the isms of a Cretan poet

It seems we are conditioned
So that the rendition we chime
Is the vocal phrased phor us
Performed without question
Shouting stone deaf –

“Yes Sir! Off key!”

The flick of the ‘a’
The curve of the ‘e’
Entirely predicable
And monotonous
All material
So that we ‘The Mongrel’ –

“Heal. Play dead. Sit.
Heal. Play dead…”

For a reward
Less gold medallion
More plated prison
A hollow fortress built
Of porous pumice walls
A biscuit crumbling
Leaving a stain
All together inedible.

We look down to see
But sharply are diverted
Our heads lifted to the sound
Of high pitched piercing
The wind whistles through –

“Good dog” With hammer in hand
“Good dog. Keep your head bowed”

And we obey.
And we hasten.

But wait –
What is that prickling?
A spine rising chill
As arctic ice breaking
Bridging our backs high
Lifting hair from skin
For once our own puppet
Suspending us hanging
If only for a moment
From plunging deep

It hums.
Listen –

“Our legs are weak
Our senses dulled
But a blade sharply waiting
To carve a life whole
To eat the fish raw
Caught of our own hands
And tasted
Without the hollow bones
Sticking our throats
Allowing our loud howls
In unison and alone
That we are nourished now
With what matters most”

What is the point?

The tip of the finger

Or the object it infers?

The finger of the mountain

Or the blue expanse

Meeting it’s confrontation?

Neither offering reprise

Unblinking –


Is it the sides of Pythagorus?

Repeated apex rising

Decisively aligned sides

Making thicker to thin.

Is it the singular prick

Sticking the end of the pin?

With metallic  bloody threat

Intently threading

It’s eye watching sharply

From the smoother end.

Is it the maker – game changer

Inventing  loses and wins?

Of kinetic margins made

Hurled, kicked and bent.

Is it the meaning of existence

or an insistence to question?

It the point blunt?



Do you know some people can pop

Their eye balls out of their sockets?

They lay like pearls on oyster cheeks

Spherical smooth pocket rockets,

Bound by rubber bungee sinew

They plunge off flesh cliff face

Emaciated bulge of blubber

Back in their caves they can be placed.

But what if one was shifted over

The other side of skin?

Stretched past the nostril border

And held opposite it’s twin

Would eye see eye in split vision?

Or would brain explode due to division?




For me  –

Love without elevens

Is an eye without it’s blink.

I think it absurd


A wordless sentence

Or a feather without it’s bird

That can only fly

If the wind instructs.

Rather –

It must create music

Without instrument

Inspire breath

To melody and tune

In tune with the knowledge

That the world is sugar to the right lips.

So taste!

See beyond sight!

Over exposed

And magnificent!

With a third eye

Tireless and inspired

To entice ocean’s sands to spice.

Believe with me

That our shackles

Are as irrelevant

As honey to fish.

Replenish me

Like you are water’s wet.

We live in a palindrome

A world that begins and ends with:

A Question

A middle filled with miracles

And abomination

A parallel universe

With unparalleled contradiction


With mutually in-exclusive opponents

That need only see their oneness

To end the fight.

Progress sets a trap


Progress sets a trap


We live in a palindrome.

I am the carbon copy.

Desperately drawn

In imitated allegiance to The Original.

Convincingly convinced. Eyeless laughter

Betrayed only by an internal texture

Too fine to discern without pressure.

A pheromone

Leading the bee to nectar

To perfume and petals

That will fade and bleed without ceremony

Leaving nothing like wings.


An inaudible thing to ears

Naturally attuned to authenticity.

The Fraud –

Walking forwards across horizontal stairs

That don’t point down

So will suffice as proof

Of a life striving skywards

With purpose





Of  what.