A Little Empty Space

I have a hole in me.

A little empty space,

A tiny whispering plea.

Small, slithering lines of black,

scaring as they go,

this unprotected little sack of soul.

The plod drags on,

a doom set into gold.

My hope not yet been shod,

cannot run to light,

but claws at my heart,

my hope no chance to start.

Yet within this blackness you come to me,

and hold a hand up to the hole.

You see an empty sea,

of despair within, something you can soothe.

You fill the hole with a blinding white light,

of joy to calm my soul.

Grinding Cogs

Peeking, and poking, and prying.

Fingers and eyeballs and pins and needles.

Crying babies and sobbing old ladies,

creeping and slipping their way into the square.

Little white circles, euphoric sensations,

pilling in like a motorway.

Redundant and proclaimed,

bitter faces swimming in a sea of pretentious Gods,

masquerading as good will.

I bend my face towards the sky and take in the clouded mass.

I fuzz and say:

“There’s music in the clatter of the clogs”.


Clock runs, predator, prey, defying.

The pause in the tick leading fast into the tock.

Keep to the light the Demon whispers,

Death seeping in the ear, crawling, lying, dying in the brain.

Carbon copies rolling one after the other,

the production line full, choking, smoking, filling the gaps.

Black faces in a sea of green.

Nothing stands out, nothing is new.

Crosses and bread and the fingers in the wine.

Pouring and dabbling and giggling in time.

The giant grey face, skin chipping away hanging,

dim and lethargic from the great city gates.

She speaks to me, the high and the mighty.

The night and the day, the light and the dark.

Anything and everything, just roll with it my dear.

For God only knows they’ll crucify you anyway.