Archive for the Prose Category

the scene is layered with ghosts
who obscure and befuddle
and strip you of your sensibilities
until pale wisps of expectation
now disfigured from the beating
the cold remnants of the cheating
stripped bare and empty
where only a wind-whistling-dark-nothing.

Fs in the Chat

It’s all a bit unsteady-eddie
the machine is in disrepair
a cooling tick
and metal shavings
they say this is the smell of space
the scent of the black expanse
where unstable orbits
inevitably collide
for the light show
Fs in the chat, boys
Fs in the chat.

Trust Me, I’m a Doctor

The hand quivers, the fingers numb –
clenched to the steering wheel
the colour of concentration,
his thumb taps ever-so-timely
now a long-forgotten song.
a talent so lovingly pruned
here, now, it seeks the muse
and to be the muse
of the man with the fingers;
dripping with paint
and oh those baby-blues
with light refracting heart-snare
step into the vortices
and take me,
take me there.

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