The Machine

Organised violence, insatiable greed, accumulation,

days pass for most in quiet desperation,

Power-worship, objectification, a mockery of hope,

promises of a better tomorrow, bodies hung by rope,

state execution, torture, this type of society ought not to last,

generations of trust in leaders, always hopeful, no link to the past,

Broken homes, broken dreams, the death of irony,

invention of vocabulary, pay and thank the mercenary,

Uniformity, assimilation and a threat so incessant,

to question is daring, move on, swallow another antidepressant

Mercantilism, monopolies, limited liability,

violence of finance considers no human fragility,

Crowds, cities, yet isolation,

nervous breakdown, innocent hope crushed in frustration,

Faceless, beauracracy, centralization,

efficiency rules all wave goodbye to human relations,

Homelessness, human trafficking, prostitution,

suspension of disbelief, another day’s labour the solution,

Cultures of silence, atomic bombs of science,

try to mute the news while you join the queues,

Worship the pay, get a chance to play,

soon to realise that which you truly despise

more than the impotence before a self-perpetuating machine,

is a lost life, who you could have been.

Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing (poem)

Woe to those who shut their eyes and cover their ears,

They number beliefs and fabricate fallacious fears.

Tell me then with that smile so endearing

of what shall become the child you’re rearing?

Who would have thought such a venomous sting

could be such an innocuous sting?

Lofty words, unlived all the same,

In the end you’re playing the obedience game.

It struck me profoundly some years now past,

that my obedience to flesh and bone always comes last.

Imitation of Petrarch (poem)

How graceful thy step yet elusive all the same?


Such radiance dethrones all else in my sight,


How enamoured I become with the sound of thy name?


A day’s darkness obscured by a face so bright.


In solitude does my longing greatly ferment,


for time is precious little on earth,


simply in sympathy cracks the hourglass by daily increment,


all is manifest before me in the open hearth.


Yet this mere kindling is subject to my hand,


with wood, coal and poker in my possession,


While over the heart’s holy affections have I no command.


I ask thee maiden before I make too bold a profession,


to spend with me what’s left of the pouring sand,


I pray these words hold as a mutual confession.