Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Life Rears Up Like A Frightened Horse

These are some poems from one of my collections. I present these for you:

Sometimes You Look So Beautiful

it scares me
hounds me in my
night robes of conscience
impregnates my thoughts
contorts the reality.

sometimes you look so beautiful
it pleases me
but still that scare
is on the loose
slipped the noose
hanging from the tallest
spire of inside

always I am scared.

Crowd Pleaser

I walk cobbled stones and
broken backs of paving slabs.

Feet scuff the concrete
catch heels

I attempt to appear nonchalant
but my fluster stands bold
like mosquito bites.

I await the applause.

People walk on by
the crumpled flesh on the floor.

I abhor the sensitivity of robots: if you won't clap at least concern.

Under The Thumb

THEY say
when YOU die
the soul drifts into another world
where no PAIN exists;
no WAR is undertaken;
no CRIME is ever committed.

The Lonely Walk

the road
a conveyor belt travelling backwards
faster than I am walking forwards
car drivers sound their horns pass on by the lonely walker.

the sun beats down
on sweating face
necklace beating against chest
in time with feet
body leaching fluid: too much for t-shirt to drink

road just winds on
in the distance
conveyor belt
feeding faster
the lonely walk
is far from over
the agony of it all just weighs down the besieged.

Rising To The Bottom

Drinking tea with talk-show hosts:
Nutrasweet smiles
watching their weight.
Shaving around glossy moustaches.
Dripping with gold, jewels and bimbos.
Sloshing a Scotch
in the drink
with a chink: the ice,
no slice.

I feel out of place
and wonder how I managed to arrive
from dingy to sickly-
sweet the personality,
sickening the life-
styled out of fashion.

But who cares when
everybody is living
in the medieval torture
of the 21st Century?

I Pretend I Am Dreaming

faces staring
at blank face
with smile
that don't
i pretend I am dreaming/
i pretend I am dreaming/
i pretend/
it's all a charade/
it's all a pain in my chest/
the mundane tears
playing cards
choosing names
making jokes
no one laughs anymore/
no one laughs when you're a piece
from a different jigsaw/
you don't remember
now you are happy
i can't forget
i feel the cancer spread/
i'm losing weight/
today i counted seven ribs
holding my grief/
i think i'll shave... in the early morning
just to get around
the words others speak/
hunched on the floor
i'm just a bore
for everyone to ignore
or ridicule/
i lose my temper
when i shouldn't/
it's time to move
but bed is like a
grave i use at night/
i pretend i am dreaming...

Tagged, once again

I've been tagged by Raynwomaan and this story is my fifteen things you didn’t know about my sex life (hey, I don't set the questions). So, for once, this is not (quite) fiction.

The Prime Minister looked over the pieces of paper scattered haphazardly over his leather-bound desk and groaned. One day in the job and this is what it came down to: pushing paper. He wasn't making the major decision he thought he would be nor was he meeting with the leaders of the world, people he'd aspired to meet since he'd first took an interest in politics aged 14. All he was doing was pushing paper.

Oh well, he thought, I might as well make a start. He pulled up the first piece within reach and started to read it. After a second or two, he started to read it again from the beginning. This wasn't the usual ministerial rubbish about budgets and warfare or the proletariat uprising that was (forever) imminent in the country. This was something completely different; personal - in actual fact it was extremely person as it dealt with the Prime Minister's sexual activity.

"It can't hurt to fill it in," he said out loud, plucking a gold pen from the inside pocket of his hand-stitched wool jacket.

It hadn't taken long for the Prime Minister to fill in the questionnaire. He felt good, something had been achieved. The first day in the job and he had already answered questions about being on the job. It wasn't quite what the public thought he should be doing, but if that Cluntin could get his dick sucked in the Round Office then he, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, could take time out to do some light-hearted questionnaire.

As he sat back and reflected on his success (albeit on something he would not want broadcast to the nation) a knock came at the door. He called out and the door opened. A flunky - the Prime Minister tried in vain to recall his name - pushed through the door and took a sharp intake of breath.

"Why, Prime Minister, what are you doing amongst all that paperwork? No, no, no, this simply won't do!" he exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" asked the Prime Minister. "Don't I do paperwork?"

"Of course not!" The flunky was almost incredulous in his tone. "You sign things, sir, meet world leaders, etc, etc. You have a huge team of civil servants that'll take care of all this," he indicated with a sweep of his hand.

"Oh," said the Prime Minister, crestfallen. Suddenly, his minor achievement seemed immaterial.

The flinky gathered up the papers and stuffed them into a folder, which he then held between his arm and body. The Prime Minister almost expected him to salute, but he didn't. Instead, he simply turned on his heel and was out the door.

Several seconds passed until the Prime Minister realised his questionnaire was amongst the papers now stuffed into a folder, carried under the arm of a flunky who's name he didn't know.


The next morning, it soon became clear that he'd been set up. The questionnaire had been planted, specifically to give the Daily Snail a scoop. They printed up his answers in bold. He groaned again. Prime Minister's questions would be Hell personified. They would ridicule him endlessly. He'd never live it down.

The telephone rang. Another groan was emitted from the Prime Minister's mouth. He didn't really want to answer it, but he couldn't hide away, take a day off. No duvet days for world leaders. A tinge of regret passed over his mind, but the ringing phone brought him back to reality.

"Prime Minister, this is the Queen. I must say, I read your interview twice. I'm most impressed by your candid nature. I never liked the God-loving one; he also had a fondness for war and idiots with plans to take over the world. I much prefer you. Toodle-pip."

Before he could say anything else, the Queen had hung up. Cradling the phone in his hand, the Prime Minister sat back in his chair and glowed. Now, he welcomed Prime Minister's questions.

Lifting the Daily Snail off his desk, he read through the Q&A session once more, a satisfied look on his face.


Q&A with the Prime Minister

How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.

I was 14 and it was to the daughter of the man I worked for at weekends for extra money. It was a disaster, as these things generally are. Second time was better if not longer.

What is the strangest place you've had sex?
In a woodland, on a pathway. I was 18 years old at the time.

Who would you consider 'switching teams' for?
As a Prime Minister, do you think I'd switch teams? Of course, back in the old school days...

Do you prefer to give or receive?
Give, as long as I get to receive sooner rather than later.

One night stands - what the protocol? Stay the night or get the Hell outta there?
Never had one. Really.

Favourite body part/parts of the opposite sex?
Eyes. That alone can make the difference. Not what they look like but what they show.

Quickie or long and slow?
Depends on a number of variables that I can't go in to here. Suffice to say, whichever is most suited to the time and place.

Noisy or quiet?

Ideal amount of sex per week?
At least three times. Preferably more, definitely not less. Right now in my life that is. Ask me again when I'm eighty - do they ask an ex-PM about sex?

What's your number one sexual turn-off?

Number one arousal trigger
That 'look' - you all know the one I mean!

What constitutes bad sex?
Any that requires cash payment.

Celebrity you'd most like to shag right now?
None - I don't love any of them.

Define sexy?
Well, it's not George Bush in spandex, let me tell you! I suggest you try a dictionary.

Remember the best sex you've had - what made it special?
Knowing I'd never forget it.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Case Solved

"All I can hear is oohs and aahs, Unc."

"That's coz they're fucking each other, you stupid twat. That's why we're 'ere. We need evidence, don't we? Sometimes I wonder what the fuck it is that you're doing 'ere. Gimme those headphones. Muppet.

Julian duly handed over the headphones, his bottom lip quivering slightly. He didn't like upsetting his Uncle Freddie this much, but he hated it when he shouted at him. He hated being cooped up in the back of a van even less, unfortunately it was all part of the job: private detective.

Uncle Freddie was listening intently; Julian wondered what he could be listening to, as all he'd heard was the grunts of what Uncle Freddie termed as 'dirty sex'. The thought made Julian's cock harden with blood. He sat down to disguise it, praying it would go away. Julian didn't know a lot about sex. What he did know was that he wanted to try it.

"Ssssssshhhhhhhhhh!" Uncle Freddie loved to make that sound, even if there was no noise whatsoever. "Right, get the fucking camera, they're oblivious to anyfing and we needs the shots. C'mon, you fucking twat. NOW!"

Julian jumped, his head connected with the metal roof of the van, sending out a dull clang. He was about to let out a cuss, but Julian bit his tongue as he recalled the last time he'd sworn in Uncle Freddie's company. His eye had been swollen for a week. He twisted about, looking everywhere for the camera. He spied it under the front seat and reached forward to collect it. Uncle Freddie was tutting and shaking his head. Julian grabbed the camera as Uncle Freddie swung open the rear door of the van and helpfully pushed him out into the night.

Ladder's on the fucking roof," Uncle Freddie said as he slammed the door shut.

Julian pulled the ladder down, trying hard to make as little sound as possible. The door to the van opened again.

"Don't fergit to take the fucking cap off the lens, awright?" And then Uncle Freddie was gone again.

Julian began to move off towards the imposing Victorian house in front of him. As he moved away he could hear Uncle Freddie talking to himself, a squelching sound of wet flesh coming from the van. Julian didn't really want to take the photos, but he knew from experience that interrupting Uncle Freddie while he was "taking notes" in the van was a bad thing to do. His eye had taken two weeks and he'd needed stitches in his lips. Uncle Freddie had also warned him not to mention that his trousers had fallen down, else Julian might find he went to hospital for a lot longer.

He struggled across the lawn, the ladder in one hand and the camera slung over his shoulder. It was moonlight and it cast a silver sheen across the landscaped gardens. There were many shadows across the front of the house and Julian moved towards them. He placed the ladder against the house and carefully increased its length until it sat just beneath the window sill. Julian tested his weight on the bottom rung.

Confident that the ladder would take his weight, Julian began to climb. His palms sweated as he climbed. Would he get to see real sex? Would he see a naked woman, breasts and everything? Julian hoped so. He wished that Uncle Freddie would let him get them developed, then he could look at the photos before he handed them over. He might even be able to steal one, although Uncle Freddie would probably go ballistic and kill Julian. He'd get copies made instead.

As he climbed up, Julian noticed that the window was open a fraction. He could hear the moans of pleasure clearly as he made his way up the ladder. His palms got really sweaty and he had to stop to dry them on his jeans. Wow, he thought, no one will believe this at school. His hands were shaking as he pulled the lens cap off the camera. It was already set, ready to shoot; so was Julian.

He was crouching close to the top of the ladder, poised. Using his legs, he pushed himself over the window sill and looked through the viewfinder. Julian was transfixed for a number of seconds. He could see a man and a woman on a bed. He was on top. They seemed to be hurting each other. Julian wasn't sure what was happening - it certainly didn't look nice to him. His eyes glazed over a little as the woman moved her arm and he saw her breast clearly, her nipple glistening with the man's spit. Oh my God, Julian said to himself, this is my dream come true.

He took the camera and began to take photos of the couple. Even though he hadn't liked what he'd seen, Julian found himself excited by the images he was shooting. A thought flashed through his head: now I know what Uncle Freddie is doing! He smiled, taking some last shots before deciding he'd had enough.

Just as he was putting the lens cover back on, the woman turned her head towards Julian. She saw him and screamed. Julian looked up, straight into the face of the couple.

"Fucking Hell, it's Aunt Gloria," he said

Julian heard the thump from the van as the roof connected with Uncle Freddie's head.


Adam and I lay on our backs in the long grass behind the farm sheds. It's hot, summer has come at last after the seemingly never-ending April rains and we're taking advantage of it. The morning has been spent running around, chasing the chickens and geese, until father shouted at us, threatening to put us to work turning manure. We'd careered around some more, meandering our way back to the farmhouse for refreshments; greeted by mother, scolding the grass stains on our knees and trying her level best to keep us in the cool of the kitchen so we could help her with chores. Gulping lemonade and throwing water on our red faces we retreated as fast as we could back out into the sun. We'd been too exhausted to keep running and had flopped down in the shady grass.

I point out a dog shape in the clouds and we spend another hour making as many shapes out of the clouds as we can. It's one of our favourite games. We also like hide and seek or climbing the hay bales. Father counsels us not to climb there, as he knows of deaths past where children have been caught in an avalanche of hay; at best limbs get broken, disabilities inflicted. We ignore him, of course. Adam says we'd never be stupid enough to get caught dying in a hay bale storm. Even so, I haven't actually been out to the barn this year. Neither has Adam. Coincidence.

Adam is my cousin. He's a little older than me, but only by two years. He's just left school, no qualifications. Doesn't need any to take over his father's business, he says. We've played on our farm since we were small (knee-high to a grasshopper, as Uncle Derek says). Adam is probably one of my best friends. I trust him. I glance a sideways look as Adam points out yet another shape in the sky. I see his arm pressed against his head, his profile half in shadow. I see the slight crookedness to his nose, the fullness of his lips and the indentation in his chin from the time he fell against the stone steps aged five. His scars give him gravitas, in my eyes. (I learned the word, gravitas, in Ms Gearson's English class yesterday and I've wanted to use it since then.)

A fly settles on the end of his nose and he flicks at it with his left hand, brushing against my hip as he does so. I feel a tingle through my skin, my breath shallow. The fly passes off to bother something else. I shade my eyes from the sun and look carefully at Adam. His chest rises and falls as he speaks, as each breath provides the life before me. I see the tanned skin of his chest; a few blond hairs dot the landscape down to his sternum, a further light fuzz disappearing under his shirt. I lick my lips, mouth suddenly dry.

Adam looks up at me, his face a question. I look away, feel myself blush. The quizzical look remains on Adam's face. I shove him and jump to my feet, giggles emitting from my throat. He lies back but I am ready to run, ready to be chased. I want Adam to chase me, to grapple with me, pin me to the ground. I want his sturdy legs to constrict, in a pincer movement; I want his hands to grasp my wrists and push them above my head. I want to be blinded by the sun and have his face provide some shade. I want to feel his lips graze against mine.

But he doesn't move. Adam continues to lay there, still. His breathing calm now. I realise he's asleep. I collapse next to him, lay my head on his chest and curl up with his arm across me. I wonder what shape we make for the birds to look down upon as I drift into unconsciousness.


I watched Katherine swing back and forth in the park, Michael's strong arms making her fly higher with each push, her shriek causing the birds to rise as a flock, a black cloud of wings. A warm feeling passed through my body, a consequence of the love I felt for them both: my husband and my baby.

I pulled the scarf tighter around my neck to stop the winter wind chilling my chest, the hat already slumped on my head like an insolent child on a chair in a dentist's reception area. The snow had melted and the sun was reaching its arms to the ground, but the bare limbs of the trees made it clear that Spring was still a distant mirage. Katherine shrieked again as the swing's chains went momentarily slack - her body weight pulling it back down to earth. Stop, she said. Michael let the swing slow. He waved at me. I returned his wave.

There were other children on the roundabout - the merry-go-round as we used to call in. Years ago, I played here. The swings were different, there were no locks on the gates; dog shit was everywhere, we watched our step; now bins are scattered about, signs implore dog owners to clear up mess these pets make. The park is populated by people carrying plastic bags and pulling faces as they bend forward, walking towards bins with arms held away from the body, hands waving in front of noses or fingers holding nostrils closed.

Of course, the trees are bigger, higher - some fell in the great storms of '87 and there are gaps now in the perimeter. Little else has changed over the past 15 years. Goal posts have been erected, wood chips placed under the children's swings and the dismantling of the climbing frame. Not much else.

I watch Katherine climb steps, sit down at the top of the slide. I see Michael at the end of the slide, waiting to catch her. Katherine's skirt billows as she begins her descent. She shrieks again and the birds lift off and answer her squawk. She is having fun, even in the cold. I like to see her happy. I know she'll be sad one day.

One day, when Mummy isn't here.

Michael tells me not to be morbid, not to think about after the event. I can't. It's all I can think about. Should we tell her, should we wait until the inevitable happens? This is what amounts for our time together: discussions about burial, about wills, about epitaphs, about hymns.

I answer: I want to be cremated, my ashes scattered in the park, this park. I don't want epitaphs, I don't want hymns. I don't want a solemn occasion. It's not me. It's not fair on those that are left. Michael sighs. I can sense the tears almost cresting his lower lids. I know he thinks it's selfish, but I didn't ask for this to happen.

He'll leave me alone on the subject for a day or two and then the questions start again.

I watch Katherine as she mounts the slide for one more go. Michael turns and waves. I return his wave. I hope he can't see me crying from where he stands. I don't want him to see me crying.

The Book

Jeremy spotted Myra approaching him. He spied her through the gap in the books. He was in the Metal work section; not many other people went there, it was quiet and Jerermy knew he could remain undisturbed for hours should he want to spend time on his own. He could hide and no one would know where he was. He quickly scanned the shelves, but his eye did not fall on the spine he needed to locate. It was here somewhere, he'd read about it. He estimated that he had about ten seconds before Myra was with him.

He looked up. There was no way he could mistake her awkward gait for anyone else, the churning of her upper body as spindly legs struggled to keep her considerable frame upright while in motion. Her jaundiced skin - a result of spending too much time in the basement sorting index cards for the library's Dewey system - glowed buttercup yellow under the sodium lamps; the way it ebbed and flowed as she walked was almost hypnotic. Jeremy wondered what would happen if the curtain material holding all that flesh in were unleashed. A feeling of sickness washed over Jeremy. He gagged, Myra almost upon him.

"Are you taking any books out?" She spoke the question accompanied by a volley of spittle.

Jeremy reached into his inside pocket and immediately his hand felt the handle of the knife brush his fingers. In one swift movement he had it out and was maniacally stabbing Myra in the chest. Blood spurted everywhere; her last words a gurgle as the life drained out of Myra and spread across the carpet tiles, lapping against Jeremy's shoes.

"I'm just looking," Jeremy said, his eyes on his shoes. "I'm looking for something specific." He brought his gaze up to look straight into Myra's eyes. In his head he was wiping clean an imaginary blade.

Myra wrinkled her nose at him, as if she could detect a smell that brought about thoughts of voiding bowels.
"Well, we can't house people all day, you've been here for three hours - not to mention the fact that this is the tenth day in a row that you've been here and not taken a book out. Other people want to read these books, too. Perhaps I can help?"

Jeremy stuttered. The book in his hands felt heavy. He'd never been in a library before where visitors were questioned as to the reasons they were there. It wasn't as if he was reading the papers for free, like most of the old people in the area - especially the ones that had already been banned from the newsagents. Myra just continued to glare at him.

"I'm leaving now," Jeremy mumbled. He handed Myra the book and pushed past her, picking up the pace as he got closer to the door.

Once outside, Jeremy cursed himself for his failure to complete the task he'd set out to do that morning. He could see Myra pushing her cart around the library, picking up books from the table where people had discarded them and replacing them on the correct place on the shelves. He had to get back in there, had to find the one book he wanted. The only problem was Myra. She was a big problem.

The next day Jeremy was back, shuffling around the shelves. It was dark in the library, the lights were off at such an early hour. Jeremy had snuck back in as they were closing last night, hidden himself amongst the farthest shelves and waited. He'd spent all night searching, but still he hadn't found anything. Admittedly, he'd spent an inordinate amount of time in the biology section reading about reproduction, tissue at the ready. His thoughts kept moving to Myra and he lost the urge to masturbate. He'd even failed at man's most basic instinct - could it get any worse?

A glance at his watch told Jeremy he only had an hour left until Myra came in for work. At that time he'd have to secrete himself somewhere, perhaps in the reference library. Later he could come out and pretend to have only just come in. He needed that book. His job was on the line without it. There was just one row left and then he'd know that every shelf had been checked.

At that precise moment, Jeremy's eyes settled on the exact book he wanted.
"Yessssssss," he let out with a hiss. "Just what I was looking for."

He danced a jig of glee, like a child that's just been told they can have whatever they want in the sweet shop. With light steps Jeremy hunkered down in the remote corner, book open in his hands and a demented smile on his face. Myra will be surprised, he thought to himself. Oh yes should would.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Provoking Thought

When you're old
and I'm swinging on the angel's star

I'll come back and kiss you.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Love's Blind

Good morning, Roni. How are you today?

I don't know where I am. I can't see anything around me.

And why is that, Roni?

I'm blind.

What can you tell me about how you came to lose your sight? What memories do you have?

Been like that since I was five years old. Weed killer and eyes don't mix. And, I've also learned the hard way that bleach is not the best thing to wash them out with should you find yourself with weed killer in your eyes. At five years old, maybe you'd be like me and reach for the nearest clear liquid. Perhaps you wouldn't have allowed your older sister to pour weed killer in your eyes in the first place.

How do you feel about your sister? Can you describe how she makes you feel? In your own words and your own time, please

I adored her, my sister. I can literally say I would have done anything for her. I live with that every day. Yet, I have no regrets.

Thank you, Roni. That concludes our session for today.


I know where I find myself isn't very big in terms of space. I'm enclosed by four walls, brick, rough. Gouges littering the surfaces of those walls; names, dates, simple messages and many downward strokes to count time passed. It feels like a prison. I don't know if it is. I can't see anything around me. I'm blind.

If I am in prison, it'll be because of Veronica. Roni, she liked being called. Spelled it just like that: RONI. In Braille, that's

It was the first word I learned in Braille after I lost my sight. I would've done anything for Roni, whatever she'd ask of me. Every time. It must have driven our parents out of their minds. Roni often said they were "losing it", which would always make me giggle.

I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes and sniff in the stale air. A strange odour. A scent that can't be described in terms of perfumes, but more likely described with stench/sewer/faeces/shit/rank/corrosive. Ammonia. Somewhere in this room is an open toilet. It most likely doesn't have a flush. I can judge all that with my nose. It's highly tuned now. There are other smells, mingling like cocktail party crowds. Sweat, blood, a hint of oranges. I can pick up the aroma of chicken roasting. Perhaps it's on the lunch menu.

This smell makes me hungry. I try to remember when I last ate something. Roni would've made me a sandwich last night before bed. I couldn't sleep without leaving something out to eat during the night. It would've been peanut butter and raspberry jam on brown bread. No butter. I like my bread dry.

I step sideways and my shins connect with a metal rod. I suck in my breath, hold it until the pain subsides. I reach down, fumbling. My hands touch cloth. Denim. Heavyweight. I don't know what colour they are, but they smell of the sweat and blood. There is wetness on them. Bringing my finger to my nose I can ascertain it's blood. Definitely. I know that smell. Memories flood my head. Blood. Definitely blood.

I can smell chicken being roasted and wonder if that's what we're eating for lunch. Perhaps it's on the menu.

I scratch Roni's name on the wall, in Braille. All in lower case.

The blood on my hands makes the pen slip as I try to dig it into the plaster. Dust. The wall is crumbling. I don't think anyone will be able to read Braille anyway, so I don't worry that it probably looks messy. That's the way the cookie crumbles.

I know it's there.

I stop; cock my head to one side. I hear footsteps; they are not close but I feel the vibrations of the floor and I can hear the slap of leather on polished tile. Are they coming for me, I wonder? I move back to the metal shelf and reach down again. I find a blanket, it is dry. I think it's a bed. There is a body lying on the bed, the shelf. It doesn't move. The smell of blood and sweat is strong. I recall things now.

I am in prison. Of course I am. Clarity.

The day is clear to me. The lounge of the house was immaculate; I was sitting on the settee, watching television and eating biscuits, with Roni. I could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner, the drone and whine. Mother, ever the cleaner. Roni was passing me the biscuits, each cleanly snapped in half so I was able to dunk them in my tea. I liked it. Sometimes I wouldn't drink the tea – I'd simply make a cup so I could submerge my favourite biscuits into the hot liquid and feel the soggy remnants of a biscuit melt over my tongue.

I had no idea, not until Mother came in and shouted. Crumbs, everywhere. Roni whispered into my ear, pressed the poker from the fire in my hand. She spoke to me, told me I must do it. I heard the vacuum come closer, its hum and whine drilling into my skull. I can remember the smell of blood from that day. Roni said I'd done well. She said I'd made her proud.

I'm in a prison. I've scratched Roni's name on the wall. I can smell chicken being roasted, perhaps that will be served for lunch. Roni says that I can have two helpings if I want and there will be gravy. Roni tells me everything.

I can hear the footsteps closer now. A faint squeak as the heel pronates on each step. I don't have long, they are coming for me. Roni tells me. I must hide the evidence, she says.

I move to the shelf, the bed. I reach down and feel the blanket. Pulling hard I am able to release it from underneath the body. I grab corners, throwing it up and forward, just like Roni says to. I let it drift over the corpse and stand so that it cannot be easily seen from the door. I start to sweat. I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes.

The footsteps stop outside my door. Keys inserted; the scrape of metal on metal. Clunk it turns.

Yes, Roni, I'm glad I've made you proud again. I've scratched your name on the wall, in Braille.

It looks like this:

Change: A Monologue

Hi blog visitor,
This is perhaps the most requested page on my site. Which is great.

However, I've noticed some of the words being used by other people. A lot. So the post has now been removed. There was a time when I let it go out to people, but the requests are now too much.

Anyway, to give you an idea of what was here, I'll post the intro...

Why not finish off the story yourself?

[See the young girl holding a sign. It reads: Homeless, hungry, but human.]

Spare some change, please? For a cup of tea? To redecorate my living room?

Of course, I live on the streets. I don't have a room to live in. I don't live: I survive. My name's Mary, not that I expect you to remember. Mary Mary, quite contrary. Yeah, right. I never liked nursery rhymes, don't teach you nothing about life and you can't eat them. My Dad reckoned you could teach kids better things, like the back of a hand. Why? Beats me. Ha-fucking-ha.

That's why I came to London, about three years ago now; bunked the fare on the train; came looking for adventure. I certainly got what I wanted - an adventure.

Of course, I see you pass by all the time. Like most, you fumble in your pocket for coins, find only paper. I recognise faces, see. To you, I probably look like all the others, indistinguishable from the rest of the faces caked with the shit of the city. Do you think I'm a - what's the word? - dosser? Or beggar? A professional one, not a scrounger. I ain't got kids, you can't label me a scrounger.

I'm sort of in-between jobs.

[to read more, please contact me at the email address on my profile. Thanks]


These pomes are from a collection called 'The Ramblings of a Long-hand Typist'.

The theme of this collection was loneliness and impending death. They are old, circa 1997. I think.

Don't It Just Get You Down?

The son-of-a-bitch screamed at me from behind the glass counter.
"Hey, Gypsy. You gonna pay for
that or just look at it like you don't
know what to do with it?"

I placed the toilet roll back down on the dusty shelf
and headed for the exit.
No one needs a shit that bad.

Least of all, me.


If You Sit In A Room Too Long You Begin To Consume Yourself

from the inside out/
start at the bottom
work up/

most butts
are better public
speakers because
the mouth has learned
to lie/

scratch your head
pick your nose/
wipe your skin
fresh but dirty clothes/

release me
release me

I have paid my dues
chewed the news and
spit out views/

you don't understand
how long the room has

not enough/

Feels like a coffin
a coughing/

a gutter
from which I
can't be pulled/

my legs have gone
consumed from the
inside out

fake a smile/
and pray:

that makes it all purposeful/

purpose: fool.



As the sun
washes the horizon

as the ground
succumbs to
its embrace

my boat of thoughts prepares to sail.

The things left
behind cry as I
go away.

As the leaves
turn from green
to brown;

as the clouds shed
their tears.

I travel onwards
through the oceans
of belief

the gulls up
above are chasing
me away.

The fires burning
deep within

the rain pours
from the flooded heavens

the ground
sweats the stench
of armageddon.

I am shipwrecked
on a bed of nails.

are you satisfied?


Life Is Just Another Misspelt Horror


It is all going to fade away
the day, the night, the light
upon which we all depend.


The letters pile beneath
my feet as I spy through the
letterbox at the outside world.

I talk to myself: what do you do?


Carriers of disease sink into my
room bringing songs of bastards
and saints...

They're all the same: saints and bastards.

And my glass is refuelled.


My lungs fill with smoke
and I cough across the
back of my hand and
remember the Parisian
streets and how, when it
rained, they reminded me
of Venice.

It is so peculiar.


Nothing more to say
The bed is cold
and the planet is


I, too, wait for death.


The Ramblings of a Long-hand Typist

sleep a little in the day smoking forest fires; tupperware
parties for thin, lost housewives in superficial daytime
television true-to-life bullshit. ashtray overflows: the only
other butt I touch apart from my own. the day is slow the pain
is slower; little do we know it's creeping up fast to take us
on the next bend. a hairpin sticks into the sole of my foot
but I don't own it
there is nothing wrong?
who are you trying to kid senseless beauty?

nothing flows now the
river has bled into the sea: the drought causes dehydration in the monsoon. the years are now unseasoned foods; the throat clenches; fist; on water that dare to replenish.

sometimes mad; sometimes funny.

always incoherent.



I turn away
to spit out
the loneliness
but the wind
blows it back
into my hands.