Untitled, 18th November 2015

I wake and check the time,
your face remains, filling darkened spaces
where I fought to find your absence.

Haunting was enough in scrawling sleep, but
the ghost should stay at peace when memories creep
from dusk to dawn, and give me little sanctuary.

After years of imprinted grief,
you place your kiss upon my lips, distilled distance distinct
through faded reality, those slow walking phantoms.

I wake to find your ghost resting within my bed, filling
those frozen sheets with lamented adversity instead.
The lies we once said, “We could have it all!”

But, I was a coward back then.
Time crashed against raw rocks, and affliction freshens
morning promise, that new suns bring new beginnings.

Because, harbinger of once again, I’ll see you in my dreams,
the accompanying passion of our spectral sleep,
long missed hours between weeping angels and memory.

I’m locked in fevered foreign microcosmic grief, feeling
your shadow out of time, your misplaced impression,
never lessening with fragmented age.

But, I was a coward back then.
Do you ever see the ghost of me that shambles
though existence as little more than your recall?

I am lost behind your eyes, your grounded smile,
which falls through time-and-again, to please
new iconic strangers with some souls remainder.

That I was a coward back then.
And in your memory that is all you’ll see,
the half-life, crashing emptiness of me.



Were flames all that consumed the girl-

silhouetted across the moon

with skin as smooth as yellow hymns- 

burgundy dreamer- danced with limbs

of colour lapping at her feet- was she sweet-

all she asked was a shilling a kiss-

bliss- and felicitous with iron will-

and now she looks at him- 

but sees the empty seat-

lost upon an ocean of greys-

not knowing the only heart that beats

would grace paths in lasting

droves and comings woes-

he smiles and sinks beneath her waves

as ships collide to give her grace-

deepening graves 

become the-best-laid-plans

against her bare ankles-


They sank-

darker and darkest- sprite and spiral-

Along the rival night of life- 

before her eyes sight the best way home-

they sank into undertones that scald 

with dangerous liaisons-

raptures beneath her sea-through-stockings-

locking home with hope- and he hopes

to taste those lips- eclipse 

the dawn in rave and slip

to heaven within- her wit- to know 

gods mind between her breasts-

lost and found- to pull her in

and take a trip- in flame and azure fantasise- 

falling through her rabbit hole-


Komorebi (A collaboration with West517)

If I could count the infinity of you
I’d place each second within your soul,
and lay my breath between the stars
that form your heart and whole.
Was it privilege to love you?
Painted hues of viridescent lives
to those lost seconds when we saw
the world begin again in strides.
Lived in promises reconsidered by death
and blues. Do you know I was forged of you?
The collage of unnumbered lines,
the lithesome stranger redefined
in dawns of lithium dwam and dew,
the twinkles of lost cosmic youth.

We watch the world behind monolith eyes,
each turning page that falls apart
and loses ink to emotive tears,
knowing that I could never write with conviction
because I never gave my heart
to more than contradiction.
But, doesn’t depth produce the soul?


Recently I have had the honour of working with one of my favourite bloggers and photographers. West517 has a truly wonderful eye for detail, colour and elegance that brings her striking and beautiful images to life. On more than one occasion she has inspired my work. So, working with her was a fantastic and rewarding experience! Above is her breathtaking image that spoke the words you read, we named him “Komorebi”.

If you are unaware of her work and blog, click here, and please follow. You will never be disappointed!


Photograph © West517, 2015.
Poem © Phen Weston, 2015.

Where Carousel Horses Go To Die… (Revisited, 24th September 2014)

Dawn grudgingly breaks with increasingly late hours. Held back by advancing nights, calm and cold concern. Empty streets, that once echoed that magnificent cacophony of early minutes and lasting love, now only hold the one known waning truth. That today will be just another grey and lonely day. Summer ends, and instead of bringing autumns splendour, graces us with nothing more than heartache and hardship. No rich ruby abundance of shinning colours and relentless aromas of drifting changing life. But the scaled ignorance of another phase. Where did those grand old seasons retreat too?

I sat waiting for you among the dying minutes, knowing you would never again appear. There was nothing more that could be done in an age of wants and never getting. We thought we could use natures laws to mind our minds, but what little use are they when one cannot discern the rights of wrongs. Was there ever a difference between them? Juxtaposed hopes or just forgotten memories? ‘What should have been’ clinched the Oscar for best picture every year. At least the visuals stimulate, right?

A man once said “Is a lie a lie if you mean it at the time?” I lied to you a thousand times until the truth was nothing more than myth. All to keep what little peace there was of that reality of ours in pieces, like our battered old mix tape. No one likes the tunes, but boy! Don’t we just pretend to please the other. All shits and giggles!

To have that sense of being equal I carved a cavern into your heart to mimic the crater created in that pitch black apathy I see ourselves drowning within. I could never reach that pedestal you dangle your feet tauntingly from high above. Were we too vain to see beyond the bold expectations of our minuscule purpose? I hoped for an air pocket somewhere between the cracks, but only ever found that thick black oil slick!

I waited for you like words in a book, waiting to once more feel your burning eyes upon their naked white sheets. But, if words haemorrhage on a page, then our book is a fucking massacre! That doesn’t stop me though. A thousand words fast track us to new beginnings and I know… That all this has happened before and will happen again.

Our Carousel begins, the music kicks in. Will today be just another grey and lonely day? Old horses creak in and out of excited existence. Once more born into fledgling fields of hopes and dreams, to die uncounted times at our whispered desires. All dressed up to only ever go round in circles. Lovers repeated. Happens again, happens again, happens again. The blood runs at midnight.

Here we go again!
And I try to think about the good times…

We had something, didn’t we?

© Phen Weston 2014

Obtunded Rebirth (With Christopher Rupley)

I awoke from the
coma of a culture
on emotional
furlough –
wrenched from
my deep slumber
and the oneiric
pleasures wholeheartedly
enlisting the services
of my subconscious,

with its deep
swinging valleys,
and lilly-lipped

I awoke from the
coma of a culture
dashed against cliffs
carved with
self-indulging narcosis
between the flashing skies.
In hazed deliverance
we died in droves,
posted upon our
social networks,
dropped in convulsive calm,
and held hostage by
angry empty stomachs,

but blinded by our
stardust hearts – eclipsed
in darker dreams
than our Unknown universe,

where we stood and gawked,
but the empty void
did nothing but mirror
our fears,
and mock our indiscretions


© Christopher Rupley and Phen Weston, 2015


(It is again a complete pleasure to work with my wonderful friend and a very talented writer, Christopher Rupley. If you don’t already know his work, please make sure to follow this link, and check out his new book, T.H.E – Tiered Haiku Experiment).

I Saw The Tree Bend (Revisited, 19th Oct 2014)

I saw the tree bend with old age
The replica of earthly strain
Where no-mans-land inflicts
Replacement and derisions pain
By desired artifices of yesterday.

Was superiority the negative
To each of mans fleeting reigns?
Humanity’s long dead tendrils
Wrapping between ache and sprain
For what? Better, bluer shores?

The callus crumbling hands
The descriptive greed and chains
Formed with individual materialism,
Forgetting gia, a mother feigned,
For Keeping us to her bosom.

The grass is always greener
Because the fix heightens arcane
Colours and dulls that coming future,
I saw the replica of heaven wane
And the earth destroyed in our name.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014


Dreamscapes lap
against her comic heart.
The jester beating
to his own rhythm.

We were born
within this sepia night,
where stars nip at our ankles
and I turn to you in wonder.

“How is your will this evening?”

She burst
into ten million colliding stars.
Mother to a universe
which I solely occupy.

Yet, never alone,
was I.



Poem © Phen Weston 2015


I remember when you lay against my soul,
pressed your warmth into my empty spaces
and how the heavens opened above our hearts.

We Splashed in destiny between the streams
of conscious repetition. There was no burden,
but, oh, you ask, “would we do it all again?”

Borrowed from those echoes time spun us steadily.
The immovable carrousel horse pirouetting
around the emotive laps, grace in a human face.

Now all again, I’d marry your dreams in love,
and watch the world gleam with sonority,
draped against the whitewash of a thousand stars.


© Phen Weston 2015