Capricious Friends

Your flattery didn’t last,
the fickle blast between that truth,
that nothing I did could ease
the unpredictability of your tongue. But 
these in turn were never mine,
in strife or time to know. There
carved within the rows of bone 
lies the knowledge of erratic loyalties.
That your distaste for me today
was only your fitful desires recognised
in words lost, received, renewed.
The fleeting touch of ‘the club’, where I
was the shifting flavour of your month.
A kin-hood dubious with passing pause, each
only lasting as long as your flaws pretend this
was anything more
than troubled capricious friendship.
© Phen Weston 2015

Seasons, Inamorata (Revisited, 17th Oct 2014)

Summer became the sweet narcissist,
Claiming more than futures decay,
A new birth! The feverish rushing child!
Springs perfect muse and only heart,
Dying hopes, solely belonging within her.

Now lamented beauty abandons
For drained colours, plagiarised passion.

Piteous and pathetic lachrymose,
Tears collect for mournful lovers,
Clouds encase with melancholy
Between heaven and foundation,
A residue of lost permitted occasion.

And your estate contrasts coming winter
With bitter memories, shards and shivers.

Charcoal desiderates, with undue regard,
Scrutinise the silver onset of summer storms,
Manifested spectres, your power incarcerates
Your own vanity and self-conceit, thinking
You are the paramour to each season.

© Phen Weston 2014


I wanted to hold

The following truths

In fascination to the end,

That all there was became

The shy deliverance of night

Against the back drop

Of ever after in the present,

And alcohol stained

Those hidden objects,

The company we kept in shade,

Can’t we run away together?

Locking home where we stay

Until life begins again.

And I’ll carry on drinking,

And my head keeps swimming.

Reaching for those moments of peace,

The vows of longing,

Our human belonging,

The interruption of today,

And can I go through with each way

That we share in secret decisions?

On three deep breaths

That change the station

Of romance in humbled stray,

The undisclosed reason,

Confusion renewed by season.

Underground, surreptitious,

In the distance the Cat sings

Of Troubles locked in time,

Have I seen your face?

Where no one knows grace,

love exists as everything we have,

Those moments we gave

In spring and autumn,

Legendary laments of life,

Wrinkled and raw,

In human adore,

The coffin claimed 

Us all.

And I wait for you there,

Beyond all despair,

Standing in life’s enthral…



Poem © Phen Weston 2015

The Outsider (With Christopher Rupley)

Unknown eyes enter the camp,

in which judgment lives

without hesitation,

and the unwritten law

that so beautifully describes

the absurdity of belief

will linger a long while,

far beyond this sinner’s stoning,

and will magnificently

hollow out the minds of all

future generations therein,

making sure to fill what potential

there was with constant bickering,

clashing egos,

and a false sense of



Another tale of beggars and tramps

verdicts accumulated on the edge of knives

lost in expectation.

No king, nor

concubine could transcribe

the wind that carries truth like a leaf.

Lingering a long while,

emotions misfire through honing,


lost between those who stall

the next, feign

goodwill and trust existential,

as the candle is dangerously flickering.


Where do we go,

with our labours of love,

on our cosmic trip?


Phen Weston and Christopher Rupley 2015

I Fled From You

I fled from you

Along paths that pass

The thicket wooden hearts

Of our forged chasse.

I planted every seeds

To grow such a forest, thick

To hold your memory,

A rich green deceiving trick,

The crossing deflection

Of each subtle lie I could not control,

Substantial rains drown truth,

Bonded droplets that saturate

The Frankenstein invisibility of our dreams,

Heavy in emotions blend,

“The finer whiskey of the heart”

You claim in tears so tender.


How could there be a way back

From the ghost of you? Rupturing

Into every aspect of existence,

The filler that I cannot lose

And the hold I cannot shake.

I look back at all those times anew,

Remembering the tranquil melody

That followed suit to fracture

Between the leaves surrounding us,

Each note, the seraphim against

The beating trip of resting couplets.

Natural repression staged

For those too lost to see our beauty.

And I feign the hatred for you now,

At rest in knowing it all died at the roots

Long before betrayal rested

Her head upon our intimacy.


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Soul in a Wallet (Revisited, 12th July 2014)

I keep your soul
In my ageing wallet,

A faded photograph
Of a Paris affiance,

Dated train tickets
To loves journey’s past,

Pebbles and sharks teeth,
Perforated thoughts,

A menagerie of receipts
Not for returns, but reminders,

I keep your soul
In my ageing wallet,

The unimportant stuff
(Money, cards, coins)

Stay loose in my pocket,
A place as fickle as they.

(These are all actual items in my wallet)
Poem © Phen Weston 2014

I Am Alone Here Now… (Revisited, 2nd March 2014)

I walked along the beach

in the rain; the one we walked

hand-in-hand so many times;

Where we once planned

to steal a boat, Making love

for eternity aboard.


The waves crashed so gently

On those warm April nights.

Washing away our sins,

A baptism lapping our feet,

Cleansing us of our past


Relationships. The coating

that blotch and blur the lines

of what we had and had not.

Sultry stains of sands

Scattered across infinity.


We walked so far together

That nowhere is without you.

Yet, all is without you now.

Haunting every place I run,

And if it’s not a memory

It’s you! And how you’ve moved on.

Immersing me in your endless hold.

The endless embrace that echoes

Your emptiness for me.


The world echoes your ghost.

Life echoes your ghost.

The shadowed shores of our

shared experience dance

across my cosmos.



I am alone here now,

And you’re still there.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014

I didn’t write these words…

I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet.
As an offering of something more
than strangers.
When we first meet
and form those little habits,
shake apart the memories of
the rocky roads ahead,
the cliff face comes,
stone by stone,
we watch our sins tumble alone
from the street
where we smile and laugh
at time between the cracks and coves,
those fledging droves
that know not what fickle seconds
hold our hands and stand bias
in the corners of the gardens we plant,
for better, nor worse,
and did you stay?

Even though
I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet,
they weren’t wrapped in cotton wool.
Those floating mimics
of each imagination, flaming
out to our crimson horizons,
and I held your hand against the back drop
of each and every hour
that ticked
with all the changing scenes of life.
Your eyes blazed and bound
with bonds of simple trust,
walking within the forests
of those azure realities we meld
and mould,
to be the lies craved in love,
to hold your hand
and keep your eyes
around a little longer.

I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet.
The crubling sylables
that never reach your ears.
Our pale rider in the burning sunset,
waiting for those dreams
against the tracks of promise,
the steady beating chug
as the wheels roll along the rails,
distant rumbling,
stormclouds with subtle voices,
that calls across the vexations
of distant and stars between us.
amongst the thickening walls
of ailments recalled.
Beyond the words i never wrote,
the definition of my remorse,
adrift in sincerity that shouts…

I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet…


© Phen Weston 2015


Was pain always
just short of the worlds
we paint in strokes?

Alias to love
wrapped in whispers
and scented with foxglove.

Our words
were kissed with steal,
embedded in swordplay.

Each a symbol of
transformation from
form to emotion.

And we wait for secrets to unfold themselves,
all the little white horses that trace our tongue,
promise after promise, dream after dream,
standing ready for those truths within.


© Phen Weston 2015

Untitled, 6th August 2015

I’m sick of feeling like the hours tick beyond

the vail of my reality– the illusion that there is more

to come– if I just put it off for another day– it slips away–

and I feel the tiring decay against my heavy shoulders–

burdened with the same weary habits that discard

who I want to be– I am the illusionist to my own games–

always telling myself the subtle lies–

to bind me to this unwanted night– there is always another time–

another hour– minute– second– if only I could lift the mistakes–

see the edge– and know I am more than I allow myself to be–


© Phen Weston 2015