Desk Warrior

A warrior with a desk job
A dire dilemma for Derek Hobbs
He felt himself slowly dying inside
Never to travel the whole world wide
Then something suddenly changed within
A war like no other did soon begin

The adventure of a board room scuffle
Dancing around to a deadly shuffle
Paper cuts his scars of battle
Artillery fire the boss’ prattle

Tank wars in the basement parking
Had his blood boiling and sparking
Cigarettes his daily ration
Flicking butts one of his passions

‘He died fighting the good fight’
They said at his funeral rite
He’d jumped off the forty second floor
He’d left his parachute by the door

A Piece of my Heart

If I cut off a piece of my heart
Would my prison break down to dust?
Would all of my demons then depart?

I’d pierce the heavens like a dart
I’d never be torn by disgust
If I cut off a piece of my heart?

Would I then be free as a hart?
Dancing free upon the Earth’s crust
Would all of my demons then depart?

To be given a brand new start
To be polished and free from rust
If I cut off a piece of my heart?

Anger and pride no longer part
To walk the bold path of the just
Would all of my demons then depart?

Self surgery is never smart
But there’s nobody else I trust
If I cut off a piece of my heart
Would all of my demons then depart?

If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

~Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn


The moon reflected on white marble floor,
white light I feel I can cut with a knife;
Dancing motes moving to slow ancient tunes.
The smell of dinner, eucalyptus and peace.
The taste of whiskey at the back of my throat.
It is time to sleep, the cuckoo clock sings.

Shotgun Crones

One night my Reflection came and took me
Transported me to an abandoned city
Near a mud road with bushes and brambles
This is where we made our ramble

Three crones pushed trolleys on deserted road
A shotgun in their carts the only load

“This is where we’ll join” my Reflection said
“Come on now, lie down, come lay your head
The ladies will help us integrate
Become one, for that is our fate”

I asked, “will they not shoot off my head?
They seem crazy, they might make us dead”

“Worry not,” then said my Reflection
“As long as you make no sudden tension
Close your eyes, relax and keep breathing
They will soon finish our conjoining”

I felt breath upon my face and just had to look
I screamed, and a shot to my face I took

Exploring the unconscious through my dreams
What would Jung make of these violent themes?
Was this an attempt to integrate my shadow?
Or just a silly dream, or something, I don’t know…

No Hero

Long ago, before his Reflection came to him…

Lived a tree in a garden surrounded by sea
Its leaves were corrupted and were no longer green
Its roots were alive, in motion, malicious and mean
When one came near, the tree would lash out and tear
It had grown too large and could no longer be sheared
The tenders of the garden lived there in fear
Bound by duty, they tried their best to clear tree of blemish

He went to the island by happenstance
Armed with bow arrows and sharp lance

Ground fertilized by the blood
of priestesses
Air suffused
with the smell of corpses
sacrificed in vain
to contain
the diseased tree

He learnt to run
In this sorry place
Leaping away
From spear roots
Or toxic tide

He learnt not to cry
While his companions died
There was no time to shed tears
For tree and sea ate time away

He learnt to sing
To keep his mind
Away from things

He learnt of hope
He learnt despair
He learnt how to give
the priestesses cheer

He learnt of futility
For the tree grew and grew
He learnt of utility
For the sea ate all else

He also learnt to run away
Never to come back again…

He wonders now
What happened to that land
Did they ever find
A hero who could withstand

A small part of him consoles, he never ran away
The garden, ocean and tree were always within

Apocalyptic Soul

Is it the apocalypse I see?
Permafrost destroying all
Or is it my soul gone empty?

Where there can be found no glee
Where broken skyscrapers stand tall
Is it the apocalypse I see?

Where there is no river or tree
Where there is no gate only wall
Is it my soul gone empty?

Can the vision guarantee
That it proclaims man’s fall
Is it the apocalypse I see?

Likely it is no prophecy
It stinks of a personal call
Is it my soul gone empty?

Walking on a dead sea
Filled with crystallized salt
Is it the apocalypse I see
Or is it my soul gone empty?

A Haunt of Totems

Out on the edges of his soul land,
where the desert meets ocean sunset,
where rose bushes grow on streams of manure,
where the moon turns everything to clean marble.

A land of peculiar people,
walking along on barren roadways.
Each a totem, a bizarre symbol,
placed on a vast spectrum of good and evil.

He sees,
the Queen of Snakes.
Black hair falls to her waist;
Her curls hide stars and condense moonlight.
He hears,
her beckon seductively.
The libido of his soul transcending the flesh,
he feels no temptation;
Not in this place.

He sees,
the sisters three,
with shotguns in their shopping trolleys.
Old and withered, hunchbacked, and grinning.
He hears,
loud guffaws and shrieks of rage,
madness tinkling in their endless cacophony.
Fear grips him but he cannot wake.

He sees,
a blond haired hero,
taller than him by a head.
Fair and dignified, magnificent and refined,
with a woman on each arm,
and even more in his bed.
He hears,
the ancient magic of glamour,
the women’s eyes glazed and half dead.

He sees,
a figure of Dread,
dressed in white robes and a masked face,
beckoning him to come closer, to give in.
He hears,
a raspy voice promising him greatness.
Whispers of adventure,
tales of glory;
All for him,
as long as he says yes.

He runs;
Fear makes his soul scream.
The landscape quakes,
the oceans turn to magma,
the roses burn,
the moon glows red.

He wakes,
back to safety,
back to clarity,
back to order.

The totems follow.
The hauntings begin.


Dragons and devils dance about,
breeding in a dark soup of lost souls.
A gigantic beast that casts no shadow,
creating trails of destruction.

Bright stars plucked out of the night sky
and sewn onto purple dresses
of plastic mannequins walking the ramp,
before ivy tressed stone ruins.

Green signboards filled with gibberish,
pointing every direction;
Their text long since warped by ancient winter,
bringing false hope to the people.

He passes by alien spectacles,
afraid, alone, looking for his soul;
Blazing trails at random.

The Castration of Hurdy McGurdy

Hurdy McGurdy, a giant of a man
The whole world quakes when he sits on the can
He breaks glass ceilings with a hop skip and jump
The floor cracks under when he falls on his rump
When he dives into ocean a tsunami forms
When he smokes a cigarette he breathes out a storm
His dick is big, as big as a mountain
Though some mistake it for a water fountain
Women turn rosy red when he comes near
They’re in his bed as soon as he says ‘Dear’

Harpoon Hanna has sailed the seven seas
She steals men’s hearts before they can say ‘freeze’
She has the looks of a beautiful and delicate swan
And also a right hook that’ll knock you out like a baton
She doesn’t stay within the bounds of propriety
She’ll treat you alright just as long as you “don’t fuck with me”
She’ll say it in a most salubrious manner
Nightingale songs sounds mundane once you hear her

The scene of the crime: a bar on the wharf
Hurdy looks at Hanna and suggestively coughs
While in the most obscene way peeling a banana
He moans and moans caught in an orgasmic nirvana

“You’ve got something to say stranger?”she asks
Hurdy flexes his pecs and lifts up a cask
“You and me and she, a menage a three?”
Says, “come on babies, I’m not always free”

He grabs her waist and displays his guns
He grins wide, “I lift weights by the ton”
She twists his ear until he lets go
This is the first time someone’s said “No”

With a swing of her hand she catches his crotch
She squeezes hard, even twists it up a notch
Hurdy’s face turns red, then green, and finally white
Hurdy’s hurting, he’s never been in such a plight

Hurdy McGurdy, a pitiable fellow
His manhood is gone, his balls turned to Jell-O

He Thinks

Why is it easier to write in the third person?
A ‘he’ instead of an ‘I’ when  the symptoms worsen

He thinks and thinks but he still can’t get an answer
He pirouettes with thoughts like a ballet dancer

His mind is afire during the dusk of lucidity
A few hours of freedom before he takes that 10 mg

Perhaps it’s because he can pretend he’s someone else
Transforming autobiography into novelette

Perhaps it’s because I’m too tired to think
But ‘he’ can carry on with a nod and a wink