This Mortal Vessel

The insane brain
acts out a
forced majeure,
to escape
its turbulent pain,
as it yearns
for the divine.

To turn off the particle
and contain the membrane;
I return it to God,
I have my definitive existance.

I think,
therefore I’m insane.
I am,
therefore I’m death.
I am dead,
therefore I’m reborn.
I prayed,
but never went away.

I alight into
a half fuelled fantasy
of a perfect night
knowing the
lust would leave
an emptiness
and nothing is fixed.

I feel less than
for more than usual,
I cannot excuse
the anger for you,
directed past you,
as I’m abandoned
on the high shelf.

I cast out ideas
of love unconditional
and I loath
this very vessel,
the very instant
I found you,
created you
from nothing; into
full view.

Pity, poor.

My name is Pete
I’m a heroin addict
as a matter of fact
I’m an anything addict.
Whatever drug i use
I can find a dozen more,
with each drug I take
it’s life I forsake.

Hiding from feelings
I run for the door
step out of myself
my emotions and thoughts.
Running in circles
I stop any growth
everyone’s to blame,
but its me that I loath.

Today I feel different
I face each fear
jumping through hoops
to keep my mind clear,
to find my soul
to free my spirit
to untrouble my thoughts
and set my own limits.


The pain of existance
turns my mind inwards
I become self centred
afraid of my shadow.

Every word anaylised
each line planned
responses skimmed over
in the palm of my hand.

The diabolical obsession
festers in fantasy
leads me in circles
blinds me from reality.

If I stop caring
my spirit becomes broken
I slowly seep backwards
my disease is woken.


Dreams of yellow and gold fields,
the colour of summer.
A winding grass track,
a range rover stuck in the ditch.

A Jag dumped and burned
by the rickety old fence.
An old wooden gate guards the border
to our modest patch.

Vegetables and plants
an acre to the back.
A grand wooden hut
where we all used to stay.

A green caravan for nan,
a wooden shed for grandad
by an outside toilet,
happy with what we had.

Found in the grass,
an abandoned valve radio
dismantled to find its secret,
a process carried over.

The whole plot surrounded
by woods and fields.
Playing oldschool games
with my brother and my grandad.

Take a brisk walk for food
through the ancient wood,
a goat on the roof
of a pubs outside shed.

The Town sits nearby
with white concrete roads,
a scene out of the sixties
Hockley, East of London.

Beautiful simple times
our summers were occasions,
six weeks seemed like a year,
the days spent on vacation.

Addict/ Pandemic

The abysmal scratching at the door,
like the empty rooms of before,
from the empires to the shores
everything begins to fall.

From predicting to contradiction,
the information affliction,
backing into a dark corner
I return to fight my addiction.

The fear suffocates and darkens,
tries to engulf me entirely
meets me half way there
and strengthens my recovery.

I find myself rescinded
I try to stop pretending
If I give in to despair
I can never begin surrendering.

Hiding behind the open door,
I clutch at brittle straws,
there’s nothing I want more
than to see the world restored.


Ghosts and spirits
in the essence,
shadows of beings
from other dimensions.
Higher worlds
not within our comprehension.

Blobs and shapes, in and out of space,
floating around the earth,
unable to share
our 3 dimensional air.

In and out of homes
scaring god-fearing folks,
who believe ghosts are no good.

But this is such a misconception,
its not a contravention,
spirits have no bad intentions,
its just their shadows that get attention.