("Thus always I cause the death of tyrants.”)
the purported line Brutus uttered
after assassinating Julius Caesar.

Alternatively titled:
The prose and consequential arguments
for the death penalty.

Warm, sultry summer nights,
Mosquitoes, like miniature biplanes of the damned, waiting to siphon your dreams,
A buzzing, invisible orchestra of thirst.
Are you ready for this heatwave to end,
This shimmering, hallucinogenic mirage of heat?
Is it worth your soul, this fevered, melting season?
Or is it a nuisance to behold, a sticky, surreal dream?

The map of future, folded, creased, and worn,
Lies hidden, like a secret yet unborn.
Around the corner, shadows softly creep,
Uncertainties that lull my soul to sleep,
Yet rouse it too, with whispers of the new,
A vibrant life, though tinged with shades of blue.

no longer land of the free home of the brave,
original rightful occupants hoodwinked, petrified,
where diseases xeroxed
ambushed, crushed, extinguished,
squashed, trashed, wampashed,
the entire kit and kaboodle zapped
violent unwelcome intruders
celebrated acquisition or outright
annexation of lands
inhabited by indigenous peoples
showcasing courtesy outright theft
torturing, liquidating, flourishing braggadocio
nattering nabobs of nativity
pièce de résistance mere pennies on the dollar

It isn't just the sun
or even the blue sky
so bright and clear.
No, it isn't just
on the outside
with my smiling face
and my cheerful disposition.
On the inside,
deep inside
I feel like I'm a winner.
On the way back from Interact
I was smiling
quite broadly
because I feel like
the gogetter that I am.
Everything is open
for me.
Everything is there
for me
to solve
resolve
and complete.
That's the best part
of being a winner.

We haven’t cycled together for years.
First he started to struggle with hills,
which once he’d get up without changing gear.
Then there were the spate of punctures and flats

he never bothered to learn how to fix.
I bought him those special Kevlar tyres,
extra hard and endurable. That were
champion until he began to complain

of pain in his knees and couldn’t come
as far as I’d like. Then he’s knocked off
his bike outside the chip shop. "This car
drove straight at me like I weren’t there.

I once had a body with teeth that used to bite
Feet that were meant to run, heels digging in the mud
And a heart which now only aches

I had hands that used to write
Of which now have no use
Any thought I am bound to think
Comes only from the code from which I’m made

I once had a body
One you could touch and fold
Eyes that could roll, a hand to hold
A heart to heal

Old English on parchment paper,
the smell of sandalwood wafting in the air
An invitation with no signature,
Bidding her welcome, but did she dare?

Another letter, instructions that followed,
an address this time, "come find the black door."
Incense graced her fingertips,
foreboding so much more.

Into the darkest of nights,
under the coldest blanket of air,
As promised, a carriage awaited,
but her admirer was not there.

The birds still fly north every winter
They know where to go
And they still make it back in time
For spring, every year

There's a story out in the west
About a bird who flew a thousand miles
North before every winter
And still made it back
To the same tree
One day when he returned
He found his tree cut down
For such, is life

Dialogue between us
Is hard but not impossible

I will send my messenger
On dark wings

To consummate what is most
Beautiful