poetry, trails of thought

Today’s gone and done 

As I wander through my thoughts 

My wandering makes me 


At loss over loss.

And the cost has been essentially tremendous.

And my innate cautiousness 

Has made me loosen myself from so much 

My life could’ve provided me with.

But no matter:

For that was a yesterday.

And today is tomorrow’s yesterday.

And therein lies –

And therein truths – 

The grandest of 

The grandest of 


I did so much wrong through inaction, 

But now can do no more than apologise –

And then change where I am able.

And always remember that

Today is tomorrow’s yesterday.

And always remember that 

Yesterday is today’s 

Well gone and 


poetry, trails of thought

#Pride [in] #BelfastPride, #Belfast

I repeat myself and

find myself and

see myself so happy.

And as I successively saw

on the streets of the city of today

the generations and recreations,

and genial joes and

junior gals, and

toes and legs and smiles and eggings

on, with nothing lost and nothing

gone, I realise now

why life itself I find in the

wondrous of


of all its land

and once sorely banned.

Above all else, I see at last how true

will be

the sexuality of any gender cool,

conceived as it should be in utter liberty:

and how such an inception must necessary

lead for

thee and me

and you and we, and

such as now,

to wisdoms of all our realities.

For the freedom of the few

never is freedom for the few;

for the only freedoms worth fighting for

are the core humanities

of liberties for all.

And only when we each may fuck

the duck we cherish

and love in luck

will heaven on earth replace

the hell they asserted – so

bald and crude and

lewd, you know! –

as future punishment

and awful threat;

and yet, in truth, reserved

quite wilful for current

hell and spell.

No surprise they wish

to impose

regime as hasty as they deny:

when all is done and seen, the love they reclaim

only maims and resigns

the kindest of moments for the bitter

and the broad of hurtful guilty read;

of all that terrible instead,

in fact.

And when all is been and dreadful said,

and time it is for head – yessir! –

and evening sex

and morning told

and afternoon romp at office desks

sustain our desires

to pursue so grand the wisdom of those fires

so fab

which drive us all this




remember this thing and remember it fine:

I prefer to admit how I covet your ass

than be an ass myself!



poetry, trails of thought

And not QUITE like I painted it / [For the arrogance of youth DOES have its place]

And although I was saddened

And although I was baddened

And although I was mightened 

And although I was never righted

And though I was always wronged

And although all the above is true as 

A day and a

Toughened nightened,

Even so, I went much too far:

For the arrogance of youth 

Sometimes does magnificently achieve 



And my last year could never have happened

Without yous.

[And so

He doffs his cap 

And gives his swoosh

A gentle nudge.

A nudge, after all,

Of soulfelt 


Thank yous so much!

poetry, trails of thought

Life [re]born[e]

Life born[e] on wings of 

wingdings, galore –

curiously either/or;

never worn nor carried out,

nor sorried with,

nor – any

more – curried unkind, in any way 

at all.

And the rhymes of observation,

also strangely squared,

circle around me like vultured 

cultures of rare ingenuity:

I no longer care to live alon[e] this way;

I no longer care to bear –

all by myself –

the grizzly consequence

of insubstantial existing.

Instead, let me tend to you

as I tend to myself;

let my love – for your 

beautiful weird – 


right my life as entire as could be.

Let me see your body

as tender skin; as 


as cunt fine and deep:

no hunting,

no longer, 

for that solace cruel,

in ever so empty bed.

short short story


He’d always wanted to be a boss of something – just never quite got the hang of rubbing people up the right way.

Maybe now he had a better chance, now he’d remembered the whys and wherefores of all the painful mental sores which had eaten away little by little at the heart and soul he’d gone and rolled up in his fairly ill-fated life to that date, as if tied up with string and brown paper of rigour; no alacrity for him; no creativity to recover.

Yet now he was looking elsewhere really quite strange.  And although imaginings still made him think weirdly on occasions, he was finding himself far more grounded in reality: and the difference was simply the reality he was becoming grounded in was pleasurable and loving in its own very self.

This, for him, was oh so very strange.  And he remained a little cautious, and he remained a little wary, and he felt a little like an animal who was out of hibernating burrow – and still a little scared of what might be over the brow of the hill; what might be waiting still to be discovered.

But the fear, at least for now, had a very different flavour.

It tasted of life, not survival.


T[error]? / L[over]? / Fa[i]th!!!

Moments when terror bites just like a charming snake

of cobra-like proportions: I’ve never seen a cobra,

you see, so how could I possibly know what that terror meant,

or might look like to me?

Bent out of shape as I’ve been all these years,

that cobra snakes around me sinuously as I suppose

snakes tend to do (I’ve never seen a snake either, except in the

zoo near home; or at least the home

I currently am able to occupy …).

And that is my terror, when reversal in my mind takes over

the hindsight that bulldozes my senses

into flattened and unseemly defences which

crop, like Photoshop, the images of life I see and perceive.

Love should conquer all, and for me it’s everything

that ever kept my fears at bay: but what when

love is over – and you have no defences (neither air-to-air

nor sea-based ones) (a question of daftish analogy,

it’s true) – what then

might you do?  What then could you do?

And is faith all that’s left when bereft of the attachment that

virtual life eventually detaches you