Diary of a Madman: Aphorisms, Maxims and Allegories

The Heavens descend in the form of tragedy...

And I ask too much of the wounded.

Bell shaped curves, rocketing back and forth, circumnavigating droplettes of sweat -

Straight on, to the more angelic features of a dream.

We lay breathless, wordless, in a four-walled world of promises,

The chasm, a head held high, a strategic absence of held-hands and ribboned boxes,

opened further by our nonchalance...


Poetic picture frames, and candelabrum, and that clevery unidentifiable shade of Red...

Like prophetic sign-posts,
to the alter of last kisses,
and the gods,
of cold, sunless, summers -

We shift in unison, upon the embers of yesterday

Each waiting for the other,
Each glaring at the spectre that is the clock on the wall -


The best lit Fiction, in the room...