I hate the rain the tunnels are strained as people surge and strain my angst beyond explain my senses overloaded with pain as the air is stained with cacophony like trains

i would surrender my gains without complaints just to have this wane

Tau Sar Piah

Ground up sludge of softened beans

Paradox of sweet and salty

Flakey crust burnished gold

Palm sized pieces in handfuls sold

New rituals over time become old

Treasured memories left in moulds

Supermarket Sisyphus

the uncle down at the Fairprice
sets about his Sisyphean task
pushing shopping carts can’t be nice
but to him it’s not too much to ask

he hauls trains of trollies up the floors
past glassy eyed shoppers trundling through the doors;
who having forgotten the proper use of hands;
push their scantily filled carts,
and merrily descend.


they lurk everywhere
in the nooks and crannies of the web
phantoms never there
created to conceal deceive and stab
they can be bought for a penny
to praise and commend and rub your fanny
preying on our greed and lust
by creating lies and illusions and dust
yet what does it matter
for we shun the needy in the gutter
reality does no good for us
as we refuse to share understand or trust


Each morning we see
the refugees who flee
their warm, comforting homes
for stress filled biomes

Like zombies they press
into the metal worm’s recess
to end up in their cubicles
disgorging pointless articles
and we wonder why they’re depressed

What an existence we’ve built.

Intelligent life? I might refute.



believing in self-determination
in sharing and compassion
not divine preordination
but human cooperation

why can’t they understand
that we have to co-depend
why do they deem where they are
as earned and deserved
products of their toil and pluck
when the truth is
they were just born into luck


enter into my cell
fall deep into the well
you have the formulas
to vlookup through my mess
through the data amular
using pivots to assess
filtering through the rows
to undo all the mess
wielding all your macros
slicing through the chaos
until you realise what’s yours


I’m typing this on ICQ
Betcha say who knew
Clicking on that psychedelic flower
Give me some of that virtual power
When that canned knocking
Got my teenage heart beating
I’m adding my seven digit user code
Switching into invisble mode
Bring me tomorrow into yesterday
Where Snake was all i had to play

Mister Doc

He occasionally pops up, with a
“how’s everyone”
to then fall silent
as the weariness of daily life
seems to curl its tendrils around his limbs
and with a squelch
draw him back into the abyss –
seemingly not having heard our replies


The pain of childhood is
hard to erase
The salty, sharp, metallic
That sets ever deeper
through the years
Cured and ossified by
salt tears.
Though the tides may turn in kind
The deep betrayals of youth
never leave the mind