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Anxiety and Me

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Chaos Of Entanglement

Gaia – Grubby Finger Marks And Bolognese Spots.

Image result for bolognese


“If I had just got that train, would he still be here?”

I asked the wall.


Wall was silent,

But calm in the kitchen,

Which was greatly needed by all of the household.

Cooking endeavours always found favour

In Pollock splatterings

Along the teal coloured tiles.

The soft mint green wall,

Freshly painted only a week ago,

Had already invited grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.


Grubby finger marks and bolognese spots

Always caught his school boy shirt.

Tea-towels would be stuffed down his collar,

But it would still be inevitable

That stains would surface;

A pointless exercise,

But nonetheless a tradition

And always met with:

“Mum gerr off!”

And my reply in a thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead.


A thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead

And a thousand more hugs.

How I would give ten thousand more

And never let go.

How I would shape him now,

Like a folded piece of paper sealed into an envelope

And stuff him into my breast pocket;

My left hand clasping at my chest.


My left hand clasping at my chest,

My heart pounding

As hard as boxer fists.

Air tighter now.

A person should be able to just breathe.

The teal coloured tiles now shattered into a million tiny pieces.

No more grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.


Chaos Of Entanglement




Cyrus – Part 2

I can see the wound,

Mirrored now, in my stomach;

The rivers run red

Escaping from the mountain’s summit,

Bursting out from the dams

And these hands, my hands morrooned!

Soiled in blood!

I watch in horror,

My eyes glued,

As it trickles down my fingertips

In vast vast volumes,

Like waterfalls chasing the cliff’s edge.

And all the warmth of my being evaporated;

Leaving only the heavy handed stillness of the cold,

So cold

And the sharp bite forced by the blade’s mold.

I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold.

I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold

And to consume the colour of my knowing;

A vain attempt to erase what has already been seen,

But I can still feel the ghost of the blade

And the blood just keeps on flowing,

It keeps on flowing.

Only it’s not me.

My body is over there!

There on the pavement!

What am I?

A reflection,

An echo?

Maybe this is my soul’s limbo?


How will my story be told?

Any moment now

The vultures will descend

For their pound of flesh;

Pens in hands, like talons,

Scavaging with reckless abandon.

I can see it now on the news,

Like a vision

And the half masted vesseled truths

Shipped from the anchor’s puppet led tongue:

“Locals observed a group of black youths,

On the corner of Head’s Mews,

Enter into a disagreement,

Which then escalated

And resulted

In a  fatal stabbing.

Leaving the victim dead

On the concrete pavement

Near the scene of the crime.

Raising London’s death toll

From knife crime

To rise to 59.

We asked the London Mayor:

‘What has increased this surge in knife crime

Amongst black on black youths to climb?’”

I wonder, will they refrain

From mentioning my name?

Continue serving up sentences

Based on bias convictions

Because my melanin predicates

That i’m more violent towards my ‘own’ kin?

That’s how they’ll spin!

Publicising false indictments against the colour of my skin

And my name hidden behind headlines

And pictures of designer hand-bags

And erectile dysfunction adds!

Fuck me right?!

Nevermind though-

Just another lad

Mixed up in ‘gang related’ crime.

Victim 59;

A predictable faceless statistic

On a bell curve

Shaping an ambiguous graph,

To serve no purpose!


“And now for the weather where you are.

How’s it looking?”


Chaos Of Entanglement


Image result for urban london


Cyrus – What’s in a name?

It was in summer that I was born and named;

A late bloomer conceived and coloured by midnight

And cradled by the moon’s grace.

By autumn, news threw leaves of vicissitude

On this pubescent nation,

Which seeded voices of confusion.

For years I was unable to name myself in the right hues,

But I endeavoured to compare my skin

Amongst all the other named colours;

I tasted them all,

But none were in season and so I thought.

Arrogance had blinded this sighted boy,

But only briefly.

And as realisation began the process

Of unfurling her bright petaled wings,

I was gifted the vision of clarity.

In the sense that I could see,

That, I too, have yet to reveal my named colours

And only through the invitation

Of spring’s celebration

Could I unveil, the shape, the colour, the fragrance

Within my name.

My mantra would be patience.

Slain in winter’s wake,

I wilted and became nameless;

Lost and buried under soil,

My voice was tapered by foul and twisted tongues.

I was never named in spring.

I remain the ‘budding boy slain: Victim 59.’

This is not my name.


Queen of the night


“Night-blooming cereus is the common name referring to a large number of flowering ceroid cacti that bloom at night. The flowers are short lived, and some of these species, such as Selenicereus grandiflorus, bloom only once a year, for a single night.”

The evening sky

Exhales a blackened sigh

Of midnight relief;

Driving the darkness to unfurl its wings.

The exhausted day rests

And curls her limbs before the rebirth

Of tomorrow’s whispered awakenings.

The lighted cities cast creeping shadows

Behind the footsteps of men’s borrowed sorrows,

Like loyal dogs in step with their master’s call.

And I have heard the howl

Of sleeping men and women

As they have gazed at the moon

And made lunacy their daily concubine.

And I have seen the adolescent tongue of revolution



Silenced by media asylum,

Like rose buds slain prematurely

Before they reach full bloom.

And I have seen visions televised on screen

Of tanks

And bombs

And guns

Aimed at the countless unknown;

This, is how democracy is shown.

And as I wrestle with the vines

Of deafening solitude

There is a moment

Of quiet clarity

In the serenity

Of the ordinary.

I hear a faint echo

That encourages my feet

To pirouette on my axis.

Bringing me face to face with a foreign beggar

On the corner of Saint Mary Axe.

The beggar repeats the words wrapped within the echo;

”Get home safe child.  She has come!”

His wild eyes communicate with the same manner of urgency

And from the blackness of his pupil,

I came upon the white fragrant flower of revolution;

The splendid terrible wonder

Shone only by the moonlight

Amidst the darkness and terrors

Of our laboured nights –

She has returned.

She is in bloom.

The queen of the night.

Sound serpent song


Lights flicker and the drum sounds.

The high hat hisses aquiver

And the percussive vibrations ripple

Across the bladed fingers of grass,

Like a gyrating viper

In search of prey that moves through the clearing.

The sound serpent locates my feet

And coils itself around my form;

Activating once dormant sleeping limbs.

The bass kicks in

Arching back my spine

And my heart aligns

In synchronised break-beats –

Baboom baboom.

Whilst my head sways the melody

Like tidal sound waves

Rising and falling,

Rising and falling.

At this point I am no longer me,

But wirelessly plugged to the source,

The source of me,

The source of melody,

The source of now,

The source of eternity.

May the night never end.

My ego escorted through the backdoor

As I download the moon beams and starlight

And astral project into forever

And forever sounds like Baboom baboom.