You act as your own judge and jury
prosecuting your existence
condemning your life
to third-rate sex and lack of romance
believing the self-told lie that a change in scenery
will attest to a change of life
or some strange alteration of reality
You act as your own executioner
choosing the mediocrity of a dull life
and the stasis of the soul
terrified of risk now, in unsubtle connotation
terrified of yourself
choosing a life of being told
What you cannot wear
What you cannot say
What you cannot think
What you cannot feel
for fear of upsetting some
metaphorical apple cart
thrusting forward to the dimness
of a wasted existence
of weak chins and beady eyes
and wet-cardboard passion
but once you were truly alive
Some far distant day you will regret
with that last breath
accepting the humdrum over all else
the sluggish refutation of vitality and anima
the cursedness of boredom
the long dark abscence of the soul


All of the heroes are gone now
Buried, ‘neath earthen mounds of fickle hacks
and short attention spans of web trained opinions
All of the heroes are dead now
Drowned in rising floods of public ineptitude
And vapid Instagram celebrity
All of the heroes are murdered now
Squandered words and none to read
So I’ll give you a soundbite
Because that’s what you want
Ten seconds or less
Are you ready?
Fuck you


This is just a phase, for straight middle-aged white men
former street punks and junkies, boot boys with
Doctor Martens and leaden looks
a house divided is the only kind I’ve ever known
This is just a phrase, in a longer sentence
a paragraph of obtuse and tortured grammar
the language put on the rack, persecuted
with composed precision
there are neither victims nor butchers here
and this house divided in peerless disunity
This is just the opening verse, of a lingering song
no top forty hit, nor underground favourite
dissonant and jarring, all minor seconds and major sevenths
and the house divided on atonal echoes
This is the thousand-yard stare, for broken hearts
under the gaze of the clandestine sniper
with the high calibre ammunition straight between the eyes
and this house divided provides no reprieve
This is a not a great work of art, all colour in
light-painted words and earless divinity
just mud and blood and crashed-out palettes
and this house divided by stroke-shafted stars
This is just a forever phase, for self-loathing whispers and wounded gaze
dejected lips and doleful tongue
and this house cannot stand


They say every artist has their muses
mine are Melpomene, Erato, Calliope
They’re off somewhere now, out of their skulls
In some shooting gallery in Cardiff
In a dive bar in Mumbai
Hawking their wares in Bangalore
And their bodies in Pattaya
They’ve traded their feeling for sensation
They’ve swapped their ethics for morals
And they’re beating down the unopenable door
with breath and breasts and promises
and threats
Every artist has their muse
mine is close/far/here/now/never
ever ever ever everafter/nevereverafter