setting sun

must soon

full circle come


foe am I not

ne’er have I been

fate has its quirks

sure, as can be seen


the smoke that thunders

is all that stands between.

I see you son of seer

who hunts ever gold

Floating Things

We human beings can imagine that we understand where someone else is coming from, be convinced we know their motives and then find it difficult not to opine thereupon.


On the wind,

Carried by the wings of perception,

It comes.


The words of another,

Telling of how you feel.

Convinced and convicted in the beginning.


Tenuous and stretching,

Well meaning but wrong,

Painting themselves in impressionist points.


The message and the shield,

To massage and deflect,

Holding that point in sea of the floating things.


Formed in the rust of trust,

Sewn into the fledgling in the nest,

And rewarded by the worm of the early bird.


The clamour of the glamour of it all.

Life is too short to be right.


Dressed in dead-letter logic,

And the twelve-bar blues of again and again,

The so-called facts question.


But hidden beneath and,

In different clothes,

The sound echoes an empty tone, going through the motions.


Under the carpet,

Where all the fears lie,

Are brushed the fragile bones that hold the tissue intact.


The cabbage patch dolls,

Huddle to write their play, to have their say,

Performing to conform and looking at their cake.


Consent and compromise,

Coerce and corrupt, rob the spirit,

And drive the man from the parapet.


The courage of silence is not.

Life is too short to be rite.


In the clay cup he puts the Tea,

Pours water and takes the brush,

Deftly he stirs.


In the swirled of the floating things,

Searching inside for:

The meaning of it.


The raft of bubbles breaks,

And foams in the Maya of it all,

Yet another storm in a teacup?


Words like tiny purses,

Score double top, as sharply,

As the dart players take chalk in hand.


Five hundred and one,

Itches under his skin like mosquito bites,

On a summer’s night.


He never liked the Joneses anyway,

Their white picket fence and pet crocodile,

Were Saatchi and Saatchi.


The salt of the Ganges is ours.

Life is too short not to write.


What is a truth,

And how does it taste?

Clear on the palate and fresh on the tongue.


Far from the pre-packed and processed,

Wrapped in cling film

And sold at Sainsbury’s on Saturdays.


Personal and specific,

Not agreed by committee,

A feeling of feelings and a knowing of knowledge.


No less than a flame,

Kindled inside and singular,

An island in the floating things.


Seen in a dream as in the dream,

Watched in the circus,

Without puppeteers’ strings.


There is more to life than process,

Immeasurable and imprecise,

No key performance indicators here.


The air that we breathe is free.

Life is too short not to read.


The pages of Kells,

Illuminated with love

And decorated with care on the journey of the Dove.


Set free from the Ark,

The un-caged bird in search of the olive branch,

Comes back in sea of floating things.


Soaring in gentleness,

White with vulnerable beauty,

To tell of its travels and share of its fare.


The memory of before,

And the sense of the divine in each,

And the eyes of a child, awestruck and in awe.


The warnings are there,

The cloying sterility of the Vulcan mind

Overpowers the beating passion of the heart.


I re-member Martin,

And the Christ in each of us.

I have a dream and it dreams me now.


Brave heart be strong and beat on.

Life is too short not to see red.


Soft Trickles of Melancholy {boys don’t cry}

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

write their rivulets


falling onto the desk

to break the hymen of silence,

so that the world, can hear


the sanguine wine

leaks from out the eyes

and bloodies the bitten lips


and that melancholy ache

can never be quenched

under a searing, fiery sun


the scorpion of fate

curls back through time

to sting and sting again


the scorching wadis

of just, righteous mind

tell us always, it is so


the heart entombed

in the dungeon of mind

as yet, still stirs


it beats its timpani

off the score

to no preordained libretto


one day that concrete damn

will start to leak

and at that very first fissure


on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

will start their rivulets, anew


the tear of dew

will rip out an oasis

a font, a spring


and desert lore will say

as the aeons pass,

“That is where love was born!”

The Twilight Echo

That subtle imprint,

The etch

The sketch of him


Never saw the germ

Sneak under my skin

That gentle djinn


No showers or spas

Might lather away

Those twilight echoes


Nor would I want


His eyes tattooed me

His soul embraced

And it soothed


To be understood

And held so,

Caressed in tears


That profound

The meaning

A sublime


And none but I

Can tell

How Love Turns

In the Landnámabók

It is written

That Passchendaele cuts deeper

Deeper than the Marianas trench


Oceans apart


How quick the chilli-red anger

Turns to an icy chill

At Minus 273

And a strong wish to kill


Colder than ice


The dour Dewar of bitterness

Icing the cake an azure blue

Nitrogen at  number 77

And Helium at four point two


Siberian winds


Those glacier eyes

Give an Antarctic hug

The icicle tricycle

Now pulls out the rug


Never to rub noses


Isfjell smoulders deeper

Floating on the sea

Hiding regrets

From both you and from me


A heart in Cryostasis


All the bears in Svalbard

Have not enough fur

To ease out the thorn

under the skin that does burr


The saga is true


The price of ice

Is the tale held so firm

A story of ages

That makes the toes squirm


No more Happy Feet


How quick the chilli-red anger

Turns to an icy chill

At Minus 273

And a strong wish to kill


Colder than ice


Love turns to hate

As quick as a flash

On bergs such as this

There is no Titanic clash


A mouth full of Kumquats


The Tamarind tongue

Bends words to its will

Selling a story

Full of unctions ill


More dangerous than knives


The Lyrebird lives

Proud in its bower

And ruins the life

Of a most precious flower


I’ll show him


Cost is the price

Which he must now pay

I knew I’d get even

And now is my day


A pound of flesh


A plate served cold

No dressing, no sauce

Meagre and minced

He has no recourse


I have won!!


How quick the chilli-red anger

Turns to an icy chill

At Minus 273

And a strong wish to kill


Colder than ice

Beyond the River

The other bank

Where words

no longer hurt


Out of reach

And harm’s way



All the regret

In China




In those seconds

So unremarkable

As to cut chasms


No Geneva man

Can repair

A Time

most singular


When the earth


with a shovel

That hole to dig


Buried in the scree

Of fame


Ambitious debris


No salve

For the wounded


The wounder


Not a finger

Can span

Those aeons



Pride’s grimace

Forbids it




And wrong

A word

Never uttered

Or owned.

And Now

And now we walk

Fearful of those conspicuous whispers

So absent between us


That unquenched silence

Ardent thirsty for a word

And we dare not look


Eyes fixed ever onwards

For to chance e’en a glance

Might us shatter


The cloying

Unmentionable ghosts

Surround us



you and I

conjoined by a chasm


And now,

We walk