What if…

What if freedom is a trick of the eye,

a flutter of hands? It absconds

when we breathe, shatters when we stare

too close. Too fixed.

What if chains no longer weigh us down,

when vaults no longer contain our minds,

can we construct our own device?

An ark of fear to impale us:

for which lives better, the feral beast or spoilt pet?

Ships in the Night

She would do

Make do

A shrug as you count and find

Slightly wanting.

Nearly there

Almost perfect

Rather very but sufficiently nice.

Vainglory flows from the cups we have shared.

Satiated and  plump, we each go our way.


We shape this damp shroud between us

We cast it pearls to rummaging snouts

We batter some life in things long left dead

We scratch our wounds raw.

After the party

We linger and drain once-intimate gestures

of meaning, magic and trust.

Empty cups, vain promises,

Hopes unsated, we  just miss.