Cuckoo in The Nest

The things I love that are not you do not diminish you.

The things I love that are not you are not a mirror

reflecting flaws and failings back at you,


They are the peculiar part of me I only share

with you


The things I love that are not you make room for you.

The things I love that are not you welcome and adore you,

only to be spurned and distressed

by you; a cuckoo in the nest.


Your intention to dethrone

with tyranny and contempt,

the things I love that are not you

will lead to banishment

will only serve to clip your wings

and ground you in your shame,

lonely would be usurper,

never wholly mine again



Your reply:

I am intimidated by the things you love that are not me

and I can not love or understand the things you love

I can only

love me












When it rains in spring I imagine the water seeping into underground spaces,

little pockets of hope where seeds wait, wanting.

We are not quite enough just yet.

But with these few atoms and the tilt of the earth

we slide into existence, all vigour and vitality,

We emerge and for a moment we are prefect, potent, potential.


I go a little crazy in January

every year it’s the same

I blame SAD, but I really don’t know

why I fuckin’ hate it so!


The claustrophobic sky just won’t

give up it’s blue,

only fuckin’ grey will  do

in this godforsaken month.


And i feel that every aspect of

my life is shit and not worth squat

and i fight the urge to bolt from it,

from you.


And part of me feels January

is the month of revelation.

The rest of the year an illusory

trashy paperback stack

of lies.

Then January arrives

with a truth, that’s hard to deny.


I’m fuckin’ counting the days until you are gone,



I can do without your cruel candour,

your honest bullshit.

Let me live in blue skies,

in fragrant daze,

and the solace of lies









It waits at the end of dread,

that path I tread

each year.

and each year I said

I would no longer dread.

That I’d give it a miss

I’d no longer kiss under that parasitic branch.

Yet here I stand,

puckering up

with a fear in my gut

that my life is a sham,

that all that I am

for the rest of the year

is a careful facade

for although I try hard

I always end up

in line with the rest

of the herd

and at best

I’ll utter a protest

an unheard request

that we pass it by,

but a lovers sigh

is hard to deny.

and so at the Plain of Lethe

I arrive

born again, renewed,


to traverse the year

oblivious to

the ineluctable path

that will lead me

to you.












Your breath on my neck catches a strand of hair,

butterfly wings against my skin.

Your arm, heavy against my chest

Like a secret.

Your hand lightly cups my shoulder,

Fingers flicker like flames

As you begin to drift.

My arm against your belly

As we rise and fall.

For a moment we are in synch,

I  hold on to a pleasure

that slowly recedes,

Our breath separates

and we continue on alone.




Don’t Pray For Me

Sister, don’t pray for me

I am sickened by sincerity

I am lost beneath your angel wings

I am withered without light

Sister, don’t pray for me

And burden me with sympathy

But stay doomed,  undeniably

Within walls, watertight.

Sister don’t pray for me

The waters rise inexorably

You praise the dark and will not see

I am Delphic, you are Right

Sister, don’t pray for me

I am free in ambiguity

I am open to the elements

I am fearful of the night

Yet all I ever want to do

Is give it up, and all to you

To face the irony, the true

and endless light of life.