Notice of Closure

Despite what it says in the sidebar about this being an "ever-expanding exploration" (or whatever) I'm going to stop posting here - probably in time for the New Year, because I like neatness, but realistically I don't expect anything much to find its way online before then.

I think the last six months have marked a shift in how I write and the reasons for which I write. I was happy to put raw, unedited compositions on this website but it makes me increasingly uncomfortable to do so. Beforehand, I was concerned mostly with writing for my own pleasure (hence why production output was so high) - now I have a stronger desire to write for an audience. None of the "good" pieces I've written lately have been posted online because I want to "save" them for publication of some description.

If you don't see where this is going, I'll explain: closing this website doesn't mean that I won't be showing my poetry to people any more; on the contrary, (hopefully) it means I'll be reaching a broader audience, and putting out a more selective and essentially higher quality body of work. There was a time when this medium was perfect for me (as you can see by gauging how productive I was at different points in the archives) but I have noticed a very tangible shift both in my writing technique, and my own thoughts and feelings towards writing, and so it is time to move on.

I can't remember when I started the original House of Dreams (2006?) - I'm sure it feels much longer ago than it actually was - but these two websites have to an extent mapped my poetic journey (and therefore my emotional/spiritual journey to some degree) at a very important transition period of my life and I can't help feeling that they've been very important, if only to me.

I know that very few of you check back here on the regular, and firstly I'm sorry that recent work has been so poor - I've been scraping the barrel somewhat. And I'm very grateful to you for showing an interest, so please keep an eye open for what I'm doing next.

sickness hangs over every word.
i will not read what i put down,
i will not write what is in my head,
i will not say what is in my heart.

sickness, and the fear of it
in my voice, every time i sing,
every time i taste a kiss
or surrender such a thing.

so free

street smells of morning,
wet with windscreen-wiper fluid
and not cold enough to freeze.

pennies in my pocket
pulling at me,

i forget how the sun looks,
or softer skin
and clarity feels.

so condemned,
the empty hangs like a weight,
crystal laughter broke down
and lay there silently.

outed

let it pour salty summer rain
and in the panic of solitude don't forget
which way the light is coming,
which way the light comes.

oh dear darling boy, there are plenty
more fish in the sea, the most wonderful fish
with rainbows in their hair
and smiles painted all day long,

but when it's rough water
and you forget what you were told about how to survive,
keep on.

shaken at the wrist

my darkest nights
  my ever-present god has fallen through

   and light, like the light,
that burns me
will never for you exist.

          snake!
        sorceress!

an unexpected beginning
   we have already missed.

past tense

bullets blown to and fro
past the window, teary-eyed,

but on our doorstep
waiting like a cloud
for the day it goes,

the ice fields of millenia,
silent as killers.

our town is a landmine,
our town, the music
and kaleidoscope veins,
sleepy, lay your head down and forget.

Piece of Cake

wrote this, like, a year ago.

One of my favourite things is to walk beside water. Standing at the mouth of the river, watching it run into the sea, spilling colour everywhere as the sunlight from a winter's afternoon dances on the surface, and every day it meets a hundred thousand people, it moves, it writhes and spits and skips and it gets me to thinking, it's more alive than I'll ever be.

Book of Thoughts

all God's love bunched up in clouds

akin to the desire i have for the leaves
on the trees to fall
on my face and hands like rain

Autumn is always the last piece of beauty before

death,
there is no solace in Winter

-

Last night, the mist crept up the steps
and slept in the courtyard.

After she left, the remains of her dress
got caught up awhile in the trees,
before they too were dispersed by the breeze.

lies

the trees and stones will move
but by then it will be too late,
and my voice an echo in an endless cavern.

promises enduring

do they send you back postcards
with pictures of virgins?

i'm sold, a slave
to the ideal,
wrapped up in a cape
too tight

we never used to play
so seriously,
used to wear
half a smile

and explode

for this kingdom
and the next
and the ones that won't last.

x

the dustbin was kicked over
and lay on its side,
unable to move.

a wounded beast,
an easy target
you might say,
pissing all over the pavement

and though her lips are wide open,
her fists are tight shut
and this town, this town,
this town is no longer big enough,