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.



The Visitor

The Visitor

by David R J Sealey


Slumbering, peaceful, a leg sticks out,

a foot upturned to reveal a sole

soft and clean, unblemished,

begging to be devoured…


Great tangled webs of drool dangle down

to drown flies flitting amidst fetid strands

and touch, at last, the virgin flesh

that flickers quickly back beneath covers

subconsciously protecting it’s dignity,

subcutaneously shivering the threat

watching silently over the bed sheets

longing to taste what lays beneath.


A sliver of light slides slight over shades

illuminating pop posters a ghastly glow;

a shape shifts slowly, lit in the twilight,

diffuse as a storm cloud lost in the night

arched over the bedstead ready to strike,

before a flash of teeth fit for a shark bite

and gnash madly together, a vulgar display,

that rends apart nothing but thin black air…


Where did they go?



Under the stars,

under the stairs,

thundering hearts

betray us…


It tore through the hallways,

it sniffed at the study,

it clattered the saucepans,

and shattered the chairs,

it tapped at the windows

and slammed at the doors,

it left trails on the carpets

like an army of slugs,


it didn’t find us


tucked up in the cupboard

praying for dawn

before tip-toeing barefoot

out onto the lawn.