Dregs of Consciousness from a 1AM Coffee Cup

Dregs of Consciousness from a 1AM Coffee Cup

What keeps you up at night

when sleep evades the bloated mind

unknotting dreams out your hair

becomes morning routine

sink clogged with the thick smog of nightmares

horrors that can’t be blocked so easily

will rot your teeth

flossing strings of thought between fragments of memory

rinsed out with mouthwash

a cleanse of the body



running on empty past the exit signs

to daylight.



Close my eyes,

try to let go of the grey,

dream of childhood tempers

scaling six foot wooden fences

because Little Miss Stubborn won’t use the gate.

Return to the known terrors,

to the films I’ve re-lived a thousand times,

find the familiar space

between the back of the shed and the train tracks,

feel the comforting quake as they speed passed,

the false sense of safety

found in running away from my problems.

The Last Word

The Last Word

Lights illuminate this courtroom scene

and I am standing in the central artery,

translucent and immaterial to your reckless steps

as they walk straight through me.

But under oath the words will fail

to accept the lies you hope to spin from your lips;

those spoken but then denied

will testify to the tongue that shaped them

and the mind that orchestrated their sounds to escape

on the exhaled breath,

till all the jury hears is the jumbled letters you have left,

stubbornly scrambled like your sense of morality,

the judge orders a straitjacket to curb your corroding mentality.

And I can feel my mouth running back to me.

Dream Catch Her

Dream Catch Her

“What are men to rocks and mountains?”

The disillusioned know

“we do not suffer by accident”.

So damn these feet, damn unsteadiness

from these damn dreams falling through your damn arms,

I’ll be damned if this is nostalgia,

damn these losses, damn this love so wrong

to love myself through blind corners,

damn laughter, damn sleep,

damn fantasy, damn control,

I want both

I miss it all.

Dream Wrapping

Dream Wrapping

Opening the card, it reads

‘Happy Christmas, love Santa’,

by double figures, means

‘It’s Christmas, from Mum and Dad’,

declining to seventeen’s

‘Christmas. Mum.’

And you were what was left

of pass the parcel,

layers peeled away,

and in all the excitement

of what you could have been

they saw not what you were,

the suspicious package

in a neglected nativity scene.

Left wrapped

to re-use next Christmas,

left wrapped

to keep warm in winter,

to dress the body modest,

or just for a while,

to stabilise the bones

bubble-wrapped in a box marked ‘FRAGILE’

then set alight to smoke,

breathing in the sticky sweet tobacco,

vacuum-packed for a fresher death,

the little matchstick girl

takes her last breath

and wakes up,

wrapped in your arms.