A Confession

I once shot a rabbit 
with a black crossbow
To put it out of pain.

There was no blood,
Only vermillion tears,
And his screams in fear.

Now, as I close my eyes
To fading colours, I
Can still hear his pleas.


Promenade through Death


Her willing belief, lost between

the falling shards of patterned potential,

wrapping mannerisms,

spaced between the brew building

beneath the aching bones once more,

the house was her empty vessel

lacking the past between and entwined,

with all the lasting, shifting, dreams

that herald kingdoms to the dusks,

of Neither, and Nor,

the spiralling tomorrow,

the slip away in disgrace,

her heart felt their burden,

buried below the rainwaters calm,

she gave him grace

that danced in all she was in instants

lapping at his shorelines

for Nothing More, Nothing More

than his touch and tribute,

she stirred and bopped

in time to his pulsing veins,

standing rigid against his membrane,

to be

more than shadow

in his heart-breaking vision, the nylon

removed in passion before the claiming

of her eyes, sky high, and darker waters,

his premonition of life bountiful, black

and marked with her X,

prerogative, his right

over her lithe soul,

there was little she knew,

her willing belief, lost between

the falling shards of patterned potential,

she planet seeds

and life grew

the nine steps to vengeance new, formerly the dead snow

and sharpened fallout, the riptide, the dream eater,

“What Cinderella Branches Blind You, My Dear?”

The scent of passing fluctuating the growth,

that lied of living in all God’s creatures, prepared for spheres,

“Perception Of The Chasm,

The Fall Is Always Sweeter,”

The ‘voice of reason’ reasoned

slipping serpent tongue against her thoughts,

trailing up her thighs to each Never Never desire,

“Strangers Come And Go,

Strangers Deface The World,

And You Flow Through Fragmented Ego”

she took his hand

broken skin as dry as Arabian nightmares,

the consuming king leading home his whore,

she never slept again,

beneath the walls that echoed her empty vessel,

the Ol’boy laid her to rest in shallow words,


the Neither, and Nor,

and she laughed it all away, promises, being human,

swathed in grief and fray, genesis, each lose consumin’,

for Nothing More, Nothing More.


© Phen Weston 2015


Champagne tastes of requisitioned memories,

carved in sepia transformation and movies

backlit with perfect damsels clothed in mystery,

and I see your face between the effervescent frames,

writing our story in adolescent cells,

“How I detest the dawn. 

The grass always looks

like it’s been left out all night.”*



* Hardy Cathcart, The Dark Corner, 1946

To Kill…

At home, as a child, there was always a copy of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ on the book case. It’s orange cover, with embossed white lettering, reflecting an innocence that seemed to echo the translucent paragraphs that I was too young to understand.

As I grew, the world grew too. To a new pitch that blankets those truths in an absence of stars, laid bare like the convulsions of a mad dog in the heat of July. We say, “we all long to share as a continuum of emotive comparison”. Yet, the hammer of our distance comes down like the breaking of kindling and the neglect of a jury.

The mockingbird laying at our feet. The fragmented shuffling of human compassion as little more than tinder unseen. No longer the heart that shifts on wings of smokey realisation, but the broken promise. The virtue removed. The solace that brought the music caught in the purity of each other’s souls, now ragged and reformed. 

And oh, how we make sure to never feel sorry for it.

We run away! 

Into the forests of inconsistent dreams, where cruelty batters those simple taunts in guilt and pity. Screaming, “We wear the skin as long as it suits our own needs.”

And Atticus sits on his porch, wondering where little Scout flew away too. As the cold winter comes in. One snowy night at a time.


© Phen Weston 2015

Winds Of Fable (Revisited, 1st September 2015)

Cherry blossoms in the sky
Deny the laws of opposition,
Attracted to the lawless wind
They leave the rift stolen,

Phantasmagoria of solitude,
Lost ghosts of misconceptions
Can see such petals beneath
Their sweet lucid devotions,

But you transcend yearning days
Upon mists and lucent vapour,
Holding illusion to vivid sight,
Cacophony of sweet amusement,

So, what are we in such a turn?
True love demands no tribunal,
Nor court to bar evolving souls
To abject diminishing apparition,

I stand before your open heart,
Manifestation of loves allegory,
Soft sakura, on brief wild winds
Float, find our adrift attraction.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014

That Difference In You

I tried to make this different,


Cut along the lines of your

Form in ways that would leave a mark

Without permanent scars,


Each cut just seemed

To take the edge and cover it in

Marred memories and

Passing passion,


You don’t see my name

Or hear my voice as I whisper 

That it will be


That we were more than

Smudged lipstick


My cheek,

Not just waiting for the breath to

Flood our lungs

In summer heat and bake

The meaning

Of this into a delicacy 

You’d find abroad


Would love in the moment,

But would be soon forgotten

As reality bites,



Tried to make this different,

To paint

The words into your eyes,

Locking nature in our prideful

Rolling tongues,

“The ears,” you say, “don’t belong

To this conversation anymore.”

And close the door,


Me with nothing more

Than a colder floor

Than we were meant to know,

Subtle and stretched

Against the breast of

Loves tender hold within

The strolling roads

And lovers cliffs,

I jumped.



Etched the dimensions

Of your fading tattoos

In heart and beating

Temptation, rocking

And thumping back and forth

Within this decaying chest

 To peek at your face anew,

And though you’re no longer you,

It’s just a hue that covers up the dreams

We knew,

Collapsed at your feet,

Give them a kick, see if they beat

Beat, beat for you.


I was walking

Through the rain alone,


With your ghost

each step shows

Reminiscences remark,

How overwhelming

This empty head


To fill the folds 


Colour that drawn

Out soul


Tried to make this different,

But just wrote you into

Each verse, word and syllable

Once more.

How different could it be

When you reflect

The world?



Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Today’s Forecast (Revisited, 31st August 2015)

The moon did not rise,
The sun stayed away,
And all light
Changed course,
Leaving only
The corse
Of what held me,

But, at least that
Was something,
Something other
Than the empty
Calm, stagnant, waters
You left me
Drowning within,

Curves reflections,
The mirror loathes
What shadows
Shimmer back,
I am desolation.

Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Her Seppuku (Revisited, 30th August 2014)

The bamboo wife
The melancholy man
With tombstones
In his eyes,

White ritual
And grey whispers
Soon bloomed,
Turning to clouds,
Soaking the earth,

Ran down her cheeks,
Tears of tragedy,
Jagged and ripe,

Regrets demeanour
Could not stand
Between their worlds,
Mourning broke,

She loved him
Into shattered pieces,
She couldn’t speak,

He fell,
Tanto carved,
Crimson passion,
Love honoured.


Poem © Phen Weston 2014