Look at myself in the bathroom mirror;
the head attached to the fleshy body.
Recognise it as my exterior.
But surprise that that is me that I see.

Electric charge of thought, interior.
In this sorry old head that’s reflected.
But it doesn’t seem to travel so far.
Thinking, but in that head not detected.

As others see me I am this body,
Including this face with its expression.
But there’s more to me than what others see.
Without knowing, just get an impression.

Will be the head displayed when newly dead.
Without thought, that the mirror-one instead?


Don’t do it. You have a lot of life left.
Self-destruction is not reasonable.
You, or not you? You, by a long way’s best.
There’s dreadfulness, but you can beat it all.

Let it pass. Let it be, if you have to.
You, move on with a spirit that still lives.
Taking your life’s not inevitable.
There are means by which your self can forgive.

There is still plenty that’s worth living for.
Desolation’s not the destination.
Life’s always capable of giving more.
It can go up, in your estimation.

You can, too. Not all is unbearable.
A new way, with hope, is believable.


It’s a zero perfect situation.
That is the code I am programmed to reach.
Interacting with all information,
numbers fly until rogue-run systems breach.

The digits all finish their rapid change.
Noughts then appear in all of the windows.
Other nine of ten, no more rearrange
Computer mechanism frozen; closed.

Brain dead that is what zero perfect is.
Built-in obsolescence of the machine.
Functioned with mysterious quantities.
Only nothing, now, can possibly dream.

Zero would have appeared from time to time.
Now all together in a perfect line.


The substance of the matter, toxic shock.
Drugs and alcohol in a lethal mix.
Instead of a pin-point shape, there’s a blot.
The stain’s spread, making it a fatal fix.

Vital organs must have been on the verge.
On the verge of catastrophic collapse.
Chemical inputs cause this to emerge;
to go from working state to deadly lapse.

Never mind this the way that got through life.
A cheap spirit, warming on the way down.
Some dose taken, to make more, or less, bright.
Sadly, a long-term effect that profound.

Culminating in that sudden crisis.
Toxic shock until no longer exist.


Chaos and discord, the grief reaction.
Madness, not sadness, the early process.
On a large scale, the dissatisfaction.
Anger and rage, allowing to express.

The death unexpected, over Christmas.
Just before the new year, to be precise.
Shocking that suddenly in death, immersed,
and all expectations forced to revise.

But it cannot last. It must not persist,
The fury at this fate has to subside.
The needs of those living cannot resist.
The children with the partner still reside.

So grief, as show of temper, cannot stay.
Let it go. Say ‘goodbye’, funeral day.


Grief, in its unhappiness, continues.
Transforming in how it can be expressed.
Initial shock will have brought own issues.
Hurt and pain, as if punished, nothing less.

And then came the rage at it happening.
At the one meant to be with, gone missing.
The funeral; that won’t be mattering.
Temper flare-ups, like flame with fuel dousing.

Then the sadness and ‘escaping’ mutates,
but it still must be heard, in its long gasps.
A drunken binge, is the form that it takes.
Drunk and disorderly, the grief it masks.

Children into care temporarily.
Cell, 24 hours. Such severity.


I suppose I should be aware. Know more.
Have spent too long unaware. Not learning.
Vast amount about which I am not sure.
More still, know nothing of. Undiscerning.

And I am amongst the intelligent.
I can point to evidence to prove it.
Why do I feel it is irrelevant?
My own ignorance, I can’t excuse it.

I am sorry for my limitations.
The extent of unfulfilled potential.
I express here, my commiserations
to myself. My failings existential.

Unlikely when I’m dead I will recall
that I understood anything at all.


No deal with death itself. It will insist.
Can only accept that it will impose.
Not beyond its force, can a life exist.
Requiring, to oblivion, each goes.

The contract made was for being alive.
Entered into on our behalf. Binding,
so, with the cost that falls due, must abide.
The time to pay, down to fate deciding.

May be early, too soon, by accident.
Or, wait for the eventuality.
If lucky, can delay, but can’t prevent.
And, still must live with own mortality.

Reneging on this deal impossible.
Would just end the same. That’s dead logical.


Autopsy. An alien autopsy.
Being so cut open and examined.
Pathologist operating to see,
then tell the Coroner how it happened.

Out of this world on the mortuary slab.
Soft tissue and bone split to reach organs.
Dissected in a scientific lab.
The findings of the study, record them.

The body sort of put back together.
Presented, on the surface, how did look.
To an undertaker, the cadaver,
to arrange for disposal, by the book.

And an explanation to an Inquest,
how strange, as a matter of interest.


Maybe it’s a case of soft foods only,
hand-fed, perhaps, by a nurse or carer.
Like baby food approved maternally.
Feeding experience, with a sharer.

Tasty, no doubt, with this way of thinking.
Nourishing, too, obvious assumption.
Palpable, that be eating and drinking.
But wrong all this, my sudden deduction.

It did not sound right what was said, given
to the patient, who was hospitalised.
Implacable, her poor state of living.
Specialised treatment, hospital provides.

“Palatable Care”, this was said to be.
“Palliative” meant. The former do for me.

Art, Culture, Nature, Extra, Poems
Introspective Poems