Writing the wrongs

Poetry, writing, and recovery from mental illness


And on the seventh day
God made
injustice, famine, disease, war, misery,
and writers
to draw inspiration
from all of the above
I’m sure I could do a better job of creation
It’s Facebook-official
I seem to overlook
the tranquility
that many
fellow two-legged creatures
live on a daily basis
How the bloody hell do they do it?
I’m glad to sit next to this
noisiest of boilers
just to give this mind
some healthy competition


The Western world
was built within
warring walls;
we made our way
across the seas
with a wounded wit
and so when we saw
the rich bounties
in unknown lands
we saw
an offering.
We chopped those trees
ignoring those
inconvenient inhabitants
who had not our foresight
nor eye for profit;
those women and men
who sought not to exploit
but to love and live with nature.
The rest is our shared story
and however one reads it
one can’t help feel that
human greed trumps
human need.

Dailypost: Harmonize


walking down 
haunted quarters
too often I turn in hope 
of finding 
although I know your face
has long since deserted 
these cherished corners
the solitary 
sodium streetlamp 
the flickering expectation 
that propels me
to wander these roads
and wonder about you—
(Does he make you laugh?)
the fresh night air
reminds me 
of how i would open your dress 
and warm your stone skin 
on stolen nights.
Suddenly aghast 
at your ineffable 
I retrace the steps 
that we once walked
winding down 
to the window I would climb 
through to find you,
and wade through 
piercing fragments of ossified moments,
memories that fell into cruel oblivion,
you promised
forever darling


tipples and nipples
a top night in (you)

too many metaphysical ponderings
stifle the freshness of the mind;
the robin’s birdsong
is the gateway to the truth!

Dailypost: Gate

beautiful white cloud
couldn’t give a damn
about my “problems”!

Chester (1976–2017), a tribute poem

It was the age of zits,
expensive trainers
that seemed like no-brainers
and watching Linkin Park on “The Hits.”
First girlfriend,
first break-up,
and pretty girls in make-up.
Hiding in my room
from the world’s problems
never breaking the habit
of damaging my ears
as your unique voice
calmed adolescent fears;
exams I flunked,
things I should have done
things I shouldn’t have;
girls I should have kissed
and shouldn’t have.
You were always there
pedal to nü metal
as doubts crawled in my skin
–these wounds you helped to heal.
With my Walkman
I took you spinning
with you, I would feel,
it was somewhere I belonged.
Mr Bennington,
this is me saying thank you
and rest in peace;
you have left us in pieces.
I’d just like to say
on behalf
of a generation of misfits:
In the end
you really did matter.

a little of love
echoes in eternity
–or so the lark sings

au détour d’une rue
un enfant ôte la tète
à une pauvre baguette

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