SHE WALKS WITH LIES AND EXPECTATION ‘CROSS FIELDS OF FISCAL LOVE, SHE COMES WITH GIFTS OF CERTAINTIES AND MOUNTAIN CAKE PROMISES. THE CAPITALIST CONFETTI FALLS ON HER LUST FILLED HEAD, POWER AND MADNESS HER WEDDING RING. WITH EVANGELICAL FERVOUR SHE STALKS THE LIVING DEAD, HER BEAUTY MAKES THE MEN IN SUITS CRAWL ON BROKEN GLASS […]
Some people think they have solutions to life. Jogging is one. I feel compelled to say that after years of trying to get fit; this does not inspire me with confidence at all. I see some of these the poor wretches coming past my window, dragging their ghosts along. What tortured perverted mind could invent
The snows of 1916 freeze on the spirits they know now as cemetery friends. Men dreamed greatly of empire back then, and had inner glories tattooed on hearts of patriotic certainties. My generation slowly learned of the price those men paid for their love. And when we walked across those Suffolk fields, silence told truths
A Home in the Lindsey Lowlands Read More »
Wearing dark sunglasses under a Chelsea moon. Blue mists over the city, rain splashes on old London pavements, Brian Jones walking home with a pocket full of harmonicas, In a glorious unknowing of the length of his short life left to live. Soho café milk bar magic, number 176 bus rattling down Charing Cross road
A DEATH IN THE 1960’S (Dedicated to Brian Jones) Read More »
It’s Gone Rose, everything we knew and loved gone. Now they make us curios of the past, like vampires they have sucked out our spirits so that they can worship their boring collage of lies. If they could they would put a tax on happiness, and if they could they would take away even our
I was born running away. Running from expectations tyrannies. Running from playground wounds, where the language of the young stabbed like word spikes. “There’s a home for little children above the bright blue sky,” we sang in that infant’s class of yesteryear. Those words were sung with a devilish fear, incarcerated in a 1950’s shadow
Across the fields of strange Hells, and blood red soil. In terror smoke and dread, walked Tommy Tinfoil. “Gone to be a solider mum, like my tin foil men!” Now the toy fort is in the attic, and will never be used again! “Your country needs you boy, or are you a coward?” With his
Tommy Tinfoil (The last Tommy) Read More »
The cross roads at Brent Eligh, the staggered setting sun, chimes of dark bells call from farmyard hells, as the sons of the harvest fall homeward. I linger by that clover field, and watch the thistledown drift like spirits leaving this world. What now? Where is the tune of tomorrow going to play? Oh handsome
Evening at Brent Eligh Read More »
The Soldier The door awaits a knock; I am now alone in this 12 by 11 foot room. I faced the enemy walking into rapid fire on Flanders fields, shrapnel in my bone reminds me, but now I face the enemy of loneliness, a desolation where I feel the need to shake coffins. Family and
How vainly I have striven. Read More »
Elderly imprisoned in caskets of despair, dark horror shadows and conveyor belt care. “Will they come, will they ever come?” hopeless hoping. Shut mouths make no moan yet, hearts broken in pieces and compounded by the dread of tomorrow. England 2016: Is it the sausage machine that is overloaded or the empty hearts of consortiums