Poetry

Hidden in her silver box were those secret letters of love from a dead lover who in a moment of war when passion was the fashion and she fed hers red and raw to his hungry dog of amour .

What was once a stamp for the lowly tramp or the cut of a criminal class is now adorning the faces and physique of the aristocrat royalty and supermodel chic .

In medieval times quacks were dressed to resemble large birds wearing a huge beaks they believed the soul was delivered and despatched by avian transmigration i.e stalk''s babies , Ravens , omens, Cuckoo's madness . I suppose to the superstition of the ancients cancer begins as a small egg shaped lump and then hatches out of its embryonic stage into a vulturous flesh eating bird .

This poem is about our fixation with fear, which I must add is definitely here. We're all living like mendicant monks; our decadent café latte lifestyles are all but defunct. This virus hangs about us like the prophecy of Macbeth, creating constant hysteria as though it were a new strain of black death.

The only true miracle that we mortal beings are likely to see comes in the form of our genetic immortality—the gene transfer continuum, better known to you and me as a baby. Throughout human history, we have believed in many different deities and divinities, ranging from Greek gods to our present-day Corpus Christi. But when it comes to the real miracle-making capability, it's the female of our sp...

A poem written for two old Bohemians who through reckless behaviour in a younger year did so destroy the fragile entity of love , and are now left with just the ghost of her to haunt their old empty hearts .

The macabre story about a great grandmother who's ashes were made into a bone china plate by her broken hearted lover , this practice of using powdered human bone in pottery still continues to this day with artists such as Crow and Kraft who call it crafting cremains .

To port a vicarious redemption on behalf of someone else is a burdensome weight the preachers daughter still carries hers each moment of the day a beautiful quiet soul who was given the substitution of sin by her callous caretaker , her atonement isn't due any time soon .

The human hunter gatherer brain is so very hard to truth train but maybe not if you start using the new silicon scopolamine dream and drip feed it daily with some digital dopamine served up from our omnipresent Turing machine.

A poem I wrote about an angry old man I know who was freed from his angst after receiving estrogen hormone therapy for prostate cancer. It liberated his feminine side as well , and now, he's a much happier person since they've unleashed his lesbian libido.

A song I wrote for Nina's birthday she's lock down with covid and the kids a soft swing song to say we all do love you take care xx

A musing about the craziness of the Boer war and how lord Kitchener was more obsessed with his missing pet starling showing terrible emotional distress whilst all around him in the Boer war hundreds of thousands of people were dying of disease and starvation due to his scorched earth policies especially women and children in the first ever concentration camps with conditions worse than those of th...

a musing about an artist girlfriend and her crazy cultural crew,  their works of art or gestation periods of genius seem to carry similar traits and time scales to those of real pregnancies .

I was quite horrified to read that humans are responsible for the slaughter of three billion animals each day. I wrote the poem in a pompous manner after listening to a hunter talking about his blood sports. He believed it to be his righteous privilege to kill, similar to royalty who once regularly indulged their palates with the flesh of endangered species. Some are still doing so today by buying...

In the swinging sixties, it was fashionable to own a car, especially a Lady Gaga Jaguar. Then, you were truly nouveau riche—a make-believe millionaire, the fake faux movie stars. Members of my family and their friends were just like this. Usually, their balloons burst into bankruptcy, debt, and divorce. Too much money in young hands is akin to mixing desire with hellfire.

A poem for the king of rock and roll he was born into extreme poverty raised in a shotgun shack but managed not only to break out of it but also began to attack the musical apartheid of America as he was one of the first to start singing the black man's blues , he went from busking as a bum on Beale Street to having the world worshipping at his feet .

Similar to the Eskimo fishing through a cut in the ice one could easily imagine a soul catcher waiting patiently at the edge of a black hole in space in order to capture the very essence of life then freeze drying us as fish in the absolute zero of infinity we'd be ready for a renucleation or reincarnation and what better freeze dry facility than the perfectly vacuumed packaging plant of infinity...

Old Colonials talk of empire its quite shocking how they used to think of human beings as nothing more than chattels not just the natives but also the white workers and soldiers such as my old father now 95 years of age he told me during his time in India just after the second world War whilst protecting the British Raj who looked upon him also as their SLAVE OF EMPIRE .

A poem written for my father, who was born in 1926 and is now similar to an old Model T Ford, needing constant tinkering and maintenance to keep him running. Also, I've done my best to copy his gasping Yorkshire speech. Born in the days of the horse and cart, he started working at the age of twelve down in the mills on the east side of a steel river. He mentioned that not only were the steel drays...

For someone who's fifty something plus tax and sexually straight it's quite hard to understand all the new sexual genderisations that are now taking place but as they always say let love rule .

A poem I wrote for my father, who was born in 1926 and is now similar to a model T motor car, needing constant tinkering to keep him up and running. I've done my best to capture his gasping Yorkshire accent. He was born in the days of horse and cart, starting work at the age of twelve in the steel mills on the east side of the iron river. He mentioned that not only were the steel drays pulled by t...

A poem about a miserable old man who people nick named stan he once had a palace and a kingdom then unfortunately lost everything and was reduced to that of a normal man , alas such a tragedy to fall down amonst we the mere mortal clan .

Prostitution is one of the oldest professions in the world which was here before the four angels of Samuel, it's about time the government had the bravery to take control of this modern day slavery let's face facts  the chancellor's been selling narcotics i.e cigarettes an booze for hundreds of years so why allow the criminals any vice take over all their operations and save these poor girls any m...

A poem for my dear friend, whose charismatic charm with women is so legendary that he earned the nickname "The Valley Drive Lady Killer." Even while lying on the surgeon's table, awaiting a serious operation, he still managed to captivate the attention of a young nurse who was shaving his body in preparation for his open-heart surgery.

A poem I wrote to commemorate the courage of Christine the first transexual beauty queen who back in 1953 decided bravely to have her gender reassigned to its rightful sexuallity in order that she may be set free from the burden of having to live with her very unwanted masculinity. but it would be a long haul from the first roll of that snowball before the gay community finally made they're stand...