The end of the world seeps in through the cracks
enveloping silent reality in the cold dark
no apocalyptic fires or shivering earth
not inundation or raging storm
the end of the world consists of little things
that break and roil ‘gainst the shores of existence
of loneliness and sorrow wrought of fallen dream
of lost nights in shallow grave mind
heart-rent lyric from a forgotten chorus
the end of the world rolls in like mist on an autumn morning
rising in crepuscular air, strange forms in writhing phantasm
permeating flesh and bone and soul
an intimate conclusion for each outcast heartbeat
words fall to desuetude in malicious coda
the end of the world is glass shattered mirrors
on unswept floors of barren beings
susurration cessation of the stillness coming
one million reflected lights from a single eye
suffocated in chilling breath and ragged word
the end of the world drips stalactites relentless
in twilight caverns to cuspated points
slow evisceration of old-held belief, hewing
entropy in frozen-frame images from a lost silver screen
eroded acetate of abandonment dreams

Te mutunga. Acrylic on canvas

My faculty for language is returning and my post-stroke cognitive abilities seem to be in full recovery. I realise this is a rather bleak piece, but there you have it


At the hospital they demand
a contact for emergencies
or next of kin
once I named you, in days gone by
but there is nobody
they asked how I arrived
I could not drive
I told them of the rideshare
and they wouldn’t treat me until
I gave them a person
so I invented one
with a false name
and an unused area code
an imaginary friend or lover
a wisp of smoke in my mind
a vacant lot in an empty city
an acceptance of abandonment

Self Portrait #3 Acrylic on canvas

This is what happened when I had to go to the hospital following my stroke last weekend. In my state it was more than frustrating.


All around there are people together

Feasting on flesh and cheer

I have no food in the house

Bar that I give my dog and cat

I have coffee and booze and cigarettes

And if I’m lucky I’ll pass out by lunchtime

Dereliction. Acrylic on Canvas


I am the outline of a man
with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes
where once gleamed fire and light
waiting to be filled with the essence
that was scooped from my flesh

I am a silhouette
with gaunt gaze and trembling hand
where once rose a soft caress
waiting for the terrors to desist
from the horror of the day

I am the shade of what was
with delineated angles in cheek and brow
where once a glance rested
waiting to be made whole
in the empty crux of being

I am nothingness in personal form
with flesh hung askew on calcium frame
where once a touch brought life
waiting to fade
in obscuration of the sightless

I am the refutation of metaphysics
with black hole core in pointless skin
where once bloomed vivid dream
waiting for the grey twilight
and the coming of the night


I paint in acrylic and hæmoglobin
a temporary solution to a permanent problem
a false count of days or weeks or months or years
a reckoning of numbered moments
representing naught but passing memory
and this will flake and fade like recollections
of other days or better nights
bittersweet colours etiolated over time
My hands will not form the shapes I wish
no more than dreams come true or fly
on wings formed of leaden skin
or feather and wax

Mixed media on canvas