• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 02
Image by


Christopher, being strange, did not make up
For all the stranger things we might have said.
I said, I’ll see you waiting on the hill;
You said, I’ll see you standing in the range.

There’s something missing. Cold becomes too much
When cold is all there is; but no, there’s not.
I said, I think the sea is in the distance;
You said, I think that isn’t sea but sky.

Remember when I said you were a wolf?
You didn’t understand; I didn’t care.
You said, There’s wolves and wolves, and I said, No,
There’s only wolves of one type: that type’s yours.

I want the day to brighten. Sunlight happens
Because if it were always dark we’d die.
I said, This lack of sun! (I lacked all sight.)
You said, I love horizons. So do I.

The mist! Why mist must deepen in the world
I can’t say; I don’t know but know one thing:
I said I would be waiting down below,
You said you would be waiting up above.

That’s all. Imagine if you can the stranger
Who’ll never be a stranger in the end:
I didn’t want to stay down in the range;
I climbed and climbed. I’m with you on the hill.


Hungry Like The Wolf

    Cass is my brother, even if nobody believes it.
    Cass is big, blonde, and good-looking. Girls turn to stare everywhere he goes. Guys, too, sometimes, which isn't Cass's thing, but he doesn't make a big jerky deal when they do.
    Me, I'm mousy brown and scrawny. I could set myself on fire without anybody noticing.
    But when Cass comes to pick me up at school, Eileen Branagan says, "That is your brother?" Eileen has about seventeen brothers and as many sisters. Everyone of them looks exactly like Eileen.
    I say yes, even though I know people like Eileen might not exactly count me and Cass as for-real brother and sister, since all we have in common is our mom, which is why he (hot) looks so different from me (not). Cass never even knew his dad, and I barely remember mine. "Better that way," Cass says, whenever I bring it up, which I've stopped doing. He was bad to me and worse to mom, is all Cass will tell me about my dad, and something about the way he says it makes me think he might have been worst of all to Cass.
    We don't need dads, is the way Cass figures it. Wolves don't have dads, they just have one leader who takes care of the whole pack. Cass knows everything about wolves. He reads every wolf book there is, which might surprise you because Cass is not the school and library type. His whole room is full of wolf posters, the best of which, lone wolf in the mountains, is also painted on the back of his denim j. Cass is not a lone wolf. He is the leader of our pack, and that's why he is getting a tattoo of three wolves. He is getting it on our magic birthday, the day he turns 21 and I turn 12, mirror-image ages, because even though we have different dads we are born the same day exactly nine years apart.
Read more >


Mountain as Molehill

The sky looks like God got up today
and decided to redecorate.

No masking tape,
but a face like thunder and a threadbare jumper,
and the radio turned to eight.

Weary from the six-day workweek
He stumbles past mountains left as molehills
and first-draft forests.

He picks and sniffs through pots:
Grace and Glory,
a colour-match for Compassion…

He settles on an understated shade of Shame.

Rings two clouds out like a sponge.



…nipped by bitter women,
the lonely-suit men,
I look for them.
Hearts like pencil shavings.
The stars have fucked them over.
It’s cold. They seek the sun
within a 20 mile radius.
Married men live longer lives
and they have longer legs than dogs
so I seek second-hand worship
and long walks in the Lake District.


Keeping It Simple

In a way, right, now bear with me – in a way, I was thinking it looks more like a raccoon than a wolf anyway – facially I mean; there’s this little black patch around the eye that sort of looks like – yeah – so we could play with that. You know, changing perceptions and? – well obviously it’s a wolf, but there’s that patch – look, I know it’s a wolf actually I just thought –

You do. You pay me to think. That is what you – well I don’t know, there’s no pleasing some people. But we always keep it simple, I just – I thought, transformations, you know, seeing one thing as another – don’t look at me like that, I hate it when you look at me like that! No I’m not finished!

Right, alright, another one. You might like this one. Look, if you cut the picture in half yeah, down the centre, or maybe not the exact centre, just along the line of the, the wolf’s neck, right, and then switch the halves round, the mountain that’s on the left hand edge matches up with the mountain on the right hand edge, so it – it forms a new mountain right? In the middle there? With two wolves, only you can’t see the whole of either wolf and it just adds this sort of mystery to the whole thing. Like maybe these valleys just keep going on and on, symmetrical, right, with a – with a wolf in each one and the same road and then the – and I mean we don’t have to say any of this so much, just sort of show it, right, so the image sort of flickers and rolls and reels and the audience – fine, fine the viewers – start thinking what if the whole world is like this valley right? This is all of it. And then, and then, the Audi comes around the last hairpin.

Look, I didn’t get into this job to churn out more of the same – I want to do something different. I mean what is new about a wolf on a hill? Why is that gonna make anyone buy anything?

Read more >

See you better my dear …

If he could trace his steps,
which infact he easily could.
But if he would trace his steps.

You know,
back to the choices before choices.

Almost as in a fairy tale. Once upon a time, there was a wolf, no there was a man.

He could or would easily see which wolf he had fed at the time.

You know based on the indian tale of feeding the wolf of thoughts, of heart, you wish to be stronger. How animal are you dear, just so I can see you better.

Yes, if could would.
If would could.

Hear you better.

Now, lone wolf that he was he could stand tall in old age and know it was all clear as day. Bright red day.
Read more >



He's an old wolf,
a lone wolf;
never did
run with the pack,
preferring to slink
the world

He's always been grey
and the breath
from his muzzle
clouds about him;
damp, dank
and strangely cold.

Sometimes it gets
too much
and he'll seek out
a mountain top,
turn his yellow eyes
to the sky
and howl for the moon
his own air
hides from him.


The Encroachers

On the wind there. Smell it?

They’re coming.

I’ve watched as they scratched their way towards us. Day by day they draw closer. The twists and turns belie their true direction. They are coming straight at us.

As long as memory they have stayed in the distance, far below where the valley dips and falls from view. And we’ve been happy to live this way. Apart. At a safe distance.

For so long they were simply voices. Unseen things whose sounds were carried in the air during sunlit hours. Their strange calls, sharp and biting, but with a purpose, with a meaning, that much was always clear.

And now the smell of them. This is how close they have come. Their milky sweetness clings to the air like a mist. An innocent scent that could fool a gentler soul.

But I am no fool.

I have slipped into town at night and watched as they huddled together under the lamplight’s warm glow.

They fear the night, what lies beyond the safety of that huddle. And when they see their own eyes reflected back at them in the window’s glass they can’t be sure if the candle’s flicker is something more. A yellow eye that leaves them shivering.

They sense me there, beyond the glass as I pass by. They know me. But in ways that are only half true.

Read more >


An Echo

The leash of his voice has fallen away,
And his world has emptied out.

My blood, water for so long now,
Thickens and grows warm.

I ache to surge, to bind in breath
Muscle and sinew and tooth,

To shake the life loose from between bones,
And feel the spark quicken, subside and pass

From rabbits, rats, furtive things,
From the deeper shadows that lumber and unfold

And demand I bow,
For this is their world also.

His voice, his voice would insist “No.”
He would yank and whistle, sometimes growl.

Summoned, I would return
And, grinning, nuzzle his wet palm,

Dizzy with his smell
And grateful for his touch.

Now I skirt these unpeopled roads
That wind into the valley.

I am an echo.
I am an echo seeking its source.


A Lost Cause

My limbs are numb from the climb but it’s still a long road ahead.
I rest my beat body on the grit of nowhere. Today this coat doesn't do its job, today it refuses to comply. It’s not enough now, to keep the cold away. It’s tired, of running, of fighting. It’s wrestled away its power.
It was tough once, when we ran together. In packs, to do battle against those mightier than we could ever be. We lost more than we won but we had courage. Courage that came from belonging. Being a part of something gave us strength. We knew it wouldn't last, we wouldn't last, something bigger was happening out there and we felt it.
One by one, all lost, all gone.
This land is not for the likes of me now, it’s far too rugged, far too ugly. No, this land is for the ruthless, for the cold-blooded, for them.
Not much time now before they catch up, before I have to move again.


Watching and waiting for a sign
A sign of life far away in the valley,
Through the mist the promised one will come.
She is out there,
We are destined to be together,
I have called to her,
I keep calling
My voice echo's through the mountains, hills
and valley, then back to me
in one long melancholy note.
I wait for a response.
Her voice will be heard,
softer, and a slightly higher pitch.
She will return to me.
We will be reunited.
Until then I wait.
My faith is all I have.

Defeat My Existence

What is defeat? What does it mean? And what would you call it if you never had a chance in the first place. Here there was no war, there was no fight, nothing so reasoned. Here there were no great battles, no explosions of primeval stupidities hurling themselves fiercely into the fray, vying for survival, the raw surge of adrenaline pushing physicality to it’s limits. Here equals never met, there are no stories of note and no heroes. At least not from your perspective. This is a space devoid of awareness, rife with myopias and superfluities, bleak and barren. Concrete and Steel. Decaying. Dying. Deprived of a narrative that hasn't been lost, contorted or manipulated by disinterest and your ‘necessities’. The quiet hum of the power line, the stifling clouds of diesel fumes rising. It didn’t always look like this. I have seen it.
See, you think that the iconic upland lunar landscape is a marvel, something wonderfully natural. Perhaps it’s emptiness promotes a stillness that you all crave and need. But this world wasn’t meant for emptiness, and one should not marvel at death. To stare in doltish awe at catastrophe is at first strange, but to then repeat the act is truly terrifying. You stare at deserts, the high dunes and mirages and see beauty; but not for the process that led to their existence, for true understanding would surely dwarf the superficial sensory deluge that they impose. What you don’t see is history and what was. The ecosystems and lives that flourished and the fires, scorched earth and collapse that left only a few alive.
Read more >

The Wolf’s Degenerates

In the forbidden village dawn ascends quickly, the sudden removal of a violet blanket over mankind. The village folk sleep quietly entertaining myriad exotic and terrifying dreams, while the insomniac few embrace the new day, throwing their small wooden doors wide, welcoming the cool mountain air into their lungs, their homes, their lives.
There is a richness here to the air and the land, the soil supporting a plethora of crops to help keep the village folk satisfied throughout the winter months. But their generous harvest isn’t shared with their neighbours, the ones who skirt the periphery of their unsavoury land, the word degenerates whispered off their tongues. All they can speak about are degenerates and the lonesome wolf, referring to the village folk as the wolf’s degenerates, whose blood is far from pure and milk white in colour.
Their story is an ancient one but like all ancient stories they are never forgotten. Instead they are passed on to children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and so on. The original version gets altered, modified, reinvented; although the basic facts remain the same. Their king, originally believed to be a wise man of sound judgement was seduced on the eve of his wedding night by a creature disguised as the perfect embodiment of womankind. A woman with liquorice hair, diamonds for eyes and a rose for a mouth.
When his intended’s mother found out what had passed between him and this ungodly creature beneath the moon’s milky beam, she placed a curse on the king, a spell that could never be lifted nor broken, something which would stay with him for the rest of his life and remind him of all he had lost.
It was true, he still had his people, but his nightly transformation terrified the youngsters of neighbouring villages, with many of its elders claiming it was the devil’s work, and had relinquished all ties it once held with them.
And so the once-seduced king continues to live a very secluded existence, ruler by day, wolf by night, and watches impassively as night dissolves into day, high above his forbidden village.


Last night I dreamed
about a wolfman.
He chased me through
the mountains, along
mist-mired paths.
I played hard to catch
but of course he was faster,
I was soon on my back.
He ravaged me while
howling at the moon.
I screamed, yes, yes, yes.
But what a letdown,
even a wolfman
can come too soon.


I am old, my time nearly done,
but I tell you, and you must pass it on.
The ways of man and wolf are not dissimilar,
both predatory, both hierarchical.
There, that's the philosophy dealt with,
now you can allow an old one her memory.

Ai-ee, ai-ee, how I howled;
how I bayed the moon
until the mountains rose bare and barren -
the footpaths of man yet to be thought of.

My agony echoed round the Seven Hills,
escaped into the rising mist.
I fled the lair, unable to bear
the sight of those two still bodies,
and all the time the milk kept coming,
mocking my motherhood.

A similar sort of day,
the Tiber's silver streamers
wound and unravelled,
endlessly alight.

Led by some secret lore, I found them -
two small human boys, harder
to distinguish than my cubs,
wailing from bushes by the river’s bank.
All the time the milk within me cried out for use;
I let it flow from me to them, knowing
it would re-shape our world, and theirs.



I know how he feels.
He's just found out there's no Santa Claus.
Still, we've all been there.
Stared, wide-eyed, at the parents,
tying up their bag full of lies.

He feels the same, only now
he's no chance of a job.
He looks wistfully into the damp valley,
listens for the crackle of kindle,
somewhere to dry off his desires.


sometimes you dream of wolves, not foxes

fur green I watch your face emerge
at the vanishing point of dawn
you tread the dry river beds with ease
you have crossed higher fences fir lined
valleys blur with the sound in your throat
I claimed this road but you made a bridge
this earth is no longer mine nor wholly yours
could we be both dew and gravel?


or maybe visual into the address bar and Google Chrome anticipated visualverse.org and I hit enter and Google Chrome brought me to the page and I opened a fresh Word document and waited for Word to load and I saved the document vis verse and returned to visualverse.org but the view of the artwork was only partial and I scrolled down a few paces and still the view of the artwork fuller now was only partial and I scrolled back up and then down again and then up again and then down again confirming that however I viewed the artwork the view of the artwork was only partial and I decided to scroll back down again to cut off VOL. 02 – CHAPTER 02 and some of the sky for more of the wolf and in particular for the rest of its back right paw and also for the rest of the earth beneath it and I looked at the earth trying to decide what exactly to call it and then glanced up and saw the green grass and decided that the earth was earth even though the bits of stone gave me the impression not of earth but of stone and the dark brown color of the earth was ultimately what convinced me to call the earth earth especially in contrast to or with the green color of the grass and I remembered that the grass was fairly high and decided to look at it again and I had to resist the urge to follow the nose of the wolf pointing toward a trail probably or a narrow road trailing or winding in the middle distance and off with a squiggle and a hairpin turn here and there and a lighter gray that stood out in the darker green valley and disappeared over a hummock and likely continued between the twin peaks although it may very well have taken a sharp turn up one of the peaks and climbed and when I returned to the wolf it was no longer pointing with its nose at the trail or the road but standing next to me in its grey coat light on its paws but braced for sudden movement despite that I did not pose a threat or maybe the sudden movement would threaten me and I wanted to rub its neck on the right side nearest me and with my right hand feel against the grain of the soft fur with the leading edge of my outer palm and flex my fingers slightly into the fur and if I was daring continue along its neck to its right ear drawn back and flop it over

The Lone Wolf

You may think it glamorous
to wait indefinitely
half way up my mountain
tail between legs.

A soft focus mist
curling over peaks
a little path stretching away endlessly
but I'm dog tired.

I've lost my pack
lost the scent
and I wait for a deer
or red riding hood.

It's a grey day-
I know I'm moth-eaten-
eaten up worrying
wondering if another meal's coming my way.

In one hour-
I'll go back
up the hill and see if I can't
bark or howl.

That way
the wild boar should get going
and keep
soul and hide together!


Solitary Vixen

Try, wake with a hopefulness that drowns. Wishing to sleep forever, dirt will embrace me there. What are these fallacies anyway? Because in the end, all turns to nothing. Nothing at all. Wilted shadows lashed across the earth, spawned black face of mine. Morbid mushrooms disseminating the Garden of Eden, watch it rot. Smoke filled extrication, short-lived. Drawing on impudence. Maybe. Question everything. *Clap* Switch back to the life we call reality, pretend to be normal. Conformity; the obsession, the oppression. The only opportunity to find yourself (for a split second) is when you fall. Only to remember, all comes from nothing. Nothing at all.


Frigid mist
Howls on wind
Shiver or tremble

Tracks in mud
Clouded hills
Following ghosts

Blurred green
Whites of eyes
When we ran we ran

Sharp stones
Ice on waters
Legs with roots

Rabbit blood
Foxglove in my chest

Freezing black
Jagged ferns
An acidic rain

The car by the road
The ache in my feet and lungs
I am just a dog


Dress Rehearsal

You pulled on the costume head and paraded around the stage. I was in the wings, hood up, basket in hand. The visiting had yet to be done.

'Dress rehearsal,' you said and bit into your breakfast apple, eyes hard on me, teeth showy in that leer you did when in character.

Fran rolled her eyes and scowled. She didn't want to be the arse end. She wanted the lead role, Red. She couldn't piece together what had gone wrong in auditions. She'd done everything the director desired. Unable to act, her jaw fell when he turned to me.

Ever since I'd nobbled the part, you prowled around, salivating, keen to prove your animal self and get to the action. You stretched your muscles, aware I was watching. You saw a girl, ripe for picking, and I took care to maintain my saucer-eyed stance.

You licked your lips, anticipating tender flesh fit for a wolf. But to me you were no more than a lap dog.


Cynic: “None but the lonely heart”

His ancestors were cynics and so was he. But being a cynic then was very different: they were capable of articulate speech, he – how shall I put it – he kind of howled.

Today, the cynic says solidarity is conformism, he maintains that sympathy is hypocrisy. ‘Kitsch, tacky’, he keeps saying, and that applies to anything appealing to emotions, every smile is fake. He questions authenticity and thinks there is no such thing as generosity, only personal benefit. Kindness is a vulgar pretence, that's all there is to it. You can tell a cynic from the colour of his soul. Cynics are very human in a way, they do not wish to be alone, they're social animals, but they engage, relentlessly, in nauseous speeches that aim to make the souls of others around them as tar black as theirs. They want to find a corpse to keep them company and they look for the laughter of a peer. Cynics call to each other, standing on hill tops. Why do they forget to fertilise their barren wit with the seed of noble sentiment? I wonder. Why won't they admit they yearn, like you and me, for the transcendence that will make them feel like men among men? Cynicism is to forget that speech is rupture, cure, action, and creation, all at the same time.

There was a time when being a cynic also meant to embrace a cosmopolitan life. He does not remember any of that. And how could he? No one told him that part of the story. They only taught him how to live like a dog, to keep his tail between his legs, to watch.

And we, like him, are all but too afraid to speak the words: love, morality, virtue. “None but the lonely heart”... We hear the song and yet we cannot find the strength to voice it, to tear our lungs open in honest and humble despair to break the mist. Oh, but we deride those who dare!


Greener Grass…

“I’m tired”
“Of what?”
“The rain.”
“Me too.”
“You’re dry.”
“I’m bored!”
“It’s cold.”
“Come in!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll shoot me.”
“I’m a danger.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Some food?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll shoot me.”
“I’m not you.”
“My legs hurt.”
“My feet hurt.”
Read more >

Ballad of the Lone Wolf

the melody of
ozone constricted
lungs wheeze with every
pull of breath
mate’s outro from
glacial winds
even her pelt
couldn’t inhibit the
ritardando of her heart
that silenced her song
the duet of our voices
calling to the void
is now one
a solo
voice bursting
with despair
as the crescendo
of my hymn fills
the dreary sky with one
unharmonized howl

How to evict a wolf

When you're no longer performing at your best,
when you've lost your speed and there's no control.
Now your strength has gone and the weakness shows,
it's time for another to take on your role.

Though you used to lead and always knew the way,
you are soon outranked by the fit and young,
who lie in wait as you perform the test
and show no respect for the song you sung.

They will stop you moving and they'll cut you off,
until the territory boundary's on the farthest side.
You might howl at the moon but your call's unheard,
for you've already started on the Lone Wolf's ride.


Over the mountains

Never take lightly the view from a mountain top,
fragile yet soft, you are higher
You will change sight, you come here alone
still, you do not seek loneliness

bellow the morning mist hugs the mountains
the trees fade, allowing roads to cut again the valley's collarbone
footpaths for yesterday's traces, what's another mark?
this path, a statement we've passed here,
treading light and watery over earth and so will
feet after us, line
paws and hooves, living in motion

now you are on the rocks, look
down bellow, there's life- all by hand and foot of the mountain
down bellow, there's prey and fish, a feast roasting over honey
you allow yourself the thought, since you've climbed
there could be nothing bellow of celebrations-
this is how you deal with departure, blame new terrain
perhaps there's only silence bellow,
pebbles that line the short grass
some space for cereal and some rattle of rats nursing amid the stones.

Never take lightly the view from the mountain at dawn
your whisky breath rises like the mist
you hug the jeans that scratches your face, your eyes and stare
away from fallen fur, white to earth
he's shed fur before, in childhood like you did-
you don't mind the wild. the fierce make the road wider, the options safer
Read more >



come light, the parting of the haze,
he knows, as we all know
down what path our instincts take us
the slow-fast journey,
the unknown familiars,
learned blood and learning senses
converging in twilight
beyond thoughts, beyond horizons
where stored memories return
beneath our feet, stretched in sleep
awaiting future travellers.

At bay

Yeah I turned down in vitrio,
that famous Duran Duran video.

I shunned the comical loot
offered for the next X-Men shoot.

No way fellas was the growl
when the FC wanted a stadium prowl.

The moon was rejected next.
Comply with her phases? I’ll take the hex.

So all I do now is go on,
waiting for the return of Warren Zevon.

For him, I’d be anyone, everyone.
God. I miss him so.


My Wolf

I thought my brothers deserved it.
House of straw! House of wood!
When they came banging
on my good strong door,
I said No.

I thought Your fault, not mine;
I got myself a beer,
turned up the telly when
the squealing started.

But later that night
there were voices saying:
What sort of an animal are you?

And what about that wolf?

They said:
Maybe there’s more than one kind of wolf.
They said:
Maybe we summon our own wolves.

And the more I tried
to ignore them, the
louder they got until
I couldn’t stand it and

when I shut my eyes
to make them stop
Read more >


You who stood at the edge of a fairy tale

...against the pink sky the bones are still crackling
refusing to melt in the heat. The fire that lit up
anecdotes now folds winter in your eyes. Are you

the same that howled for Princess Vasilisa? Her
hair brush was a forest of fresh seasons. This mist
rises from your cold fur that you couldn't get rid of.

Don't wait for the moon. The threads of dry rivers
have used it to spin a forlorn valley where you would catch her smell; that was a dew eons ago.

These tufts of grass that sleep at your legs are kingdoms she surrendered for you. Your blood didn't heat up.
When the sky turns red. You might find an address:
You might find fire.



'Son, to be a hunter, you need killer instincts - it's kill or be killed in this world,’ Father advised, looking down on his kingdom at all the tiny men running back and forth. Being young, I didn't understand, I buried my wolf skin, bone deep, in sleeping crevices, hoping never to feel the fur on my back, or the call from the moon. Father was successful, riding the stock market bareback, slaughtering weak Companies, slashing at ideals with merciless claws. What he couldn't annihilate he dominated into submission.

Twenty years later, destiny gripped my chest, the wolf skin surfaced, tightening around my shoulders, my inheritance running through my veins. Smiling, he handed over the Company with privy paw. Standing on the precipice of my kingdom, I barked at the secretary for more coffee, listened to the moon and craved my next victim.

'Son, you need to be more tough, you need killer instincts - it's kill or be killed in this world,’ I advised, looking down on my kingdom at all the tiny men running back and forth. My young son looked at me and smiled, stroking his fur and sucking his thumb. He takes after his grandfather.


Hard scents

Irkt shook his coat, the wind didn't smell clean. This air thick scented. No light scents, just thick scents. Wrinkling his nose he tensed, standing nearly submitted to the layered smell, as if his pack mate approached, tail set between his legs and his ears flat back.

Even in the light of long cold he could see all. His ears twitching even as they sat flat, ever alert. He was not just unsettled by the smell. Looking down at the flat hard trail he saw several sources of the thick smell moving. Always backwards and forwards, some in small groups. Inside the soft changers of the range sat. Some of the thick smell had only one soft changer in it, some several. Many still moved with sky lights on them.

The light shifted as more sky poured over the shoulder of the high land, tingeing the air with milk grey light. Far away a sharp flyer called, squabbles of black thieves answered from the many trees gathered behind. A blow of air tufted his coat. No faint scents, no missed tastes or earth's caught in his nose.

He stood and watched, ever patient, eyes darting, head still, then a quick move to quarter the land fold below. His stomach shouted, he had not fed for three days. The land around the hard trail was empty, no flesh moved he could kill. The large horns had drifted many darks ago to the big land folds. No small tail flashers picked at the land cover.

Far below one of the thick smells barked twice, the sound echoing off the hard walls of the land. The sound a desperate call to Irkt. He had been close to one once, but the scent was too hard, his nose hurt for the rest of the dark until the dim light had led him to a run of cold where he had drunk. The thick smell had lessened and he had waited there until end of the dark, until he could pick the light scents again.

Read more >

The Mirrors have Eyes

I am a wandering question
No pressure of an impending answer
I lie unfulfilled.
No reason to grow.

That's what they wanted of me;
Rather it,
The system
Starting and ending with one.

Rivers and tributaries splay parallel
Paws swallowed up by the landscape.
The secret is this: I am not special.
The light that connects us is information
Failing, weak, lost after contact.

Our mirrored bodies have
Eyes that fail to see
Between my claws and the earth
When all we see is ourselves
In the eyes of each other.

I am waiting for an echo.
I am waiting for an answer.
I am waiting for an echo of the answer
I am waiting
For anything.



i’m not ready.
my instincts hide
behind a pallor
of fear –
the scent i was born with.

images of failure
chisel themselves
again and again
in a rancid

this hankering
for approval that
deflates my ego.

the rest
of the world
blots itself
out of my mind…

a lone wolf
in an asylum.


The Jedi Master

I've seen it done in the movies, well, one movie in particular. I remember it was one of Master's favourites. It was a marvel to behold, the way he swished his hand, his persuasive tone of voice. I whiled away the long daylight hours waiting for Master, practicing and perfecting my paw wave - eye movements - voice.

It is said that this trick works only on the weak-minded, those easily persuaded, so I experimented first with the younger dogs. Eventually I conned all the neighbourhood dogs out of bones and treats, and I was beginning to think there was none who could resist me after I tricked a prize-winning staffie into giving me his studded diamond collar. It was frighteningly easy.

Feeling confident I tried it on my Master.

It was 'Come Dancing' night, so I tried to get him to change channels. Strangely, all he did was burst into tears (it's a work in progress) still, nice to know it has potential...

Well, it went over the edge this morning (my enthusiastic Master was to blame). I tried all sorts of methods to bring it back - whistling, shouting, I even tried threatening it - damn thing still sits there in the valley. So all I have left is the mind trick (but I'm beginning to think this tennis ball is not so stupid after all).

I guess it learnt a thing or two from the Jedi Master.

(mind you, I haven't tried it on cats yet, I'm not THAT brave!)


Crazy wolf

I never wanted it to be like this
But I was beat, fair and square.
I’m a fighter, you know that,
but rules are rules.
And I’m wishing myself with you, holding back tears.
I had to leave you,
had to go.
Hell, no.

I keep thinking, Christ
its not like those documentaries,
families playing in the snow,
intelligent groups, healthy coats.
Some National Park
Hell, no.

I licked my wounds, ate,
followed the river, easy
my nose leading me.
Ancestral rocks beckoning like glorious jet diamonds.

You said ‘stay a little longer’
How dangerous would that have been?
He’d have killed us both and the kids too.
So now I’m the crazy wolf,
anger, grief, firing my slow journey.
A scarred valley behind me and a broken plain ahead.

Read more >

Are you the wolf who stood at the edge of a forlorn fairy tale?

...against the pink sky the bones are still crackling
refusing to melt in the heat. The fire that lit up
anecdotes now folds winter in your eyes. Are you

the same that howled for Princess Vasilisa? Her
hair brush was a forest of fresh seasons. This mist
rises from your cold fur that you couldn't get rid of.

Don't wait for the moon. The threads of dry rivers
have used it to spin a forlorn valley where you
would catch her smell; that was a dew eons ago.

These tufts of grass that sleep at your legs are kingdoms
she surrendered for you. Your blood never heated again.
When the sky turns red, you might find an address:
You might find fire.



so, you were here all along
it was i who didn’t see you
although i heard you ripping
into my dreams with fangs
dipped in the memory of that
pristine morning when i woke
to find you had gone, turned into
a spell that morphed nightmares
into empty sound.

and that is why i stealthily
creep behind you now.
it’s payback time
and before you can look
behind, you would
have already become one
with the mountain ridges,
rivers and echoes of


Mist Carriage of Thanatos

Dust hazes the sky
Awaiting spring cleaning.
But it's not spring for a while,
And there's no spring in me.

You see, you took it with you
As you slipped away,
Too brittle, too broken
To stay with me.

Some say I spat you out:
Unwanted they claim.
But that's untrue, I say (again)
You forever held my heart.

In a dream I saw
The mist carrying you away.
At the helm was Thanatos.
So I knew. And I waited.

You left me that morning,
Left me mourning your loss,
Like the lone wolf, wandering,
Wondering would I see you again.

Read more >


“I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”

Whitman: Song of Myself

Looking at the horizon
where I can see all the things I left behind
I feel like I have escaped my wolfpack
and now, I'm running wild
building my own path.
I feel capable of anything
and everything.
I feel I can run thousand miles
and never look back
to all the things that once hurted me.
There are no boundaries,
no chains for those who stare
at what lies ahead of them.


Let the Games Begin

Enough with the pretense
let’s get on with the feast
Plate the flesh, pour the wine
the cannibals and vampires
have all arrived
to sacrifice the sun
and blood let the moon
A hero and goddess consumed
for the New Dawn of creation
with sex and blood for the gods


The Burden

My back is table spread waiting.

The sky is heavy
tears already drip from
sodden hillsides

but I am ready
ready to do the howling.

I will howl for you
until every mountain trembles

and your path
has washed away.



Smoked Trout, Old White, Mouse’s Back,
Ammonite, and Purbeck Stone;

Mole’s Breath, Stony Ground, Fawn,
Blackened, Pavilion Grey, Mizzle, Bone;

Pigeon, Skimming Stone, Dead Salmon,
Natural Jute, Pebble, Plummet, Cobblestone;

Fresh Linen, Moonlight, Linden,
Soft Clay, Beach, Mocha, Mushroom;

Parchment, Latte, Magnolia, Oyster, Platinum,
Wheatgrass, Hare, and Winterbloom;

On the Rocks, Smoulder, Steel, Soft Shadow,
Water Chestnut, Sparrow, and Pale Twine;

Bamboo, Cloud Burst, Taupe Suede, Barley Haze,
Pale Biscuit, Mink, Mellow Sage, and Lichen.

Cherry Lush ... beyond imagining!


The Valley of Sorrows

She traveled to
The Valley of Sorrows
Where she would grieve
For her lost tomorrows
Her mate stolen without remorse
Shifting them from their due course
How would she navigate
Through the rest of her life
When her true North could
No longer shine his light
A darkness invaded her soul
Where he'd fit perfectly
Leaving her with a gaping hole


Lost Shadows

Somewhere between the shadows of dusk and dawn

I take off the mask,

Wash the paint off my face,

And look into a cracked mirror,

To find someone I lose everyday.

The sheen is lost,

Still somewhere deep inside

I see a shadow,

Looking out through the cracks on the mirror,

Into the shallow depths of grey eyes…

Time passes in slow haste,

In eerie silence,

In a cramped apartment,

Until light seeps in,

Through a dusty window,

And a new shadow starts to grow,

I look back into the mirror

And there I see myself again

An artist, with a paintbrush in hand…



Dusty, dusty, he cries, it sits in my eyes
and when I look for the sea the water has gone.
There's a tumble-down hill carved grey, covered green, the ground sent ants to crawl on my skin.
And why
is it so cold when I wait for you
down the snakes and the ladders of the valley you're in.



I am a wolf in sheep's clothing.
I oversee my comrades
in their habitat and dwell on their edge.

They look up to me and I howl
sweet platitudes into their ears.

My friends, times are hard.
We must look after ourselves.
The weakest among us are not our concern.

We must search for food – make safe
our shelters, others must fend
for themselves as best they can.

I whisper in their receptive ears.
We are all in it together
and the poor misguided believe me.

We are the dominant pack – alpha wolves.
Taught not to share – a weakness to care.

Hunger is pervasive – food banks
will provide for their needs.

I am not a sheep – I am all wolf.
Take care of my sharp teeth.

“All the better to eat you with”.
And spit out your bones
into the waste land – which you call home.



That view's a strange atlas, with roads unfamiliar,
though we must have walked them to get here;
though the red dust on my shoes matches the haze we left behind.

The air sits calm up here. Settles bare skin cold
though the coat you offer is thick and oily and the rain runs off it;
though we match panting breath for breath and

yellow eyes search for the yellow eye unblinking back
though the crying speaks to the night and the children of the night;
though the height would be a flying, if I were brave and ran alone.

Rotted meat is a hot life stench, departing, down the hill
and I can't follow that hip-swaying tail anymore,
and that sunk-step gait was never meant to have led,
and I watch my guts steam into mist, and the sky is grey, and I hope you fed well.