Pass The Burning Glove

This baton is made of burning steel,
searing with haste to pass it through
to another spoke upon the wheel.
The hand that holds is ice concealed
with a melting core just out of view.

To whom that bears the orb and scepter
or of the solemn gavel and mantle,
turn away and reject the spectre,
vaunt not the pick nor the prospector
to ensure our world is not dismantled.

For those who fall among the mass
who feel as would a grain of sand,
whatever shall be will come to pass.
Not a soul to think that they’ll be the last
to pass the burning glove to the next frozen hand.



I see a metropolis of swarming bees
with confiscated humanity
yet a hive of activity.
Within a necropolis of entropy
sundered from all ecstasy;
the heaviest of realities.

The horizon reveals another way;
the blue breaking of dawning day
shrouded in Summer’s haze.
The anchorite’s mantle begs me to stay
among desert sands ablaze
devoid from every passing gaze.

Blue Room

I just want to sit in the darkened room
dwell with the shade until I find my way
through the valley of the faces,
eyes boring down to the basin’s bleed.

I’m biting down hard on my arms now,
trying to find a way to export the pain
but the surfaces are missing,
the waterline has risen,
every contour a threshold in ribbons.

My mind is a carpet of dry grass
leaving me with a sense of unease.
I’m following the tracks of tumbleweed
because thoughts ride tails of upbraided leaves.

I’m reclining on the mattress of eggshells,
shards from the birth of a great disease,
the sickness gives me rest
I am stretched upon the crest
anointed with the tar of a virgin breath.

The Estrangement of Fortune and Justice

I’m sorry that this isn’t anything to do with the ‘Deadwoods’ series that I had planned. I had written some things out for it, and even created some maps, but my life is a little bit too compressed at the moment to really write anything but patchwork poems that are unrelated – and even they are few and far between. However, here is one I’ve been writing over the past two days.

Adversity presents all with a domain
irrespective of the tools in our hands.
Weathered by time, remnants shall remain
of the creeping overgrowth we sought to restrain.
A fable charred into all living lands.

Some wear circlets of evergreen laurels,
others, crowns of willow that weep in Winter.
The fate of the garden of denizens floral
gravely imperiled; when the breeze turns boreal
petals shall fall watching sentience splinter.

And the passage through needle barbed woods
is transfigured by a footstep’s press.
Whether the path is patently understood
or just the phantasm of leaden falsehood
lies beyond the flair the traveler possessed.

On the pauper’s trail gnarled roots converge
when aspen leaves shelter the gilded few.
Concealed is the ground to which one shall emerge;
a verdurous meadow, perhaps a sweeping verge,
perhaps a scorched grove to be ambled through.

Extolled are all by a birdsong choir.
Hear the goldfinch cry or the starling sing,
unless the clouds darken and songbirds retire
for the vultures to come with a ballad of fire;
a strain to scourge every element of Spring.

Now bridged must be the whispering waterside,
where a vessel is docked for the sake of some.
The ferryman demands a levy to ensure your ride;
lest secure passage be sorely denied
leaving Stygian depths to chill you numb.

The wave’s crest caresses citadel stairs;
ascend, for you’ve completed your crusade.
Evading constantly a glorious glare;
a city within eternal solitaire,
bathed in the august pantheon’s shade.

Justice holds the seed in her hand
bequeathing each to a single soul.
Fortune plants it within soil or sand
fertilising flowers with odds unplanned,
as we fix our dreams to celestial poles.

A Nightfall Shared By All

This poem is Part I in the Deadwoods series. You can read more about the series in general here.

Usher forth the inversion of the clouds,
the sky shall now sleep underground.
Without reason is this ceaseless night;
the missing beacon that is moonlight.

When the sun slept it refused to rise
and the same was said for the other side.
Some say it resides with the dead,
dormant upon its grey funeral bed.

Trees in the breeze now shiver sadly
where they once danced all too gladly.
Animation in nature has come to a close
as the petals begin to fall from the rose.

Seething superstition has come to a simmer;
a saint has been made of every sinner.
The heathen now withdraws their disbelief
in the fear of whatever shall lie beneath.

It seems that our Gods have been lulled to sleep;
silence shall resound as the angels weep.
The church halls face now the abyssal doubt
when the chill of stark forsakenness abounds.

For now we watch the candles burn
because all clocks have refused to turn.
Time is told by the perishing wick
rather than the second hand’s faint tick,
as our minds cannot help but think
‘when shall we wither and become sick?’

Rational Endsequence

This poem is completely about my own personality and how I operate under stressful conditions. This was directly derived from one of my former boyfriends who would sometimes raise his voice angrily to me at very menial things, which caused me to retreat into a shell and become somewhat icy. I’ve noticed that I’m a colder and more closed off person, following the relationship, and I can’t help but think that it is something of a consequence of that.

One click;

activate function word.

Initiate shut down

and raise the defences

to the heart.

One word

to send ice crystals through my veins.


I see only sequences,

the order of the letters;


I examine your meaning,

conveyed through code.

I have a system to de-crypt,

deciphering your content.


It’s all black and white.

Process the admissions

and nothing more.

Receptive to the immediate;

sight and not sense.

A hidden agenda

discarded during translation.


A smokescreen is cast

between a symbol formation

and the meaning within.

Transmit what you say

and say what you mean.

An underground thought

will be buried alive

and starved of oxygen.


I work my sequences

into a solution.

Serving into their court;

a game of pass and return.

Respond to what I see,

not what I think.


Process the letters

and gauge the next attack.

Use what you receive

to keep the momentum.

Never forget to


Emotion is anathema.

Lock on;



The battlefield is clear.

The Murder Of The Antediluvian

This poem takes place in a completely different world to ours, one that is almost barren of organic life and completely unrecognisable to our society today. Humanity has changed and control is rife. The heroine of the story dares to learn. She wants to know what came before and she refuses to believe in the continuity that is being stipulated. But she learns that there are dire punishments that are to be wreaked for having the audacity to learn about the forbidden.

In an encyclopaedia of days gone by
I was drawn to a wonderfully curious thing.
In retrospect they called it ‘fated to die’;
this was only known when it went extinct.
Passed are the times of their reverence,
celebrated were their leaves in a breeze.
All we have is this reminiscent reference,
to the spirits we once knew to be trees.

I read of glades of elms and rooks,
and a silence pierced only by the hourly belfry.
They are gone now if you were to look,
ephemeral memories of a bygone fantasy.
Abundant now are the granite and steel
forming a landscape of institutional grey.
Nothing remains to evoke one to feel;
the metallic numbness is here and shall stay.

The history books spoke to me of cyclical time;
a season could be told by where the leaves lay.
Autumn once conjured an amber so fine,
and the coming of Winter blew them all away.
Artificially impervious to weather shifts.
We’re told it’s optimum; neither cold or warm.
An impenetrable security is their gift,
a climate where only approved thoughts shall form.

Each breath is a gift from the force
provided by their fabulous oxygen machine.
I cannot help but wonder, of course,
what if fate showed it’s hand to intervene?
Surely a mechanism so complicated
would find a fault and sever our supply?
Then, even quicker than we were created,
in this steely world we’d be destined to die.

Of knowing too much, I am accused.
We’ve been told that history must be released.
Every scream I uncover of this world abused
tells the tale of an Earthly beauty deceased.
Yet it is not for the liberty of our minds
to know of the horrors of nature’s genocide.
The fires of the world and the blood of mankind,
burn and boil, eventually to our suicide.

The wind beaten moors of Wuthering Heights
and the solemn gloom of Brontë’s woods.
With Tatiana’s dwelling of organic lights;
an enchantment I never fully understood.
My reality is more like a Carroll tale;
self-illustrating every cranny and nook.
And just like Alice and her literate trail,
though I must peruse the forbidden books.

I’ve heard the whispers of my community;
they say that I am dancing with knives.
But I’d rather relinquish my immunity,
than be content with their prosaic lives.
Everyone is a paralysed and schedule bound.
Everywhere can be heard the bleats of sheep,
far too many for the shepherd to count
and becoming one will never let me sleep.

They say gossip percolates into outer rings,
that you’re only safe if you’re shrouded.
If I keep researching past queens and kings
I will find my fate obscurely clouded.
It never occurred to me to fear
until I was torn from security’s breast.
Thrown from my origin without a tear,
then captured, tortured and forced to confess.

I awoke once more in a dazzling dress,
covering my body and flowing past my feet.
The silk did disguise the wounds of my flesh.
Now out of the cold, I felt the heat.
Men approached as I leant on the pyre,
and I wondered what more they could take.
I looked then of their torches of fire
and knew that this stage was a stake.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and all others of worth! Come witness the immolation of Mother Earth!”

Moon Glow And Night Flame

This poem tells the stories of two people. A woman narrates, and becomes entranced with another woman that she meets. Her movements enchant her, and the zest for life captivates the narrator. However, dangers are hidden within the night, and it’s possible that they’ve been too trusting. The woman has her spirit torn from her in an act of evil violation, and the narrator sees that even the most effervescent of us can fall.

I met a deity of an impish affinity,
committedly lunar in syncronisation.
She derived from duskfall a wicked agility.
Entranced by her exuberant oscillation,
convinced that stardust formed her stimulation.

Her fingers infused the room between mine
and together in the celeste we swayed;
we were in pursuit of gossamer nighttime.
For her firework eyes, my fear was allayed,
hence I partook in her astral ballet.

She seemed to shared her stage with silhouetted souls,
operating behind a velvet gilded veil.
The curtains of lustful red coaxed her and cajoled.
Despite a lucid mind hedonism would prevail,
heedless that she was the shadows’ Holy Grail.

The single night we frolicked beneath a nebula of light,
brimming with the elixir of glimmering exultation.
Tendrils of shadow donned the armour of a white knight.
Within the cosmic goddess bloomed roses of temptation,
soon seduced and shackled in computed orchestration.

The lily she carried was now severed at the stem.
Petals once delicate now smoulder on the ground.
Once in the grasp of deceit she was instantly condemned,
ripped apart at bloody jaws of the foulest hound,
incinerated the silk and left her totally ungowned.

Disillusioned as her bedecked moon was corrupted
the ashes that coated her were born as stardust.
An inquisitive heart suddenly was abducted.
Every constellation caused an almighty rise of disgust
after mutilation from the serrated blade of lust.

Melting Walls

Maybe some may say that his sounds like a strange acid trip, but I have never actually used such a substance. This is my sober mind, high on thought (I suppose), and perhaps reaching out into darker recesses of the potential of dreams. Where can they take us? And, more importantly, do they themselves have limits? How far can they bend the structures of sense, or does sense exist as a concept within the strictly unconscious mind?

I take footsteps down a hallway that doesn’t feel so solid.

Every move forward supported by condensed shadows,

as if I balance on a balcony of darkness.

A soul guided by a direction not yet chosen;

every second, I could plunge into unfamiliarity.


Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.


Paintings are weeping the spectrum’s breadth,

the tears spiralling through the floor.

Where do the colours go when they flow?

Is there anything lying beneath me?

All I can touch upon is a staircase of air,

must I hold on? What will it be to fall?

Every move upwards makes the black sea rise.


Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

This hallway’s a serpent, swallowing me,

but in the acidic darkness, this is a dream.

I daren’t move backwards, then I shall fall,

fall through the vortex and the melting walls.


No one else inhabits this world.

I can see human figures glide past,

they’re just hollow reflections of a memory.

Entrapments turn into a wade of tar,

with naiads tempting me to wade further in.


Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

This hallway’s a serpent, swallowing me,

but in the acidic darkness, this is a dream.

I daren’t move backwards, then I shall fall,

fall through the vortex and the melting walls.

The Hunter And The Fox

For this poem, I tried to take on the mindset of a rape victim. Obviously this is not something that I can do completely accurately, but I knew that I had to establish the principles of the rapist being the greedy hunter and the victim being the trapped fox. It was whilst I was writing it that actually I saw the parallels  and formed into that. Initially, it was established as a poem about control, but then it grew deeper as I wrote on.

With a rifle full of rock salt
you’re approaching the frontier.
Everything’s personal, nothing’s cold;
I am your laurels, a medal of gold.
For the designs of a man austere
I’ve seen the stains of rapacity;
they seep through when I appear
and I don’t doubt your capacity
to command a bullet, ear to ear.

Conquest was always your ambition
to deliver my knees unto the ground.
Unwavering towards my perdition
but far from an erudite tactician
I conditioned to the smells and sounds
of crisp rasps and guns of smoke.
You never noticed that I’d found
a practice to transpose your joke.
Then I’d turned to see the hounds.

Your mind, once bound to humiliation
meandered once it had become clear
that I was no leaping fawn nor deer.
What was born of a mere flirtation
stagnated with seeds of dominance
and undertook a course of fear.
Subjected to your tearing violence
and desecrated for a souvenir.

I still dream fitfully
of the barrel of the gun
when I was a fox,
and you …
a throbbing sun.