Till My Ashen Bones Lay

There is nothing to say except nonsense.

There’s nothing more wise than madness and smiles.

There’s no one I’d rather spend time with
than those who can tell me stories
of nothing in particular
and with passion or love or laughter
on their lips and in their eyes.

Conviction is ignorance
and nonsense is truth from the mouths of babes.

If you ever tell me anything,
tell me that all you know is that you know nothing,
and then I will believe every word you speak
till my ashen bones lay to rest
beneath endless layers of dust.

Then, you will be the voice in the darkness.

Then, when the world is on fire,
I will tell you my secrets
and show you my wounds.

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My Words Are My Wings

My Words Are My Wings

(Mirrors of Souls Perceived)

If I took the time
and filled this space
to tell you who I believe myself to be,
would you find fool or monarch?

And would that be mine light or thine?
Are we not reflected in the mirrors of all souls perceived?

Is it the shape of the object
or the light reflected which determines its colour?
Are they separable?
Are you, separable from light?
Would you survive; formless in the void of isolation?

(Clip Not My Tongue)

Some days I’m of noble blood, living on foreign beaches.
Drinking fine wines and keeping company majestic.

Other days I’m homeless and hoping that next meal will soon find me.
I am my slave ancestors.
Beaten. Helpless.
Stolen. Used.

I’m a poet.
The truest I know how to be,
in my life and love and pain constant yet curving.
I’m a poet in my (cowardly) cravings.

Today I am free of you and I and all we’ve ever dreamt I ought to be.
For in my words are my wings
and you will clip not my tongue nor my fingertips.

If there be a constant in my life,
it’s that change will soon be upon me,
stealing me away to days high and days low;
ushering me nobly;
dragging me through dust.

Woodwright.
Dream Technician.
Wanderer and Artisan of Worlds.

Wordwright.
Revealer of Souls’ Truths.
Smith of Stars Unborn.

Shipwright.
Mariner of Skies Limitless.
Beholder of Self Unfolding.


Originally wrought for the About section of my page. Too fun not to share.
If I could fuck words, believe me I would.

Water in Your Hands

What I am, is water.

Hold me, just right, and I will mould in form to your very hands.
Once in your grasp, I am yours to drink.  Refresh yourself with my essence.
Cleanse yourself with me, and I will carry away your stains.
I am yours for as long as you hold me.

Spill me to the earth, soiled, and I shall join the clouds and rain upon you,
giving life to your crops, swelling your rivers and filling your wells.

Forests, I have raised. Forests, felled to house younglings.
Felled for space.  Cut for comfort.  Gone for good.

Mountains, I have devoured.
Pounding them into sand, and washing them away to the beaches
of islands yet unborn.

The blood of the slaughtered I have removed,
Feeding it to young grass, to strengthen the horses
which carry you to freedom; to new lands.

IMG_20140704_065005Please, respect me.
I am a precious resource.
I am life; yours and mine and the world’s.
I am in the dust of cultures long forgotten.
I am in the ashes of fires and in the blood of wars.
I am immortal.  And fragile beyond comprehension.
I am in the air which fills your lungs.

Mistreat me and I shall recede to whence I came.
Silently.  Peacefully.  Without warning or return.

Retain me and see your dams smashed for my resolve to break free of you.
Empires erased could not prevent my escape.
Without me, you are nothing.  Without me you are dust.

Expose me to the cold and I shall raise myself as a monstrous wall,
advancing across the frozen landscape, gouging out the earth before and beneath me.
Starving out both hunter and hunted.

I await you.  I seek you.  I am in longing to belong to your blood.
I yearn to take shape of your every vein, muscle, bone and breath.
I will make you what you are and always have been.

Spit me, piss me and bleed me and all I touch shall be of your dominion.

Please. See through me.
See how I shine for you, reflecting the light of the surrounding skies.
Blue as the eyes of babes.
Black as the moonless and starlit night; how I shine in the darkness for you.

Please.
Hold me in your hands,
and feel me in your lungs.

Dark Visitors in a Lighted Wood

He sits alone; as he fears, yet as he chooses. He is afraid this feeling will last till the end of his days; the eternity that is left for him to fear. He fears tomorrow now, loathes it. He wonders if he will ever again enjoy the heat of the beach with its dark and blinding sun and the sound of moving sand. He fears the eternal joy of those that no longer surround him; If only they too were in constant pain, then perhaps he could do something to relieve them. He would not leave them to rot with the lies of love forever echoing in the empty houses of their lost souls. As the world mercilessly churns he can taste his fear polluting his soul, twisting paradise into endless isolation.

The days are eternal.

His own thoughts scare him. He wonders where did such venom begin and will it never end. He is truly in awe of the evil curses uttered in the woods, giving voice to the true demons and their desire to spill both life and love on the forest floor. His disbelief prevents him from praying to his lost god(s) for the return of his clean spirit and the expulsion of these strange new visitors from black realms that open his thoughts to them. Never did he dream he could pray for such harm and hates his own mind in its deepening sickness. He wonders if his own death would appease the hateful bastards within, or would he be cursed to ceaselessly walk the earth, tasting his fear and watching for the return of light.

The Spirit of a wooded Mountain once revealed Its face to him and the flight of waking birds was the voice of beauty as She danced the sun over the hills and into being. He will be mindful of the Wise and Beautiful Ones when he next enters Their space, treading softly in Their land of light and fortune. He will pray to Them, asking for Their endurance and company. They are true wisdom. They bore witness to the distant people in their time of waking. They will help him to see that these evil thoughts are no more than fungus feeding on that which rots and that they too serve their purpose and bear fruit in time.

The days ahead will bring an end to hard truth, and the wind will blow in our favour.


Spring of 2011 – My first piece of writing since childhood, I believe, and my only piece for awhile afterwards.  Exorcism is hard and liberating.  Identifying our demons is key to understanding our shadows.