A climate that compels me to wear the embodiment
of a fictitious smile is such a practical bother.
The magnitude of effort needed to become transparent
is lost on humans with instinctive tendencies to trace weight
to the vicinities that house all matters of inward enormity.
The gravity that grounds me fluctuates in proportion to my smile’s truth.

I feel compressed in dispositional parentheses of truth
on such days, obligated to be the embodiment
of perseverance on the pedestal of fate’s hypothesized enormity.
I am velcro to the sticker bushes of lopsided chemicals that bother
my attempts at dodging gravity with plaintive weight.
Curse you chemicals, for drowning me before my smiles turn transparent.

Are you listening, insipid seers of the transparent?
No badge of honour beckons for your breast in exchange for the truth
you muster in your own image. Enjoy the weight
you carry and cannot define. It’s the embodiment
of the mundane tolerance you call a comfort zone; a bother
all its own. Triviality you claim as everyday enormity.

It’s an indecisive kind of fun, tracking sense of enormity
in those who claim reality behind the smiles I know are transparent.
Yes, I know the difference, yet why bother
when it matters that only you care for the truth?
On such a hollow stage, solace wears the embodiment
of wardrobe not preoccupied with periodic placement so much as now’s weight.

Circumstantial, consequential, existential weight:
all implicit avenues converging on a subjective impression of enormity.
Riders on the black ice of a self-denial’s embodiment
take on the features of the element that took them there: transparent,
bereaved of grip, a gloss of aesthetic weather trifling with the treads of truth.
Let it slide, then let it crash into the immobility of a rejected cause for bother.

Like the organizer of a failed intervention, I strain to put a volume on the bother
left to be invested in the ones that deem my efforts to improve a life an artificial weight.
Like the subject of a failed intervention, I joust with the potential to impale the truth,
yet I’m burdened with this stiff, hermetic tether to the enormity
of feeling written off for being visually transparent
by the turgid regiment of ignorance’s slime-lipped embodiment.

I am a bother to the self-proclaimed appraisers of societal enormity.
I have been dubbed a slab of dead weight doubling as socially transparent.
I know the truth of my reality but can’t forget the fiction from the antithesis of my embodiment.

03 27 16


‘Beware the Ides Of March’

In honour of (you guessed it) ‘The Ides Of March’ and my favourite play.


My cronies were adept
at running on repentant swords

I preferred my infamy
in run-on sentences
of third-person propaganda
Even in the wet-backed wheeze
of my final breath
I retained the discipline
to do my kin proud
and turn around to
say goodbye to myself

I required no muse
to compose an immortality
assuring elegy
yet I cannot shirk a nod of gratitude
for how you dangled the phonetic
mastery of this identity
over noble Brutus

Only suicide allowed
a reinstatement of nobility
to the one who introduced himself
with a Brute syllable

I was justified to distrust
the one who thought too much
Such men devour the entrails of
the noble herd made content by
swallowing the spirits of assumed
good intentions

03 15 14


What have I learned from seasons? Winter used to mean school and I learned things there. The swelter of Summer was fitting as it connotated a commute around various avenues of damnation. The subconscious routes of nightmares would have been preferable, but my accomplices were far too real, far too fixed in their pockets of flesh, some into which I attempted to slip my hands and freeze time. I stand accused of being malevolent, but how could that be so in light of my low status, and consequently no influence on my accomplices? I’d like to plead guilty to everyone’s accessory charges and make all involved happy in turn. A guilty plea would mean that I was happy too. Happy in a snarly state of opportunism, preying on those unfortunate cases sidetracked by a thought that they could reform me. Not that they would change my position in class, only veer my conscience in irony into areas they did not set out to reform. The areas their own conscience followed around in lust, curiosity, or some intangible amalgamation of the two. But I am innocent. Too innocent for connection to the follies of the time of year in which I never learned. I know I never learned; my January sweat tells me so. Is this some kind of piecemeal damnation? Is this some form of high torture for the desired dissatisfaction of innocence?

08 22 03 – 01 18 16


Apologies for the lack of recent updates, but good things are happening. In the next couple of weeks (finishing in January), I will hand in the manuscript for book number two, then begin work on my third book, likely to be released around the Fall. I will add more info as I receive it, and will soon begin updating this page on a regular basis again.

Thank you to all who have read and supported me to this point, it means the world 🙂