Saturday, 27 June 2009


Beautiful, it seems, for me.
Longing afar cowardice implicit, maybe
Maybe nervousness, inexperience, lack of guidance
At least desired guidance,

Perhaps will read, come across discover, and,
I hope at least
Revel, or at least accept, as I pen this now,
Thoughts unchained and eyelids heavy

I hope I pray, I fear almost
Outcome of an unguided run, a leap
Into the unknown, and it scares me
It terrifies me.

And thrills me, tickles me yet,
Though my heart lies open, vulnerable,
Now strike it or heal it. It lies for you
And your answer.

Alien worlds

Alien worlds

Thick, heavy hanging air,
Breathing it recycled, used up,
And yet pleasurable, warm, comfortable, contrasts to biting chill
Winter seems so alien.

Hot sticking and baking
Heat burning down, charring, blitzing, drying
We long for cold, for cool, for wind and yet not for rain
Summer seems so alien

Constant rain, so it seems
Indecisive clouds
Flicking betwixt the charred and frozen
Spring seems so alien.

Brown leaves pretty, at least you thought,
Until they start to rot.
Slides to winter slowly and coldly
Autumn seems so alien

The changing breezes, the fickle desires
A world I cannot control
The lights go down when I want them up
Outside seems so alien

Stuffed up chair, full of foam
Electricity flowing in.
Heating, water, amenities
Here I am at home.

Thursday, 11 June 2009

By popular demand...

The thing that should (not) be.

This thing,
or so they thought, it saw and end to that
It spread it wide and spread it far,
It spread it free, unlike before
It spread it for the world to see
No embarrassment, for you or me
No judging eyes, no overcoats,
Just the warm glow of the screen, the crackle of the speakers
It lies so close, we needn’t scare
It even lies here everywhere
It lies at work, it lies a school, it encompasses all,
this series of tubes,
This series of tubes, thank you Al Gore, not a tool that he intended
Not full of useful facts
Just full of this,
This seething mass, so big it’s hard to understand
It draws you in, you can’t come out
Huge like xbox, so they say
The people that on this thing prey
But what does he mean? I hear the cry,
Well hear me thus, as mortal I
cannot realise the vastness of it,
The four letter word of which I ramble,
p-o-r-n, there’s to much of it

Rebel! Well, if you want to...

Make what you will of this one

So once again I find
Myself lying here,
Cursing in self loathing
Not even words I hear

Rhyming in this pattern
Really is for chumps
I’ve done it once, no I’m bored
Of these fracking bumps

Though they’re not that bad
Quietly easy to rhyme
Except that one word
Ah shit, uh…. Thyme

Now I leave you here
Pondering my next move
Four line stanzas
No more, see
I break out of your pattern
Break out of your form
You expect me to adhere?
Well I’m a poet now

I don’t have to conform
Although it sometimes seems
Better when I rhyme, oh well, at least in this one
I’m not quoting memes


Lookie, I'm trying to be funny.


Why is it that I find
Myself upon this stone?
The desert lies before me
Cooking to the bone

The blinding white
Scorching heat
Scarring me;
Little piece of meat

That’s all they seem to think of
Vultures up above
No care, compassion lies within their hearts
No tiny chink of love

While I’m wondering why I’m here
All I say is ‘Crap!’
Cursing myself and his idiocy, damn
I really should have used the Wii Strap

Wednesday, 10 June 2009

Fiction, untitled

The air was warm and cloying, heavy with the burnt scent of ozone. Voices drifted past as his feet beat a steady rhythm on the pavement. Somewhere, a horn sounded. The excited conversation of a pair of women filled his ears briefly before fading into obscurity. Nearby, a vehicle hummed as steam billowed onto the pavement, somehow dry and moist at the same time. His mind wandered, filled with thoughts of work and where it would lead him. As a heavy man blundered past, knocking him slightly, he paused to observe the curious ritual across the street. It seemed almost bizarre as music filled the air, overpowered the soft, steady hum of electric motors. Music, he thought, was a much more pleasing sound than that of the air conditioner behind him, buzzing as it blew warm air down his neck. He turned to move on. Barely had he gone half a dozen paces when the world exploded.

12 minutes later a paramedic is staggering over rubble, dust heavy in the air as it fills with screams. A siren blazes obliviously. He feels deeply nauseous and is stepping out for what he believes to be ‘fresh’ air. Whilst the inside of the blasted building may reek of cordite and blood, the outside is filled with a fine dust which glues up his throat. He places a hand on a bollard, withdrawing it sharply when he finds it sticky. He looks at his hand. Red. A fine red mist covered the bollard, and now, his hand. He wipes the gore on his trousers in revulsion and then notices the pink tinge to the dust. His gut clenches and he wretches.

20 meters away, a sinister figure clutching a matt black assault rifle pads his way across the hot asphalt in heavy boots. The white writing emblazoned across his composite helm reads ‘POLICE’. A van pulls up an a door slides open. He makes his way through two police vehicles that are wailing there song of distress. He is brought back slightly by the roaring, churning sound a human vomiting. He approaches the van and comes face to face with a lens held in a black box. He tells the news team to move, they need the space. He only repeats his instructions, despite the urgings of a young man for information. Reluctantly, they pull away as an ambulance hums in behind them, wailing out of time.

It is now 15 minutes after the world exploded. Edward Fillance is not aware of this fact. He is only aware of the burning agony in his gut. He lies on what he assumes is a gurney, as it rolls across the broken ground, skipping and dropping, adding to his considerable agony with every judder. The agony is slowly abating, but as is his grip on reality. His vision swims and his head is filled with blissful thoughts. He slides into a metal box filled with cabinets and tubes. A door slams about him, and the box grows dimmer. He has a vauge sensation of movement before his vision darkens and he passes out.

Who wants to walk into the mushroom cloud?

Who wants to walk into the mushroom cloud?

Early Morning
Sky is falling
something pouring
down my neck

I taste the air around me
sweet and dry to lips
bittersweet, running through my head

others, not me, run
don't walk
not me, no
I want to walk

I want to walk into the mushroom cloud
I want to walk the thousand miles
forever, never changing
I want to walk into the mushroom cloud

end of the world
just me, not those fleeing : running mice
just me, forever
walking into the mushroom cloud

I want to taste the fury
I want to feel the fear
I want to see the beauty
just me, baby

Who wants to walk into the mushroom cloud.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009



Sometimes wondering, love unreturned, unknown
secret, maybe, yet consider
a revelation perhaps, this secret unknown love
what effect? Pray tell, for I cannot fathom
no mystic I
no psychic, no magician, no, me, scientist perhaps
rational, certainly, religious, no, I say for religion is not one forced on me,
unlike so many, yet I wonder still
the future, revelations of a love unknown,
perhaps unrequited even, heartbroken, yet can never tell heartbroken still,
when alas unknown.

But even love, perhaps, I do not know, no veteran I,
Among little digital maybe considered veteran yet real life I am but green
like spring grass, may also be considered new, no veteran for the lamb seeking
way, throughout the world
blind to all, no warning light, no lighthouse upon a stormy see perhaps no way to feel
blinded and groping for a hand an effect perhaps someone, share the burden, ease it
carry it further, new land, new hopes new dreams new clichés yet still clichés loved
throughout they can be similar and yet still new to one green such as I
yet winter comes sharply to the green grass, they do not know it and I wonder, perhaps whether I find it quite as sharp biting cold, the first death of many yet I hope, dream,
that my unknown love lives on known and does not live known
yet unrequited broken and rejected, blades cut sharply, mowed and drowned and frozen,
and grass retreats leaving soil, bare broken, salted



A sudden rush-of-wind,
Papers flutter by
Found it, VICTORY!
I cry, my sudden rush-of-jubilance
A thousand fluttering doves (flying by)
Yet sanity, over the clichés starts to rise and I see myself,
The loss of dough, perhaps above
The recommended level, for such a thing and yet
I feel no sorrow,
As my sudden rush-of-jubilance
My sudden rush-of-joy
Overcomes this sadness. The victory is worth it
Always always worth it
The hunt can only be outmatched by one thing. Yes.


Last In a series

Last in a series

The hunt, something primal,
Instinctive, as
I feel it coursing through me
Adrenalin, flowing,
Pumping through my veins, me,
Stalking, stalking,
To the end of the earth.

Alas, I sigh, it eludes me,
Once more, disappointment,
Crushing me to my very core, this,
Last in a series, once popular
(in certain circles, sure)
Rejected, unprinted, my ilk,
Hunting it, forever,
Forever more.