December 31, 2008


My life twists
Dangling in the mists
A spider in the earliest hint of dawn.
My mind roams
Lost in a thousand homes,
Amnesiac messenger still trying to warn.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, April 2008

December 25, 2008


All the little people
Who lived on the Moon
Went into hiding,
Not a bit too soon.

Nixon promised cars and cokes
And Nixon promised strings,
But they were worse than Communists
And didn’t want such things.

So, in case the President
Got it in his head
To bomb the little Moonies
If he thought that they were red,

All the little people
Who lived on the Moon
Went into hiding,
Not a bit too soon.

They tore up all their houses
And they spread some dust around,
And dug up all the trees they had
And took them underground.

When Nixon saw the mess they’d left,
The craters, rocks and sand,
He said on TV coast to coast
“We’ve reached the Promised Land.”

“Since the week of the Creation”
(As Old Glory was unfurled)
“This week is the greatest
“In the history of the world.”

“Americans” he said, “Revere
“The steps that we have trod;
“This here’s the new Paradise;
“And this time, guess who’s God.”

But what with bombing Communists
And wasting oil and men,
America’s resources
Were back to scratch again.

They cut back on expansion
And left alone the Moon,
And all the little people said
“Not a bit too soon!”

They put back all their houses
And replanted all their trees,
And as they passed a pipe around
They said to God, “O please –

“We know those people are a mess,
“And bound for trouble soon,
“But with a little less, they’d be
“As happy as the Moon.”

Published: Ryerson Free Press, Canada, April 2008

December 20, 2008


The correct thing to do, when you're dead,
Is have someone take care of your head.
There's no chance of more drama
Without Futurama -
Don't say you weren't warned! Act, instead!

Published online: Transhumanity, November 2005

December 13, 2008


More than the actual loss, it’s helplessness
That we most loathe when suffering a theft:
The arbitrary way one daring, deft,
Brass act leaves careful order in a mess;
The knowledge the thief’s wilder and cares less;
The easy way he tears the warp and weft
Of dull security; the insight left
The cosmos can as quickly curse as bless.

Therefore the fears are mostly overblown –
The thief himself causes no loss or strife
More than insurance or day’s work redeems.
But there’s a greater thief, and more unknown,
Who comes each night and steals one third your life,
Leaving no more than fingerprints, your dreams.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, October 2008

December 6, 2008


The Reaper, with hourglass and hoar locks,
Sees me dreaming of witches and warlocks,
Of doing and fighting,
Of loving, of writing,
Taps my shoulder and says “I’m from Porlock’s.”

Published online: Snakeskin, UK, October 2008