And the Dragons Made Love...

A water dragon penetrated the rock like a sword in the stone,
the air dragon rippling its wings as it flew down to the ground.
The water dragon’s scales shone green and blue in the sunlight
as it slithered toward the earth dragon’s centre,
the dwelling place of fire dragons.
The elementals were intertwined
in snake-like love making,
as they have always been,
since the beginning of thought.


This was the waterfall
where dragon masters met
to discuss the future of mankind,
their spherical garden of Eden.
Their voices can still be heard
rattling through the trees nearby.
They may be the only ones to understand
the true meaning and power of such a place.


Offerings lay scattered
in honour of the dragon spirit:
prayers, wishes and desires
for sanctuary, wisdom and healing.


I left a prayer
for a loved one,
then droplets of wisdom
fell onto my page
from an unknown source,
leaving a dragon seed.


The fifth is a dragon of creation
and we are made of all five-
plus a sixth;
one fashioned by our own minds:
a dragon of power.

This poem literally dropped onto the page of my notebook somewhere in Cornwall I think (it was about 10 years ago and my brain is pretty hazy at the best of times).

It was a clearing in the middle of an ancient forest where a stream flowed through a hole in the rock to create the most amazing waterfall I'd ever seen.

I dream of the water dragon occasionally. He smiles with his watery eyes and sometimes allows me to eat one of his green and blue scales, which for some unknown reason taste like smoky bacon flavour crisps. After consuming it I usually feel empowered and awake feeling stronger and more confident.

The poem was drawn from sounds, images, feelings, legend and what I can only describe as automatic writing brought on by the incredible power emanating through the trees, wind, rocks and water. It needed very little redrafting in my opinion and I’ve retained the slightly chaotic rhythm to reflect the ambiance of the piece and the place.

...And a fresh new poem with no explanation...

Routine Procedures


Routine is like your threadbare sofa,
familiar, but will open up bed sore
style wounds on your arse
given too much time.


Routine was sold to you by your parents,
bought from teachers, exploited by slavers.
"Stand up straight, line up, get a job",
spend your wages on routine fashions.


Routine is four walls at home,
then work, then home, then work,
then bright lights and impulse buys of Asda,
then home, then work, then home.


Routine is angular like a bony elbow
or the corner of your room
in which you hide, watching
the four corners of your TV screen.


Routine is tapping and swiping,
tapping and swiping
your rectangular devices
like caressing your comfort blanket.


Routine is the serial killer,
carefully planned slow rotting
death like teasing your carotid artery
with knife, hoping for slow bleed.


You're not built for this routine monotony,
you're not a metronome.
You have natural rhythm beating
the skins below your surface,
a malleable universal melody.


Break the bony elbow of routine,
go off path into woods,
follow the dryads to places without walls,
where everything is curvy and waiting.


Get lost in a place you've never been,
fear not, you need to lose yourself,
to break routine
to feel again
the sexy twin thighs of contentment and freedom.

The Human Animal: thoughts and poetry on the evolution of humanity

A collection of thoughts on the evolution of our species

Is a group of humans a tribe, a flock, a gang or just a crowd?

Can we ever know who or what we are?

To seek yourself is the paradox of being human, but to define yourself is to put yourself in a box.

We know not what we are, for to get the ultimate definition of self is to change the self into something beyond definition.

We transcend who we are every time we learn something new.

Then what box do we put ourselves into? When do we cease being human and become something other?

Man-made mutations have perhaps stopped our evolution - we adapt the world to our needs instead of adapting ourselves to fit into the world.

We're at war with the world and with ourselves, but we're no match for either. Our violence is bestial at best, true to our nature as arrogant animals.

It is our curse to never understand ourselves in our current form, but that won't stop us searching. If that search is ceased, all meaning would dissipate and we would become the animals we are.

An evolution of consciousness - is this the key to human evolution?

The Scarab

I speak on behalf of all scarabs.

We’ve rolled our balls of crap

for over forty million years.

We’ve been here long

enough to know

when a species needs to evolve.

The Earth has become a sphere of human droppings

- but within that dung are eggs of change,

waiting to hatch into larvae and feed.

So, will you wait for Anubis

to open your mouth?

Will you be reborn

as something other than human?

Or will you roll

your faecal globe

into a burrow

of destruction?

Watching the Masquerade

I am the spirit of lost ancestry,

watching the movements of humanity.

People are becoming marionettes.

Everywhere I look, I’ll never forget

the soulless faces, repeating phrases

devoid of true meaning, as if possessed.

Once lined with wisdom, expressive faces

have been replaced with Ekpo masks*, excess

layers of makeup, botox and plastic.

A dangerous ghost wanders all nations,

eating life, devouring talent, mastic-

-ating soul; it’s known as corporations,

government, establishment, media.

So begins the human-robot era.

*Ekpo masks are still used in traditional south-eastern Nigerian masquerades, where the maskers impersonate ancestral spirits. The Ekpo mask in particular had a moveable jaw, allowing it to speak, and it is said to represent a dangerous wandering ghost. See the picture below.

Modern Man

I caught a glimpse of him.

He was sat on the pavement,

head in his hands,

feet in the gutter.

He moved like a stick insect

-a jerky motion

in no particular direction.

His predators were anything that moved.

When he spotted something threatening

(a lady struggling up the hill with a pram)

he blended in with a lamp post

as grey as his once tidy clothes.

He came close enough to make out his features

-like last week’s discarded newspapers,

forgotten stories hidden under growth.

His eyes were glazed, intoxicated;

they told of a family that couldn't cope

with his abusive addictions.