He Who Speculates




He who makes his own bed

Quilted in morning’s riches

Wretched imposter

Calling for cover


He who unwinds

Mirrored baptisms of believers

Circling vultures awash



He who is never-born

Glowing inversion

Pointed hollow almighty



He who is not

And altogether

Qualified in his absence

Borrowed from none-other


He who is charitable

Certain and fragile

In his giving and taking

At will


He who is forgiving

Forgives only his fancies


Balding and aged


He who is fearful

Blinks crematoria

Guarded shit-houses

A watchful tunnelled eye


He who is union

In suffering and inflicting




He who is one

Knowing what he hath forgotten

Rash harsh flunk

Of a decision


He who is woman

Pincushion precision

Prison crimson

Cold nights calling Om


He who is indestructible

Steel ridged

Industrial lustre

Engine flamed furnace


He who is nature

Standing on his shoulders

Counting sacred patterns

In how you’re wrong immediately


He who is silent

Tortured caged beast

Roaming his confines

Screaming imperceptible vibrations


He who is the way

Turn back now

And abandon all

Tomorrow is a luxury


He who is evil

Strike me down now for saying

Wading in sorrows

Wilderness of hot glass


He who is ignorant

Thinks himself at peace

The deceased left to perish

Not least


He who is present

Came with the assumption I am

Brick-lane hooligan

Apologies from a spray-can


He who is I-don’t-know-what

Stirring the brilliance

Of half-light majesty

A solemn jewel for an ocean to drown


He who is I

Will not sleep

Restless generosity

A desert storm and a keep


He who is me

Buckled rotten again

A loaded gun

Waiting to happen






Greg Fiddament









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