I’m always speaking,



in constant motion,

and well aware how I can appear a self absorbed freak,

which is fine,

for I see myself as mixed between humanity and the animal kingdom,

and when I realise a human has nothing to offer,

but seems pleasant nonetheless,

I extricate politely,

through offering some of my weirdness…


There is much weasel in my nature,

some wombat,

some rhino,

even a hint of killer wasp,

yet when I speak,



the thought process has gathered the words from my instincts and I become all ears as the tongue wags…

and what I hear,

what I feel,

of the reflections beyond the impact of my own words,

is more fake and brainwashed than real.


Maybe I seek the intellectual jousting to blast away the superficial and meaningless

dig deeper to seek some howl and fang,

remove the topsoil,

for what moves me,

what makes my roots deep down shudder and bristle,

send messages to the surface which rumble and roar with electricity,

is someone speaking to me from their animal instincts,

their primal,

their raw,

their agony,

their bliss.

This has become more a projection of my hopelessness,

than the norm.

Still I prance,

treat all who come before me with my natural zeal to play or help or know by showing them my shadows,

My politics brutal,

yet tempered and ever second fiddle to my appreciation of another heart and soul meeting my own.

Too many now indoctrinated into barely concealed yet easily consumed guidance and their regurgitated hate speech,

bigoted and worse than those they condemn,

with synapses for critical thinking switched off,

and the worst of it,

is that they are led by the very oppressive powers they apparently are against…

They are told who to hate without thinking who is telling them to hate.

They prance upon virtual moral high ground always absent of any acceptance that they are worse than beasts they deem the enemy of all that is good for the world….

they hurt people who love them when stuck on REPEAT,

of hate speech packaged as do goodery,

and so puffed up their pride becomes,

that they forget,

that all that matters is love….

ANd hate born of showing love and finding savagery beyond need to survive in response.

Where are the other animals in human outline?

I seek them, need them, hope they accept me when I find them,

and can see what lies behind my words words words,

is something primal,


fervent and furtive,

in pouring towards them my essence in flash-floods human sounds and weasel body language,

then fear of the response,

bells ringing,

high alert,


and from hopeful, desperate for connection,

i’m transformed into the fox in the chicken coop…running for cover of branches and thunder.

yet those who matter,

my fellow animals,

hear my fox wannabe wolf squealing as something they know of the rain,

and hail.

found in the gutter…facing up and sneaking, ever furtive and fervent,  in between the humans,

trying to play quiet,

passing it all off as poor jesting and nervous energy…

trying to whitewash the unavoidable, uncomfortable reality>>>

I am guided not by human reason,

but the MOON,

demanding I swim naked in the tides rising up in reverence to try touch and be one with our lunar guide through day and night…


The older I get the more I understand,

that there is little nourishment to be gained by dealing with people who havent suffered.

nothing to spark my sense of tribe.

other than in heart,

though I am built of more than this,

and benign expressions of my accursed species,

whilst welcome and good for the world,

neither inspires or appeals,

For the only heart which can do this

is found in a lioness,

which has more to consider than pleasant and nice,

She is focused on survival,

of her tribe.

and will kill for this or die for this.

No holy book or social media mantra required,

just those around her who matter.

for good and ill,

they are her Pride.

And source of Joy and Belonging.

the role of a poet..

is not to try relate,

not to seek vapid homage from the worst of homogenised humanity,

to feel RIGHT…

its to live,

to thrive,

to delve deep in their own abyss whilst doing so,

and climb out that murky realm of intensity of agony and bliss,

and primal chaos,

where chimeras and ghouls loom ever larger and more vicious,

offering only the words of escape of one who assumed they were their last…

The role of a poet is not to seek applause,

never this…

the poet of the wilderness,

human shapes expressing verbatim their grasped at,

hoped to be one with,

unabashed berserk connection to NATURE,

which fewer and fewer have switched on in their mangled synapses.

Poetry is about heart and soul,

desire and misery,

hope and agony,

written solely for the source of the sensation which moves deep down,

in all that matters most.



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