Strange Days


Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone”
- The Doors

sheltered peace
found moments combustible
where my story was placed open
in worlds of intercepted malignant thoughts.
Crying disarmament of dire straights, drowning jest
to hold the gentle storms at bay, across ethereal spheres.
Strange days, those who know embryonic laws of truth. Nature
collapsing inward to sustain the plagiarised passions of each
newlywed chromaticity. Colours not controlled by swain,
stepping away from each common gain.
Strange days held sap and amber,
branches to govern by,
delinquent hopes
for passers

is more
to be

The universe blew by in time before the blink of human realisation.
Apparent colloquial reformation of the streaming dreams to planetary benevolence.
Was there temperament at the centre of passing stars? Conquered from the lines
of earthly realms. The cosmic embrace, where elapsed prosperity becomes thought.
Was there thought in such ‘passers-by’ as we? Strange days come at last.
Blasting the crumbling dimensions away. Here we stand on the cliffs of time,
calling between transient chimes. The then and when, both equal in relevance to the now.

Time is a created thing.
Each second triumphs
over our unfulfilled understanding.
And here we are again
standing on familiar shores,
waters lapping,
hours passing,
no more.
Strange days
are here
once more.

Poem © Phen Weston 2015


image_183 (1)

The rain transplanted state of mind
to fixtures of distinguished stretches,
resistant to conformity and hallowed leaps,
benign through requiems of healing found,

Skylines six feet underground where life moved
in golden shadows, the little drops, the augmented skin,
soul’s away today, waiting for inclination’s visualised
within, without, legacy and collection,

Simple smiles to awaken
inner understanding,

They washed away the guise of dissension,
Seeing the world between makeshift replacements
for all the despair each fickle felt heart bestowed,
mother warmed with rays of volume resounding

Through the earth as electric clashes, reshaped masses,
stronger than the roots they glide, each side defied,
encouraged by the dewdrops of delicacy in the stream,
in each new life,

The wind picks up, and how we dream…


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

A Wedding for Willow

Hello you wonderful people.

I hope you’re all well. So, this is a little personal post and request.

When I was 25 I had serious issues with my mental health. For a long time they went undiagnosed, to the point that I royally screwed up my entire life, of course it wasn’t just these issues, I am as much to blame. But it was a very dark period in my life. I spent several months in hospital, couldn’t leave my home from anxiety and even tried worse. It was a dark time. For years after I kind of just let life move by without really caring or wanting anything. That was until I met Willow.

What can I tell you about her other than she saved me. I know how that sounds; it wasn’t her who literally saved me, but she gave me the courage and confidence to believe in myself and make something with my life. On the most turbulent of days she can always manage to make the glum dissipate and reveals the magic that is all around us. I wish I could find the right combination of words to show you just how beautiful and magical she really is, but there are none.

She encouraged me to return to education (as some of you know I’m a month away from finishing my degree), to blog, to write, to make my book and travel… and live… She has supported me through everything over the last few years. Willow is a truly beautiful soul; kind and generous and loving.

So, now I want to do something just as magical and amazing for her. As some of you know we got engaged last year. Since then, as couples do, we have been looking into weddings and the different options that are available. Willow has always been in love with anything Asian, all Asian cultures, people, art, movies, anime, you name it. I also know that it is her dream to have a traditional Thai wedding on a quiet beach, with Buddhist monks, surrounded by her closest family and friends.

I can picture it now and can picture her there now. The perfect smile she would have. It is also something that, in our current situation and economy, would not be affordable for a very long time. I’m not saying a Thai wedding is expensive, but when you add up all the costs, planes, hotels, and consider that not everyone who we would like to come could afford to, it seems like only a dream.

I want to make her dreams come true.

So, I’ve set up the following Gofundme page to try and gather some of the money needed. This will be added to the money we are also saving ourselves right now. I’m hoping that if anyone has any annoying change that always makes bank accounts look so untidy, then you would like to help me make Willows dreams come true, and give her the greatest wedding possible. With your help I can give her the most beautiful and precious memories I can, and show her just how grateful I am and how much she means to me.

And if you can’t afford too, and we know just how tight money is everywhere right now, then please, just give this post a share on WordPress, Twitter or Facebook and see if we can make some real magic happen.

Thank you for reading
My kindest regards to you all.



Rapture Calls

I lay her down in fields of night– too dead

For passion to play an empty tune–

Her senses wrought by sensual calls

Reflected vitality with vacant rooms

She said she wanted to dance– endlessly

Across the stars– but words were words–

And promises never materialised to more

Than anaesthesia blessed dreams–

Give me proof the world still turns– my sanity burns–

The star were not snuffed out that night–

We fixated in each step we take– materialise now–

Aeons depart these foretold chasms– planets collide–

Did we die– ecstasy awaits– bastion– fires–

Rapture culling the damned with sweet delirium–

Calling– Give me proof the world still turns–




Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Filling Space (An Excerpt)

(Hello all. I hope you’re well. Here is something a little different for you. It is part of something much larger and in progress. Please let me know what you think. Take Care, P.)


Long hours turn today into dust and bones. A naked re-imagining of classic narcotic lust. I was addicted to little more than the tone of things to come. Lie after lie. I wondered how to save grace among other lives than the ones I knew could share my soul.

I emptied the space between the lines with the little peace I could, selfish and splendid. The way became ritual anarchy that touched the minds of Gods with little lost thoughts. Flower afforded acronyms of hopes and hearts, while her memories rolled with balanced thrill, impinging only comfortable existence. My own common sense kept the voices fresh. A little regret superfluously moved deep into grey clouds as I avert her gaze. Fixing it in glass memories of a stained world. As if out-of-date had somehow been our best before, ended in a feat of indignation. What was I supposed to do?

Watching those storms come in I pondered the magnitude of endless discovery. We found each other through the excavation of promises. New hearts that formed the circumference of life. Pixelated with microcosmic emotions that fashioned the perplexing nature of humanity. The complexities of human interaction.

She rose in petals that flashed formality. Simplified thoughts that manifested the classic class syndromes of earthly beings, epitomised by a pledge made to look down on all those who showered lust and love into cascading heavens and hopeless will. Stifling advances with prowess only worthy of ageless sirens. Bringing all in her wake to rocky waters. She thrived in the wreckage as pirate queen, whose galleons sailed and conquered each individual dream, leaving shrapnel embedded wherever her blinding gaze hit.

And I? I had become a devil long before those storms washed the nasty little conformity’s of lies and lust upon my broken bow of desire. Hurt and crushed with calculated frolicking. What blood stained sheets I have left with victims who’s innocence was all I had relished when first my eyes fell within their worlds.

© Phen Weston 2015


Darkness creeps through open windows

connections– the desires of kindred hearts

they are your lovers– locked in secrets–

life lies naked between white linen

sleeping through the ellipse of repentance–

was that breath against her neck– slowley

ascending– warmth against her thigh–

consumed by twilight– his arms felt strong

between her promises– convulsing– contorting– 

she felt his demise within her– was that a voice calling–


the sleeping shade consummates

her body left behind– cruel– beyond earthly veil–

her slumber last eternally– they are your lovers–


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Four Micropoems

The shattered mirror

Cuts deeper into heart

Than hand, relentless,

Each shard a memory

Testifying in blood.


A lover walks

Within empty walls,

Between sentiment

And atonement,

Who knew each

Could be so



Goodbye winter,

The morning chorus

Chimes azure beauty

Back into spring,

A simple melody

Of soon to be

Summer flings.


Strangers combust

Between charms

Of diluted existence,

Blanketed duality calling pace

To forgotten harmonies

Of life.


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Spring Clean

The sun transgressed upon empty fields,
between the lilacs dignity of renewal,
A perfect day for throwing away
those long quiescent memories.

So, I climbed the staircases to each one,
Filed away, but not undone in time,
Realigned ready for spring cleaning.

The box was where it had sat
for three years untouched, but impressed,
with purple walls that held between mistakes
and swirling reawakening of my short comings.

I knew this hand would come around,
And in each face I had once worn, drowned fresh
reminiscences, a solitude of broken futures.

Each item within choked recall,
an old wallet of star crossed lines,
empty now, but once-upon-a-time full
of December emotions undefined.

A belt, a bracelet, photographs
of that day we met and fell in love,
and grew intimate hearts in summer sun.

A bag containing broken leaves,
Plucked from your hair after making love
Beneath autumn hues and golden gods,
precious perceptions persecuted now.

And then below it all, the journal of grief,
collecting dust, a manuscript of misplaced trusts
that youth had marred in alacrity.

A face of understanding, enfolding merely pain,
where memorial resurfaces with primordial wake
and lines jump and carry me away,
in each face I wore I drowned afresh.

It starts like this…

“I ripped the pages from this life,
A regret that devours the love
I threw from my own callous cliffs.

My heart is breaking and I am alone,
sinking in my own wrongdoing,
atonement laughs in its deepening waters”

And as I recite each page of
crumbling certainty and depressions cage
A letter tumbles and cascades.

“Last night I had a dream that I was back
At our woods. It seemed so real. Then I woke up
And for a few seconds I thought you were there.
I lay there trying not to move, so it would last.
You weren’t there in the end.”

Each line reflects your voice,
pressing down with the heaviness of spheres
tumbling into black despair, you echo there,
you echo there.

“I don’t know what will happen with us,
but you just sent me vicious words again,
and I probably deserve them. Each time
you promise change, giving only lies.”

Each line blisters with almost religious thirst
for each promise I took from our falling leaves
and desecrated upon our kingdom.

The possibilities I threw from presence
to mimic my destructive reverberations,
the rubble that warranted a lifetime, cut short.

Each word slices into old elapsed lacerations
and spring cleaning opens up misapplications
that I will not let be buried in day of future’s past.

The mistakes come into piercing focus
and I drown within the faces I once was,
the crippling domination of my sins,
spring cleaning is never done,

as I replace each item with attention
locking them securely from my aversion
for another year, or three.

When maybe I can finally clear the memories
from the words so freely thrown away,
“I love you always, and hope you believe me.”

Abandoned promises that forever spill
into the many faces I have become,
knowing you’ll never see my remorse unspun
between the falling autumn leaves

Where you echo,
“I love you always, and hope you believe me.” 

Poem © Phen Weston 2015
Image © Phen Weston 2015