The silver moon

Shines down upon

The silent desert dunes,

Like a lighthouse on a calm sea.

And the cool night winds of this barren place,

The only bearers of news.

A campfire in a corner somewhere

To warm the hands of these weary travelers,

Who huddle and speak in hushed tones

As though trying not to wake

The great sleeping wasteland.

The camels have little to eat

And even less to drink.

And all around

Just out of earshot,

The Sahara whispers

Words in an ancient language.


A Depiction of Glory

The armies left

A few hundred men on the hill,

And there is enough blood for

The grass to grow.

The green is drenched in red,

These happy crows will enjoy their meal.

The smell of burnt hair

Like incense in the air,

And some quiet wails

Permeate to other dimensions.

It is all very still,

Only the stained flowers sway

In the cold wind,

And amongst the carnage

He plays the Danse Macabre

Gently on his violin.

Poem Number 42

You think you will have it different?

You think when life fleets

When all is gone and,

The light leaves

It will be different for you?

You think when the darkness comes,

When the body fails.

At the finish line

You think it will not be the same?


Sit on your throne

Smirk at the fools bellow.

Because your blood is honey

Because your heart is ivory

Your fingers are ebony

Your hair is silk

Your breath is fragrance



Your jade toilet

Is still a toilet.

Your feast of truffles and caviar

Is still food.

Your sparkling champagne

Is still a drink.


Your eyes will rot

Just as mine

Just as his

Just as hers,

And we shall see

Not with our rotten eyes

But we shall see.

Adam’s Folk

Seven strong fellows

Silently perched

Face to face,


Ink flies across in crisscross

The round red room.

And under their hidden hides

They bring burnt silver slices

Aimed at another’s hip.

They toast their health,

Flash their wealth

And make subliminal threats.


And all of our lives

Rest on the fives

Of a few dozen.

How the human race

Is still in place, I wonder when

Petty pirates pilot our ships.

And of the seven billion

We chose the brownest of the mold.


Can I help you sir?

Just window shopping for a new weapon.

The people live in the cities

And the bullets live in the people.

Man-un-kind sits atop

The rubbish pile we once called


And let us not forget,

Among us is the blood of Kane.


And when

The claws come grabbing again

Remember then

All monsters were once men.

An Apple for the Mule

My wrists are cut.

A small group of ten tubes

Come through,

A peevish grin on a few dozen chins

Surround me.


I see nothing but the night sky,

A clap of thunder and a spark of


The moon takes refuge

Behind ragged rain clouds,

The showers mix with the red ground.


Clutch my heart

And clog it with clots

An apple is down my throat,

I am a mule

Driven by so many.


But I am me,

And neither the sun

Nor the one eighty one


Can do

Any more than

Can you.