Was Out of Sync.

Swimming against the stresses of life,
the dactyl abstinence of hidden permanence,
I lose myself with each new difference,
the ‘six feet under’ and diligence,
where each outgrowth births moving emptiness,
simple times and simple filtering,
the fake parade to pass passing days,
locked amongst false loyalties
that haunt forgotten tongue,
I spoke a language instinctive of my soul
and treasured, with promises, shamelessly.
With each new word I learn new silences,
the manifestation of each stranger that birthed me disfigured,
to breathe beneath elapsed wounds and specimens
of conjured truths, uttering,
the slippery innocence of testament.

But I
was out of sync with

The airglow soliloquy of her always,
dancing between the backlights,
where holding time as beachheads,
ready for running with newly forming heartbeats,
became the love of borrowed birthright,
bootlegged dreams against simmering boxcars,
taking us to all those places
we conjured between the tracks, showcasing,

Was out of sync with…

And I bled each syllable to meet her eyes

Shouldering inscriptions realigned
Airless ordeal, yet never replied.

Forgotten abstracts,

Heartwise railcars drifting

In equal space and time…

And she
Was out of sync

And I

Was never enough.


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Untitled 25th April 2015

Champagne recital echoes windswept tides,

despair in depth, tattooed amid old lines,

instilled alone within charades relapsed,

perceptions cipher, lost to lovers cracks,

the callus dreams befit each golden hue,

or else each maiden whisper cuts us through.

We knew the tower would collapse tonight,

regret refreshed with melancholy flight.


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

(A quick iambic poem for a rain Saturday…)

Porphyria’s Wake

Years neglect how she became my muse
until her eyes tore through the shrouds
of all I had come to call empyrean earth.
Now each step engulfs her loveless being,
and waters wash away the strongest walls,
each held the sanity before, Bastille amour.
Bleeding sooner than death can swing her scythe,
to show me there is no hope in insignificance,
rain howled early into night. Sullen winds
which wake the worst in your forgiveness,
spite proposed, across a heart fit to break.

Was Porphyria’s Lover always our poem?
Etched between the fragmented dreams.
I sense her in every crushing heart beat,
every pleading cave that draws us in to drown.
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss
I propped up our love before old ghosts,
screaming through the fractures of distance:
“Here I am! Feel me beating!
Because without you each collapsing second
resonates that I was the fool, and all I try to be,
behind the pain I threw in your direction, lies
in the hues of blackholes and solitude.”

And thus we sit together now,
and all night long we have not stirred,
and yet God has not said a word! *

* Porphyria’s Lover – Robert Browning
Poem © Phen Weston 2015


There were words laced through pupil and memory once,

Promises complicated by tarnished fiction, calling us home.

I could bear those eyes no longer! A history evolved 

Through sacrifice, those I love with bitter tenderness.

Now, to never look upon those eyes again

Where our microcosms become the fading truth,

Vanished serenity from azure nights,

Where we saw shooting stars through ecstasy’s haze,

And dreamed of commitment seeded in seasons sought,

Now, to hold my tortuous sleep in waking whim,

Each moment she haunts, Seraphim. Each good turn,

Each moment between lost requiems, hidden in deepening scars,

Committed to faraway winds, where those eyes 

Will never look upon us again… 

Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Ten Seconds

I walked up the road,
sun charging between sense
as though warmth circumvented rainy days
for a life time of promise filled phase.

You walked down the road,
where light and beauty followed
within deceived realities picked apart
by the rising troubled memories.

Ten seconds it took to pass,
a life time of regrets converged.
Each accompanied by one hundred pounding beats per second,
drowning inside colapsed hearts
where nothing registered but haze
and prolapsed attonement.

Ten seconds clung to fogotten DNA,
that strange disheveled dream
that slept away the hurt i cannot forgive,
but old hurt wasn’t in your hands,
just stripped and locked portraits
of all the tendens to my grave.

Your lips parted, but all that echoed
was the thud, thud, thud of all i did,
no strong fleeting emotions percieved
between the aeons that passed on by in your shadow,
words lost on the wind,
caring, scalding, riping, forgiving?
I will wonder, but never know.

You walked on by in ten seconds
that changed the world and raised my dead,
my heart stopped again and summer fades away,
with each beat, beat, beat, you never gave… 


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

Get Me Closer to God

“Through every forest, above the trees
Within my stomach, scraped off my knees
I drink the honey inside your hive
You are the reason I stay alive”
– Nine Inch Nails

Her eyes took in spheres through purity and wildfire,
between fissures of adulthood perceived for neon nights
that coloured shifts of elation with the drumming of moxie,
mellifluously guiltless before the roaming fancies of childhood
where cosmos bounced from side to side in conundrum borne
of waking amazement. Matter formed in deep time, preserved
through the resolution of jazz chords promised to her
with ineffable epochs that shimmer for hiraeth thoughts,
She sonorously sang with luminance for life.

Yet, broken hearts beat irregular lives, nefarious fools,
where shattered affection had toiled and tolled
along to the death’s-head beatle, dancing her cause
between the fractures of phase, fragmented tears,
illicit and ethereal they fell in nightscapes captured
by passers-by, the procession of concluded hearts
and moments caught in downpours before shelters were.

I loved her then, the lost romance shifting between petrichor
moments, iridescent epiphanies that came in late hours
where luminescence of nightly talks and walks along winding waters
etched the graves of those dreams we pass on by.
We watched the world from supine belvederes
knowing solitude stood for hallowed hearts, hollowed hopes,
the years of naked accuracies where aurora comes between
her syzygy wants, the phosphenes of waking.

What denouement could I conjure to guide the night
through stacks of vellichor meanderings that I held in secret?
She walked in obscure sorrow and I held her hand
through the centuries we knew were all fantasised,
not the formulation of coveted whim, but love sensed,
down the spiral of echoing empty quarters,
we stood their alone in ephemeral oblivion,
lost in the wake of worlds we could not understand. 


 Poem © Phen Weston 2015


Songbird spoke of translucent harmonies,

the transistors of context wrapped in viridescent reactions

that trail behind the counter weight of tradition.

Tumbling inclinations tethered to tranquility. 

But, the sentiment of kings passed in a haze of structures

unsupported by people who were the same since yesterday.

Never seen, never sure, the sentimental, convicted by tendency

where sapphire blues were overlooked 

by the staff of the heartbreak hotel. Crafted and created,

the songbird called to each cavernous whole that conformed 

in connections hidden, driven, concealed within consequence

before the wheels, coach and control, cavity and crude.

Yet her tune floated, a melody to mesmerise the membranes

of a world lost in mass-market paperback plastic.

A whistle of meanderings days long dawned, but never misheard,

the memory of things to come, the meeting place of the mad.

Or so they say,

Am I mad as

I watched the warbler sing her wanderers waltz,

Collecting whim between the world’s of where and when.

The world’s before the warming summer breeze,

Capturing the white innocence of welcome illusions.

My heart frequents her soul, ridding wings of free thanksgiving,

The madness of the dreamscapes promised in our DNA,

And what is wrong with madness matched in resonance?

Coming home to natures waiting embrace.

Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.*


*Allen Ginsberg 

Poem © Phen Weston 2015

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