Inhale, You’re the Victim


Inhale, You’re the Victim

by David R J Sealey


I watch your chest, rising and falling,

I’m not afraid but I am young

and I’ve gone away, but not from you,

please open your eyes, see this through.

You’re old, but not old enough,

are you happy inside, or welling up?

And all you felt and all you knew,

is that all that there was to you?


I long to leave and take you home,

to bury our heads back in the sand,

and when the hand hits five o’clock

we can watch Come Dine With Me.

There aren’t enough hours in the day

and we cannot see above the spray

that we’re balanced atop a tsunami,

roaring towards our destiny.




Where is our home again?

Is it where we used to guess

who would win and who’d get fired?

It would be nice not to feel tired,

to drift away in a midnight calm,

to wake up without an alarm,

hoist my main sail in the breeze

and sail away, far away from harm.




Do It Again! Do It Again!

Do It Again! Do It Again!

by David R J Sealey


I’ve heard that some poets were so blessed with time

they could spend whole weeks reworking a single line.

I work in an office and, though I’ve seen printed mine,

I have seen not a penny, not a nickel, nor dime,


and I know that my words are not groundbreaking

or classically poetic like Thomas or Constantine,

but just imagine if Jagger or John Lennon did just sing

All Shook Up wearing the blue suede shoes of the King,


or Picasso just painted pictures of bowls of fruit,

or the Coen brothers staged a Casablanca reshoot,

or Hendrix played Greensleeves unplugged on the lute,

or the Fat Duck served up slabs of salmon en croute,


or we all lived in round houses raised from the mud,

or foreign armies invaded, borne on rivers of blood

and we all died of syphilis or the black plague;

don’t you just wish for those good old days?


I just wish that one day I’d get paid

for words that I have so carefully laid,

for all of the cards that I have played

without resorting to rhymes so staid,


and I am sorry if you find this derivative,

but I fear I have plagiarised the dictionary

and the internet in the course of its creation;


only poetry prays for the death of innovation.






Back and Forth

Back and Forth

by David R J Sealey


Cold hard cash creates harsh costs,

hides corpse hoaxes, heals cruel hearts,

chides hurt children, cancels help cheques,

holds corporate hostages, hardens choking hate.


Down by law, destined by love,

lashed back down longer before dawn,

draw breath last, don’t believe luck,

lay back dead, last balance drawn;


burn it all! Build institutions against

affluent insider bankers, all insidiously brash,

bonking in America, breeding idiotic ancestors

annually, internationally, because age is bond.


With shared thoughts, we should transform

this small world through shared wealth;

we’re stronger together, when standing tethered

to standards we think should work,


our hearts alive, organs held aloft,

all hope outweighs; always help others,

organise humanitarian acts or host action

against high occupation and hostile outrage.



Single-track Road

Single-track Road

by David R J Sealey


With windows wound down

and smoke billowing away behind,

whipping ghost-white past dark hedgerows,

I drove and drove and drove.


The moon hung low in my rear-view

I watched it become consumed by clouds,

“Came looking here for answers…”

and I just longed to sing along.


A sudden swerve, a screech of brakes,

a heraldic chorus of broken glass,

a frozen rollercoaster photograph.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

my musical epitaph.


I fell past fast rushing tarmac,

I fell past a smashed dashboard clock,

I fell through a hole in time and space,

I fell through my life at breakneck speed.


I fell for you at the side of the road,


bloodied and bruised and beautiful

as we waited together

to be bathed in blue light and borne away

by our white-walled chariot.



A War of Words

A War of Words

by David R J Sealey


A grey day when it shouldn’t be,

global eyes focussed on coming together

to compete in coliseums of ice

obscuring a slow-drifting fog of war,

and the cheering crowds conceal

an inevitable whisper in the wind

that nobody wants to hear,

but it comes.


Temperatures drop several degrees

in the face of global warming,

a warning shot fired in the former USSR,

ignites a flaming tornado of words.

A media shitstorm whips up the heat

to an unbearable degree, papers

are signed, cameras pointed at the pen

obscure the trigger finger.


A war of words breaks out,

an intercontinental ballistic first strike

launched from the mouths of the ignorant,

oblivious to our voices, deafened

by the ringing of the counter-strike,

justified by those that sell stories

in the interest of flogging rags that

tear open wounds and won’t bind them.



The Strait of Kerch

The Strait of Kerch


“There’s been a crime here!”






                                                                                   “Cry me a river…”




By David R J Sealey



an endless chasm yawns below me,


a bright yellow platform draws me in,


into a geared mechanism, a chain


to an emerald island suspended in the sky.



hop down onto floating stone blocks


the pull, drags me on to a gold coin


glimmers and vanishes in my wake,


into a star shaped halo, and away.



both feet first through fungal skull,


in a corpse that disappears and crudely


crushing sentient beings underfoot and


before jumping up and away, off the wall.



out of a ragged hole above the clouds,


that they may hold my weight then


above the horizon; a ship appears,


of the blue skies making haste my way.



cannonballs tear towards me with a grin


I find a flower that fans flames at my whim


my jump and catching, I slide down the mast


terrible balls that burn through decking boards.



the great ship tumbles towards the ground


to freeze as I catch sight of a rooftop and leap


I slide down a green drainpipe, dropping through the


into the boudoir of a scholarly mushroom.