Double Slit Experiment

Lying down in the tub,

billowing cumulus clouds of crimson,

lethargy coming on slowly,

Made a choice I will

never have again…

You want me to explain…?

Sincerity and genuineness

Is impossible for me…

Just a big reaction to

the fragmented throng.

Tried to excise my

coping mechanisms…

exacerbated by ego

and erroneous perceptions

of corpulent truths.

You won’t forgive my indolence…,

But you don’t know me.

I am very busy…

At the molecular level.

_Son of Ham
By: hiroshi kuhn

PrintFriendly and PDF
Bookmark and Share

The Machine

The cogs and wheels
of life turn at speed,
each gear

perfectly in line,
manoeuvring the which way
and that way of humanity, heeling
like a boat,

each part tested and
refined, with precision
and order,

but some part’s are mysterious.
We can’t reach them.

Schizophrenia is like a spanner
in the works.
It malfunctions,
but these parts are
made of titanium.
it’s hard to crack
them, though these
‘gremlins’ don’t
break the machine.

And they are
timeless, being as old as humanity.
They are not efficient,
but they have a purpose.
They are not part of
a bad design.
Instead they perform many
tasks, the bastion
of morality, the prophet
of spirituality, of which its by-
product is love and death.
They test the rigours of life,
in the system, and
when the system turns rogue,
and works against us,
each shoddy bit
twists and breaks and
rusts but it is these
few who shut it

By: David Holloway

PrintFriendly and PDF
Bookmark and Share


I have to convince the world
of who I am,
to become somebody,
not the odd man in dark sunglasses,
the psycho killer,
the benefit scrounger,
these streets are paved without
I am the lion of madness,
an owner of words,
farmer of doubts,
I want to spread love,
and sow the seeds of hope
but you see the mad me,
the man without a
face, a scythe hangs over my head,
we can share a thought on mankind
we are the sane,
the same I mean.
I am alone, stumbling with
my words now, they disown me,
perhaps we can share a moment,
now it’s gone.
Will you write me a
sonnet, of the way we are?
For I am yours, you
are mine, a communion
of life.

By: David Holloway

PrintFriendly and PDF
Bookmark and Share

Going Places

What a fume
down the road
left in its wake
a cloud of smoke
makes people choke

Going places
up and downhill
at your will
not to kill
over bumps
round bends
give them thrills and chills

The engine roars
doing its chores
coughing and spluttering
as winter came
isn’t it a shame
if that car had a brain
it would go insane
as if to complain

wipers don’t work
running out of luck
windows dirty
paintwork rusty
‘Couldn’t sell this car,’
Mr Claxton says in woe
‘The only thing that works
is the radio.’

The door creaks
The petrol tank leaks
The boot springs open
The car is hoping

The brake, accelerator and clutch
don’t work,
We’ll have to get a car towing truck.
The truck appears, off to the dump
clitter-clatter, sighs of woe
the dump is the place to go

At the dump the driver stops
he relaxes and sighs
‘That car has had its chances.’
Tyres worn
Mental torn
ages old, can’t be sold

The car lies there
like a lump
in all that pile
of forgotten junk.

By: John Bain

PrintFriendly and PDF
Bookmark and Share