-- cold flesh sticking.


trickery turning, turned

trickery turned stale

leading me on...




cold eyes unseeing.

lost love bleeding.

but no-one to weep.




A small hand, curled in a gesture - ‘come here’

But I can’t go, although I’m shown the way.


broken bones, paving stones and round green glass

chimneys emitting foul vapours

fat rats


footprints in the dirt - ‘follow me’


I’m trying!

But the rats are in the way.




fiber, dust and rust -

shaky foundation for life and death

cotton, paper, iron -

shakier still.




feline chaos


Curving ivory.


I meant to do that.


Crossed gold.

Staring and thinking and thinking and thinking.

Suddenly waking up.

Of course I was busy!


Wailing libretto.

shaking glass and small china things

I’m speaking clearly.

It is you who is spouting nonsense.




Big things are made of little things,

and things still smaller than that.


My life is made of little things,

and my bigness is belittled by a larger structure.


I depend upon particles.

I doubt they depend upon me.


Should the paramecium worship me?

Should I sing praises to the machine that I turn within?


When small parts break down, bigger things fail.


I refuse to take my place for granted.

Nor should the paramecium.




It looks nothing like chocolate syrup! Nor rust! Nor ink!


Not sweet, certainly metallic, and oft used for messages, but....


it is still none of those things. Not on a good day.




(in progress)



The blind woman’s sight falters - and there is no-one willing to take my place.