Disco Volante

On a saturday night
it feels right
to let the top drop
on the disco volante,
the getaway car,
the ticket out of my head.
I take a trip
to the mountains
to let the cold blackness
swallow me whole,
and it feels good
to disappear.

Godlike I arise
and stand on high,
clutching stone tablets
while watching the waves
eat cities alive.
I raise my hands
to the heavens beating
rain down upon us
and beg to be stolen
from existence
for some precious

I pass a few days
in a haze,
addled with anxiety,
choking on fumes of
polluted thoughts.
And at breaking point,
I find the biting point,
that sweet release,
and let the smoke chase
the disco volante
up into the mountains

Adept I step
back into the depths
of my cryogenic capsule,
isolated, insulated
from the miasma of hysteria,
that heady cocktail of dread
and fear.
And when I stop to draw breath,
I steal a furtive glance
at the world beyond the frosted glass
and I see that
everything is the same.


My dear neighbour
bangs on doors and skates in halls,
his protestations penetrating
thin as paper walls.
Sometimes I cup a glass to listen
and find his rhetoric

My dear neighbour
starts a riot in peace and quiet
and stands among the ruins
pouring gasoline on dampened fires.
And when I hear his call to arms,
inside my head resounds

My dear neighbour
sparks a light on dynamite,
illuminates the bedroom
where I toss and turn at night.
Sometimes I look through cracks in plaster
and glimpse a forecast of

My dear neighbour
infiltrates when I’m away
and leaves the carcass of a ladybird
upon the fireplace.
And when I see the mangled limbs,
the light below the mantel

My dear neighbour
takes his leave beneath the eaves
and disappears for weeks on end
if only to deceive.
But I know that he’s never gone:
he always turns up
later on.


Take the spaceship round the corner
to the stars;
smoking interstellar got us taking off.
Blowing clouds apart,
we levitate
up into the emptiness,
breaking the backbone of night:
a technological blackbird
in flight.

Pull up to the kerb
and up into the stratosphere, rising
high above the diorama city
down below.
Pixel people igniting,
shot red
in brake lights,
can’t hear us over the fumes;
burning interstellar

Put the rocket boosters on blast
and roam higher,
time dilating like pupils
behind shades.
Find us wrapped up
in our interstellar cabin,
waiting till the last set
and stealing back our

Take off in the tunnels:
chemical taste in the grooves
like vibrations
in the spaceship speakers,
dripping interstellar dust.
We terraform the skies,
recklessly in love
with the view
from above.


Phantom, I
drift through the silence and the city,
charcoal outposts of the fallout,
crumbling black and
on shirt starched white.
Mind over matter:
memories spilling burgundy
torrents from ruptured cranium,
burst pipework
gushing black onto curved concrete
and sliding into storm

The brain and fuzz:
I thought dust storms in that
barely ventilated;
all of a sudden
the moment expanded for an extended second,
the monologue quietened,
the present re-emerged,
the atmosphere emptied
its contents
and I could breathe.

The flame and flicker:
smiling soft across the table,
slender like satin,
your fingers grasped blindly
after nervous words
from apartment people
trapped in TV sets
that look through to solitary bedlam,
and the words trailed off
on another
for my thoughts.

Now, vacant is my chamber
but for the breeze that lets itself in
and clears the
in empty day
after empty night
after empty lullabies.
And anaesthetic are the images
that evaporate into
the ether of my imagination
as her spectre
shrinks from sight
in the floater in my eye.

Phantom, I
walk amongst the wreckage,
taking care and aim at onlookers
encased in impenetrable shells:
a million universes floating in quiet oblivion.
But there’s hope
for new futures to be forged
in the fire of our failures,
there’s hope in destruction,
promise in the new,
we martyrs to the dream,
searching for an


Fallen alien
wanders through my
stepping on twigs
in the dark.
I let your sound
guide me to your

Foreign ghost
drifts across my
floating formlessly
into my arms.
you cease to exist
when you fall out of

Looking away for a second
could shatter the illusion,
break the fourth wall,
wake me up from
the dream.
You resonate
like tones in the tibetan,
raindrops boring holes in my brain,
water accumulating
in a tin can,
to me.


White feathers
on a snowy plain,
on a blinding
streak of lightning.
Too precious,
matchstick idol
painted in crimson,
glow and
black moonlight
shroud serene
in perfect darkness.
Wrap your
icky thump
arms around me
melt into the

Rain patter
blurs streetlight
cracked and dull,
tarry darkness
into starry sky,
straining eyes
to see
the path ahead,
picking furtive steps
trying not to

From nothing to something,
gods of our own universe,
evading gravity,
stepping into space,
dancing in the


Every night alone
it comes,
every seed sown
spilt over cold ideas,
over nothing:
ghost lovers.

Sleep urges me to
start anew,
wait until the waves
lap at my consciousness,
lull me into ignorance,
wipe the slate clean,
until the residue

How soon is now?
I never believed I could
empathise with Morrissey,
but the pressure,
seconds steady ticking,
is hard to comprehend
when you don’t know
where the
end is,
when you don’t know
how much time
is left.

So in silence I sit over skyline,
pristine and gleaming in
black and light,
sip a green tea and
but the glass wore out its reflection
and there’s nothing much left
worth dredging up from
no steps worth retracing,
no more mileage that
meditation can
make up,
so the only way forward
is through no man’s land.

Every night alone
it comes,
the pressure
breaks the surface,
ghostly fingers
of imaginary lovers.


Frothing heavens
snapping plastic,
house collapsing;
rowdy weather:
wrinkled enema
sky prolapsing.

spleen scuppered,
splattered on the brow;
wind wrapping
wobbly wonton rivulets
across the bow.

Dark dripping
flippers rippling,
flapping inwards;
waves washing
seaweed over soggy
origami innards.

Zigzag zip,
wrestling giant
gothic manta ray;
escape sloppily
and scamper,
slosh away.

Tottering totem
humming a humdrum
staggering stupefied:
sparkling wayward
action figurine.

Blocky beams
and jellied muscle
buckle and judder,
stamp spasmodic
slo-mo hoofprints
on the rudder.

Melting mucus
globules dribble
from pecked-out eyes;
pointillistic priestess,
pornographic pixels
point inside.

Mind muddled,
fully befuddled,
thoughts scrambled;
brain boggled,
speech garbled,
marbles gambled.


I am the world on a stick,
nose a fuzzy
blot on the landscape,
an emptiness where the neck stops,
filled with everything there is to fill it.
No guillotine
but the lack of a head
puts a crack in the mirror
and eventually, the reflection

I am the spotlight on the stage
and the stage spot-lit,
illuminating the
No bullet, no blood,
but a hole
where I used to point to myself,
a wormhole in a birdbath
sank by a sinking

I am a wave on laniakea,
once the trench is dug
experience rushes in, torrents
flooding the mind,
currents crumbling the sides.
No amount of reason
can save you

Not Quite

Our canvas haven,
candlelit by screens
in the electric blackness,
betrayal on your lips,
lust dripping
from your eyes,
not quite.

As vibrations
spaced so as to
discern as sound
tinnily into the inky night,
you burrow through
my topsoil,
coming close
not enough.

My voice sends you
away, red hands
in your gauze
as other voices approach,
come clearer as the
zip cuts
and my icy exhalations
entertain an

and warm
and tattooed in shadows,
I feel a form against my own;
your mirage shimmers,
stares into me,
breathes, comes
closer than the others,
at least.

And later,
left alone, I speak the
in the eye of the
storm, weeping,
made by magnet pull;
marionette strings held taut,
dancing by default,
I almost
believed in fate.

Our canvas coven,
lit by screens
light on tortured features
barely registered in the
regret on your lips,
desire dripping
from your eyes,
not quite.