An inner choir sings

You do not find it in the brush strokes of the saintly.
Or willowing wisps of utterances in cold hallowed halls.
Do not look for god in pages of prejudice.
Or underneath the rocky souls of the holy.
Light a candle and feel me.
Peel back the bits of Christ to find me.
Swimming in the shallow cells of you.
Awash, in the DNA of God.

Tiny empire

Discovered by mistake.
A breaking heart hidden under the couch.
Buried beneath the earth.
And if it broke and if I died; what world is left behind?
A towering empire of loose threads.
Pulled at many moments in a life undone.
How precarious those moments were.
Towering up to god, a shaking finger of Babel.
Crying out in many tongues to a deaf creator.
The holder of my heart.
Now these racing rats and spiders which crawl over me at night.
What a sight, it is to see a hollow mind explode inside out.
My little world of mistakes, dew drops to effort.
Tsunamis of remorse.
When heartbreak altered my course.
A treasured time where the earth held still.
And I held my breath, for you looked inside.
And watered my garden.
Tended to the flower that had crawled away from the sun.
My tiny empire, rebuilt by the one.

Fables of deconstruction: A Suicider’s tale


So, how did I do it? I know you’re itching to find out. Suicide is like the reverse of a car accident, we all gawp and rubber neck as we go past them, but never really want to know how it happened. As if it might perhaps befall our own little transporting lives that ferry back and forth. But suicide….how was that done, what was the method? We salivate in the knowing, and of the not knowing of the soul.

If America has taught us nothing, which is quite an arguable case, it is that choice is both a blessing and a sin. There are many many ways in which to snuff out that little candle in one’s self, but no-one wants it to hurt right? I’m not going to advocate any specific ways, or even discuss which methods are deemed scientifically less painful (and yes there is indeed a chart for this). The manner in which I chose was not of the dramatic, and not really of the greatest importance. I didn’t want to cause too much of a bother and didn’t want anyone I knew to discover me. If I could have parceled myself up and dispatched myself off to the morgue with a little note, to save the trouble, I would’ve. But no, I sequestered myself off into a little cabin in the woods and threw together a concoction of pills and powders. I felt like quite the apothecary. Ones to corrode, ones to numb, and especially ones to sleep. The saddest aspect was that it was not a cry for help, it was the real deal…and if I was never found, then that would’ve cheered me.

But you know how it is in these sorts of tales, there’s always a dog walker. Whenever a body is found it is always a dog walker who discovers the corpse. Ramblers and dog lovers beware of thy love for nature, for the murky side of the natural balance is but a stones throw away on that bridle path. In my case it was a lovely lady called Sharon, who’s dog ‘Biscuit’, nudged its chocolate-coloured nose through the back door of the cabin. No doubt lured by my expensive aftershave and cologne of rotting flesh. Actually, it wasn’t that rotten as it had only been a few days. Good thing really, I don’t think Sharon had the stomach for seeing a body in such a degraded state. I looked like I was asleep really. I know this because I lingered there a few days to see what would happen. It was a bit boring waiting I must say.

So there you have it. But please do not be fooled, despite the folk-esq beatnik calls of the 70’s; suicide isn’t painless, it hurt like hell (I got a papercut from the pill leaflet, those buggers hurt the worst).

Previous entries detailing a wonderful life

Shell of imaginary imagination

Caught in the tangled weeds of busy nothing.
A mind fraught and frayed in the vines of life.
I wait for god to cut me free.
Yet in my sleepy weariness I hear.
A starlight voice that tickles the back of my neck.
And turns each shake into a shiver.
God whispers.
It’s all an illusion.
Your garden is your own.
And the demons are just voices trying to find a home.


The little lights inside that twinkle.
Burn bright and strong within.
A beacon like a small church steeple.
To good, to god and sin.
Yet the ones that burn the brightest.
Must therefore burn half as long.
And your flame has burned the shiniest.
So soon, from our eyes, you’ll be gone.
But do not let your heart fall in sadness.
Or collapse into grey despair.
For your shining light has led the bravest.
Who will always remember you were there.

Delayed doxology

The pain turned to gold as the moon rose.
The loss of self-control and the shedding of time.
Dropped like leaves over a diamond lake of soul.
Always late, but now just on time.
Pealing away a skin that once bound.
A body so rooted in the now.
To each side there sits an angel.
Close enough to touch.
Calling me higher, yet I remain.
Being good, being whole, being of service.
The dark begins to melt into light.
The kiss of god, and the whisper of the divine.
Reaffirms my mind, that it all was meant to be.
Now I shudder in doxology.
Praise not just the creator for the air in my lungs.
But the lungs of god, which breathes new air.
I have lost my religion.
And found god where I least expected.
Hidden away, yet smiling at my fall.
Knowing the rise was good for all.


A Splinter in the soul, the hidden fractures of the heart.
Allowing the pain of the world to seep in.
Engulfing you in dark.
Faith tingles on your fingertips like the whisper of god.
Little vibrations at first that can’t be shook away.
The angels whom surround, now welcomed in.
Outside of you, there is daylight.
Yet the world is like night.
Dark and thick in its melancholic soup.
Feasting on your sorrow like a hungry ghost.
How can you feel the sun like the others.
When the cold breath of death hisses on a constant.
Yet the devil had it’s day, and didn’t win.
And deep inside, much hidden within.
A tiny spark, a pilot light burns.
Turning the tears on your face to fire.
Conjuring something other, like divine combustion.
A miracle, one of many, waiting to burst forth.
God laughs and taunts, hoping to threaten more.
Watching the fireworks that bloom like pain.
Hoping they come forth, like a waterfall.
Miracles, to change your state of death and decay.
To transform the darkness to light.
The night forever into day.

Fables of deconstruction: A Suicider’s tale


I look through from time to time to see what is happening in the world. Through, not down. We’re not up in the clouds, playing tennis with Shakespeare on fluffy drifts or anything like that. Through the veils, they are what blocks the two places. If you knew how easy it would be to reach across….but I’m not allowed to talk of that. Anyway, when I look through, I can see what goes on after my passing. I was silently saddened. That is not to say that I wasn’t missed, indeed I know I still am. Routing around people’s hearts and minds is something I quite enjoy doing, and I see the golden leaves of sincerity in their memories and loss for me. This of course are those who knew and loved me, not randoms in the street. It’s funny how simple it all is after, recognising what love really is. The best way to describe it is the golden leaf on a grey and green tree of someone’s life. The golden ones, or the one’s with stronger colours, are the more sincere and honest of emotions.

It’s surprising how ragged and bare some trees are.

But I was saddened that the legacy I left was that of what it was. Of course, being swallowed by the waves of depression, angst and disillusionment didn’t help. Not so easy to go and carve a legacy when you can barely get up out of bed. But that is the ironic twist to it all, if I had done that, I probably would still be there. Life, who really has the answers to it all? …. Well, actually I do. One of the annoying little jokes you get let in on once you pass over. I’m trying to start a petition here for God to let people know BEFORE they die, so that they can do something about it while they can. But I’m sure he’ll laugh and shake his head in great amusement like he usually does. The hugs afterwards are always the best though. I say he, but God is really a she if anything, did you really doubt that? I guess I’m just used to the pronoun. Ingrained in me.

I think if I could do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I would try and leave a better legacy of myself behind. Be of service, help more people out. Shake away from my inverted egotism. I read once about how, in ancient Egypt, important your name is once you have died. The longer you are known, the more chances are that you have a role in the afterlife. I know some people think one life is enough, who want’s more right? But it is true in a way, if you are spoken about and talked about, it’s likely because you are missed or did the most good. And in a way, you live on.

Except for Hitler, that logic doesn’t apply to him.

Previous entries detailing a wonderful life

Made for you

A compulsive yearning to breathe you in and out.
Devour me with your secret skin.
Hold me from within.
Your candied smile and sacred heart.
A wonderful treasure of flesh and bone.
Given to me by God.
Protected by the angels above.
Who were once so cruel.
You sneak me into heaven.
With an open heart and palm.
Leading me to wonderful prevailing happiness.
Time over time as the universe bends.
Locked into your seraphim as we walk through the fire.
You never let me go, and I hold on tight.
An expression of the deepest truth that finds its way.
Making me pray, and thanking the world for you.
A secret power in our unity.
Stealing this destiny forever.

When you think about your life, I surround you in gentle sympathy

Oily hands which pin warnings to the walls of your paper cathedrals.
Closing their eyes to the view of sorrow.
It stretched before them, and under your skin.
Cool, when not engulfed in such flames of disgust.
Little cracks in stone, slowly crumble pillars of discontent.
The columns that held our gods too high.
Out of reach, on the horizon.
How can we touch the finger of god.
When we choose to crawl on swollen bellies.
Pick the needle which will penetrate the precious heart.
Kept in glass, and passed down and around but never treasured.
Wake up those angels which sleep inside.
Do not run and hide, from a future which began yesterday.
Tip the grey to another shade and shake out a song.
One which can be played at any funeral.
Signalling a death of something, and the beginning of such wonder.

Leave us where we lay

His heart, now the colour of his wife.
Ashen grey and broken.
The urn smashed, scattering them both across the clouds.
Little flecks of life stuck on the window of the world.
As the volcanoes rumbled and the gods groaned.
Down they both came in the rains.
Licked up by the wood spirits and the humans below.
Pooling in the heart of the world.
Cells and shells, finding the seabed of the soul.
Undulating to the sound of time.
Those tears of the gods which fell in this passing.
Are drunk only by the sinners, like sweet wine.


Maybe it was all too much.
This veil pulls me down.
This earth pushes me up.
Bones as thin as china.
Will as strong as Russia.
What religion should I wear?
Which god was I trying to please?
Watch me as this orthodox trips into sunlight.
Unbuckled and strewn about like papers on a desk.
Write my name on everything you see.
For I shall own it.
My signature, worth a thousand jewels.
But then maybe, I shall fade away.
Fall into the shadow of time like a sphinx in the sand.
Riddling into my demise and my own lunacy.
Special to only but myself.
A fading queen of the ancients.
A housewife dead beneath a carpet.
Speak well of me while you eat my bread.
Drink the milk I give and choke on the thoughts I offer.
And forget me not.
For I was there at your beginning.
And will silently watch you dissolve.
A woman. A soul.
Veiled and precious.
Swirling poison in my mouth.

Nous savions toujours

Peel away this faded grey.
The looming nightmare that hovers on my lips.
Like a poisoned kiss.
These eyes will open, and will always remember.
Screaming gravities that moved through us.
You wanted to see it all for yourself.
The dawning, a reforming of what was left to offer.
A thing moulded deep in the stomach of god.
Once called love.
Now twinkling like a Christmas star above us.
Stripped and salvaged from its tattered abandonment.
Where we found it, flat on the ground.
Walked over and left for dead.
Keep it now, safe and captured.
Like a flightless bird on the verge of extinction.
It fell from grace, our love; but now moves into place.
Filling the gaps that understanding failed to fill.
No dream.
Just the darkness caving in.

Je Suis Désolé

Down deep, beyond the rib-cage and the flecks of pride.
Lies a guilt, heavy like the tear from god.
It sits silently, weighted by time.
How many grudges have been held?
Placed on this mantel, pride of place.
These bones, once hollow, fill now with coal.
Snap them, and dust will fill your lungs.
Worse than tar, the blackness invades.
It blankets my body inside and out.
Layering over the precious stone of apology.
What a treasured word.
Seemingly too short, it should feel longer.
Spoken like a heavy prayer that presents its importance.
I am sorry.
Now with ownership and agency.
For time is precious, as are these tears.
Bled out in true remorse.
I am sorry for you, what has been done.
Sorry that the past cannot be un-spun.
An apology that starts with me, back in the beginning.
Rolling back time like pages in a book.
Each one filled with the ink of the soul.
And this apology ends with you.
For what is to occur next, in a breath of a life waiting to exhale.
In the unwritten, yet contrite touched pages of my skin.
That keep my sorrys within.


All this bubbling inside my veins.
Feels like angels spitting in my brain.
A feverish swoon overtakes me now.
The silent prayer and misplaced vow.
That swirl and flick of the finger of god.
Dilutes this blood to something odd.
More like a lick from roaming devils.
Who cough and sniff, and silently revel.
This outbreak which defies prognoses.
And nudges for spiritual diagnoses.
For though my body and mind is sick.
Inside the soul this illness licks.
And leaves me now mere bread and wine.
My soul and spirit, drenched in turpentine.


The light in a teardrop, approaching.
Destroying the dark that sits like soil on your cheeks.
A wrecking river of black, dispelled by a single candle.
That single effort of change.
Who knows how small the room is when the lights are off.
When the darkness wins.
Yet each day the universe contracts, birthing out the sun.
Raining down solar tears to burn away the oil.
Speckle me now with Aztec gold hidden in the sky.
A craved warmth and a touch from god.
Too long in the cold and dark, we’ve become skeletons to sadness.
Choking on soot and solitude.
My eyes wish for radiation, to burn away the memories.
Of a time and state that held me prisoner.
We now feel such rapture in the knowing.
That nothing lasts forever.


How high to stem the breaching tide.
That washes daily into our lives.
A rise and fall, with horrific force.
Split and cut right though our course.
And though at times it seems sublime.
It slowly soaks with turpentine.
A drowning water in our lungs.
Of life’s debris, while Satan hums.
And watches while we slowly sink.
God’s dye is cast, a deep red ink.
Which covers us and pulls us under.
Ripped from mercy, cast asunder.
And so we land in bits and pieces.
Choked on truth, strewn on beaches.
And watch while new shores rise and peak.
A brave new world, in which to wreak.

The Smoking Nun

God’s grace, bathed in divine light.
Casting gold over cracking skin and fallen vows.
The vessel inside, so empty at the beginning.
Now overflows like a cup of human kindness.
What troubles does she have at the seat of the saints?
What ails her heart that cannot be soothed?
Sweet words from Jesus must mend the wound.
She smiles at a knowing, a celestial secret.
Whispered to her in the musky wooden rooms of god.
All this is but temporal.
All pain is marginal.
Your being is relative to the consciousness you invoke.
So why does she smoke?

Execution by evolution

Your ideologies hang by a tangled thread.
6,000 years of life they said.
Yet in the ground and in the tar.
Lies the truth (will out) like god’s memoir.
To bring about his own destruction.
For amber shows of life’s reduction.
And kills those narrow minded thoughts.
By adding to the six, a lot more noughts.

Solitude sometimes completes

Quiet is the night that falls into me.
Spreading the inky blackness all over my soul.
God smears it on my eyes.
The devil breathes it into my lungs.
Dark replaces lonely.
And as the moon crescents and pierces the void.
I stumble quickly into a knowing.
Dropping fear like shrouds of revelations.
Collapsing into a nothingness bliss.
Swimming in solitude.

Lost illusions

Fold the world into silence.
Mute the lava that runs through our core.
Bubbling into frantic action.
When anger shows.
So many lives, repeated like a failing student.
Brought back time and again, yet never the same.
Lessons drip from these eyelids.
Lies smother the eyes of such hopeful.
Innocence trapped in ice.
Drop these illusions like a weight of the moon.
Flung out into the cosmos, only to orbit your world.
God eclipses such distant.
Love replaces the fear of the known.
Nobody knows what is yet to come.


The coldness we took for indifference.
Or the rising arctic waters.
That strangled scream or misplaced regret.
In our dead vast emotional forest.
Snow covered and silent.
Epic, only in the place of such failure.
The cool touch and horror sprung elation.
In vibrating closer towards the unknown.
Touch me once and shiver.
Lick the emptiness that withers.
The monolith planted now inside our souls.
A place no-one goes.

(Though it’s dead I cannot see, the monolith in front of me)

What if it were all an illusion?
This repeated loop and monumental oak.
What knowledge hoots and chimes in its branches?
What reasoning is tucked away in its roots?
Though the city hums and breathes a static.
This monolith covers all in shadow.
Waiting to be lifted again.
By such fragile divine fingers from above.