The Night Sky in the Day Time

Relief after the storm

when rain washes the sky clear

grit and grain

drained away.

Awake to a sense of purity:

tensions resolved, static removed,

humidity vanished.

Walk outside

Bewildered at the streaks,

paint trailing at the bottom of a dome

See as you have never seen,

Darkly, though no longer through a glass.

Who knew the stars

were eyes?

Clustered, staring, unblinking


Who knew the sky is a face?

The earth is a mouth,

full of teeth.

(with a nod to Laird Barron)

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea


do not interfere

with my bathysphere.

Your ancient style

does not cut it,

not with me,

you liar of the sea.

Oh Trickster fish

you make a dish

of trickery and deceit.

Pulp forteans cite

you as proof we might

find a living dinosaur

if we look deep enough

on the ancient sea floor.

How could we?

A dinosaur under the sea?

It would drown.

I should have rhymed sea floor

with icthyosaur,

that would have been ok.

Or plesiosaur.

I better check my oxygen level.

Somethings not rite.

Stupid second hand


Stupid E bay.

Who dressed the coelacanth in a zoot suit?

There is a mystery for you, Leonard Nimoy.

Nimoy – what are ewe doing hear?

Pressure …

Dream about fish

I can dream about FISH

all I like,

I can dream about FISH

all I like,

The bastard’s can’t stop me now

I’m dreamin’ ’bout fish right now,

I can dream about FISH

all I like.

Here is a poem about fish for Good Friday.  Its not a very good poem, because really it is a song.  If I did podcasting, you would be able to hear the true beauty of it.  Lines 5 & 6 really have to be belted out.  I can imagine Shirley Bassey doing a great job of it.  She should have recorded it straight after ‘Gold Finger’.  Except of course it wasn’t written then.  Technicalities keep getting in the way of the development of my artistic career.  Babs would probably do a good job, but she’s a bit nasally for it.  “Dream” is stretched out, to represent the endless nightmare that being a fish is, having to continually move, never able to rest or sleep, until the relief of being eaten.

All the spider webs are glistening in the light of the full moon.  If I go outside, they’ll run all over me.  And they’re huge.

Industrial rocks

Industrial rocks

do not fall

on Albania

They need

an industrial land

in which to land.

Its hard to believe in love

when you’re in so much pain

Its hard to believe in art

When you can’t remember your name


Do you remember

when they started to fall?

Do you remember

the first time you were hit?

All this bleeding

is getting me down.

We’re all DEVO.

An important story about rocks may be found here, and I strongly encourage you to have a look at it please.  Thank you.  There, that’s manners.



Eyes are windows

the dead stare through

we keep them in our heads

nestled between thoughts and memories.

They always come back,

though never unchanged.

The dead stare and stare.

We fear what they have seen,

knowing we will see it too.

It freezes them,

hardens them, fossilises them.

Our eyes are windows,

the dead stare out.


than that they

stare in.

Eye is here.

I have something on a similar theme here that may be of interest.  I’d really appreciate it if you would have a look.

The Joe Chip portal is updated here.


Toad on a Grecian Urn

There’s a toad on my urn

what’s it doing there?

Is it brushing its teeth,

or combing its hair?


There’s a toad on my urn,

how’d it get up there?

It had to jump high

up in the air.


I got that urn myself,

I stole it from Con.

I have to hide it away,

every time he comes round.


He got it from his mother,

before she died.

Don’t worry I checked,

there are no ashes inside.


The toad looks pretty fat,

I hope the urn doesn’t break.

If I have to steal another,

I feel sorry for Con’s sake.


‘Struth, that’s enough carry on,

that’s all you need to know.

My  urn is a beauty,

The toad only so-so.

Toads may be ugly, but who wants to be lonely.  An urn may be beautiful, but it will never hold you – at best it will only hold your ashes.  Toads on the other hand are always up for a cuddle.

Things I learned from watching the first episode of “The Walking Dead”

Men are mean

though they are not cruel

except for cruel men

who are mean and cruel.

Zombies are best avoided,

they have many bad habits.

Oh yes it is so very important to record every single thought that goes through one’s head.  I especially do not like frozen zombies, watching their jaws start to tremble with the tiniest movement beneath the ice, before they are barely thawed.  Now, what was the essential difference between mean and cruel again?  It wasn’t to do with money…I knew I should have written it down…

International Burns Day

I thought that it

must have been

International Burns Day

with the victims on parade,

their different scars on display.

Marks I had not seen before.

Hair up, showing pigmentless flesh

below the ear.

Flashmark along the arm.

Puckered skin running down the rear

of a shoulder.

Are these the marks

that all lives leave,

everyday little tricks

usually hidden up a sleeve?

Did everyone see?

Or was I gifted to view

a deeper reality?

What use was that to me?

It was a conversation starter,

but not much of one.

I prefer “Do you come here often?”,

its not as scary.

I saw through the cosmetics,

the veneer of confidence

granted by beauty.

I saw everyone’s little horror story.

I averted my eyes

from windows and mirrors.

Would I have to blind myself?

Perhaps I could find a nice lady

to do it for me.

We are all scarred.  Some days it is easier to bear our own.  Some days it is harder to bear others.  We judge ourselves by others too often, not knowing what is below.  But would you like to see underneath?  Be warned, it is bloody under there.

Lonely Mormon

Lonely Mormons

far from home

wandering through the great apostasy.

Tempted by Coca Cola,

shunning coffee and other like beverages,

is your truth too good for me?

You all rush to share it

with the pretty Asian girls.

Was there nothing on

those buried gold plates

Elohim wanted you

to share with me?

I’ll just have to cross my own desert.

Not for the first time.

Dark tastes

Can you articulate

a vocabulary of longing?

Imagine a culture

with words for all of the varieties

of the piquancy of despair.

Do the number of eskimo words

for snow,

exceed ours for the

bouquet of anxiety?

The aroma of fear?

The astringency of depression?

The tannin of mania?

Or should we look

to those

whose palate desires

such a pallette?

Those hidden connoisseurs.