29 December 2010

A Milquetoast Hitler

He makes his points with needles sharp as the teeth in his feral, snidely, shit eater grin. His face is contorted in the stench caused by the faecal nature of his thinking. The ugliness of his thoughts has seeped through his pages leaving a noxious brown stain on his cover. He crucified himself on his points – he writes the score on a soggy card he keeps in his cerebellum inscribed ME vs. THEM – he’s winning, but then – he’s the only one playing. He wallows in his own mire – conspires with his own demons – sinks in his own swamp - every point he makes - points back to him. His hubris is fuelled by an insecurity so deep it demands he prove his superiority over every living thing. He’s a mollusc trying to suck the life from a battleship. His hands are raw from flogging dead horses. He says ‘I love you’ but in his hand his bitter blade stains red his skin. It is not love, its hate – the business he is in. He was rejected time and again, for his nature is not like other men. He needs control his lovers you see – from deep seated insecurity. He’s an impotent and flaccid little man who inflicts pain however he can. He lacks the courage for face to face so he calls people names, but feels no disgrace – he’s the ubermensch – the superman. Who sits in judgement of his fellow man and finds them wanting one and all. So sad to say, if the truth were known, he’s so very sad and so terribly alone.

15 December 2010

Atomic Boots



I am the Big Bad Wolf,

It’s best that you remember,

You get three square meals a day,

I ain’t been fed since last November,

If I get my hands on you,

I’ll put you through my blender,

You’re chances of survival,

Are looking pretty slender,

So if you see me coming boy,

You’d best hoist your flag - surrender,

I’m wearing my atomic boots,

Of radioactive splendour,

To kick your ass outta the cosmos,

Don’t think you’re a contender,

Or fill your head with fantasies,

Your courage to engender,

I know just who you are,

You’re only a pretender.



13 December 2010

Pearls Before Swine


Wordsmiths hammer them out on glass anvils - link by link - into chains of glittering prose. With little silver hammers they beat the rhyme from reason. Alchemists pour leaden words, molten like gold into the forge. They spin yarns from gossamer threads and weave them into narrative tapestries on waxen looms; each stitch a particular of nuance - apprehended in the melting of its moment.

They are sponge divers; they gather words like they are jewels - they hoard them like pearls in little velvet bags fastened with a tiny noose of golden rope. They don’t even care where they steal them from, as long as they are shiny. They count them before they sleep at night, then choke them tightly shut and stuff them under their pillows in the hope that the word fairy will visit their dreams with more treasure in the night. 

Me – I pluck my words from the trees like a boy raiding a forbidden orchard. I keep my pearls in my pockets, so I can cast 'em before swine - snake eyes suckers! There are plenty more where they came from - I got big pockets, see!

2 December 2010

Mary Queen of Scots

St_Giles_Cathedral St Giles Cathedral Edinburgh
She sings like a cathedral and shines like a golden candle mass. Her laughter peals like bells that ring around the roses. She dances like the snowdrops flutter – spiralling earthbound on Christmas Eve. Her eyes gleam with starry delight – loaded with promise and children’s laughter. Her smile is a kiss stolen from an angel’s lips. That bosom burns in passion blood red like her cheeks rosy in the frozen winter air. She is all the women that ever there were, or ever there will be. She’s my Mary Queen of Scot’s kneeling in her secret chapel that none can see – but me.

26 November 2010

Deaf as a Bat


It’s cold – cold enough for your breath to paint the air - cold enough to give the ground a sugar frosting. The trees in the park cast peninsulas and archipelagos of shadow on the crisp moonshine grass. The world is revealed in misty layers like a child’s faded popup book - like the cardboard stage settings for the chapters of our lives. This landscape is an unfolding mystery of vague possibility wrapped in foggy obscurity; like the pages of a book  being hastily written before you read them, like a stage being hurriedly assembled before your feet. What will it be? A causeway for your triumphant procession, or the gallows and an ignominious demise? A crown for your noble brow, or a gibbet from your scrawny neck? You can choose your course, but you can never predict your destination. We fly head first into the future like flocks of deaf bats, we collide and we crash – but if we’re lucky we get to fly in the fog another day. It’s scary, true, but it’s better this way. I mean, a journey where nothing happens is no kind of journey at all.



19 November 2010



I got million dollar words,

Floating around my head,

They flock to me like birds,

When I am in my bed,

Some of them are buzzards,

They’re as heavy grey as lead,

Some of them are bluebirds,

And frightfully well read,

They whisper secret passwords,

That reveal the way ahead,

To move me ever onwards,

Beneath their wings outspread.



16 November 2010

Into Tomorrow


The echoes in my mind are casting shadows which point in strange new directions. The nights are getting longer now and I let some of that opulent velvety darkness slip inside, just for the hell of it. I feel it ooze through my veins – viscous like black mercury – easy like an opium haze – languid as a dream – stronger than an ocean current pumping through my purple heart. I’m stained by her infusion and lay my head against her cold breast – to beg for more. In the first quarter of the Wolf’s Moon I am howling inchoate with the demon in my hollow throat. Give me everything, give me anything – I must taste it all. His silver crescent is a halo for my tortured brow – no more crown of thorns, no more nails to hold me down, I’m done with building crosses. I taste the clean salt air on the glittering horizon; I sense the infinite potential in the dawn’s open arms. She sings with her golden rays a promise of joyful days and lustrous nights to come. I am driven, relentless as the tides, to meet her - on into tomorrow and into tomorrow.



11 November 2010

Talking Monkeys


Jehovah H. Frankenstein! - What have you done now? I went along with the duckbill platypus, the giraffe, the elephant and the giant fish – yes I’m aware that they’re mammals thank you – this time you have gone too far! Talking monkeys – are you insane? What earthly use are talking monkeys? Apes – shapes they look like monkeys to me. Say, are those monkeys wearing clothes? Why are your monkeys wearing clothes? Have you been talking to them? To your talking monkeys - have you? Have you been talking to your talking monkeys? Not really? How often is not really? A couple of times? That’s all! What did you say to them? You can’t remember! That’s no good! Nothing important! – I’ll be the judge of that! You know, you could have compromised the entire project. Talking monkeys indeed – it just won’t do!



9 November 2010

Do it again



All that went before,

Just leaves me wanting more,

And wondering if and when,

I can do it all again.


It’s all been so much fun,

And I feel I’ve just begun,

To understand the game,

So can I go again?


Because if can,

It would be my plan,

To act without delay,

And start again today.



1 November 2010


What’s like in the perfect box - where you experience reality only on TV and all your dreams are serialised, then repeated? 

Who would I be – if my identity was mortgaged and my personality a question of consumption patterns? I buy therefore I am? Do I have to play the hand that’s dealt me, or can I buy new cards, deal from a new deck? ‘Your building and loan matures, You a have been elected chairman of the board, Go to jail, Get out of jail free, This is your identity.’ 

Can I buy vampire chic, or occult mystique, add a gothic tint to my blueprint, play the romantic dandy – dispensing candy, or the lovelorn muse who’s words confuse? Are they handing out badges to every chump with a library card? ‘I’m an existentialist – just leave me alone,’ ‘I’m an idealist EVERYTHING is wrong,’ ‘Jesus loves me – how about you?’ ‘Free love – buy it here!’ Are we all just boy scouts collecting badges? I got no need for badges. I don’t have to show you no stinking badges. I know who I am, it’s written on the inside.

24 October 2010

Meat On The Table

I’ve been through the isms; Animism, Mysticism, Pantheism, Monotheism, Monism, Dualism, Agnosticism, Atheism, Classicism, Humanism, Cynicism, Empiricism, Romanticism, Realism, Surrealism, Marxism, Pluralism, Positivism, Scepticism, Negativism, Nihilism, Existentialism, Expressionism, Impressionism, Modernism, Post Modernism, Situationism and Structuralism – all the fucking isms. It’s been a fun ride - and it’s by no means over. I’ve learned from isms, but I never wanted to belong to one.

I’m sick of the effete elite; navel gazing, banner servants, telling us this - is that. Curtain twitching, window worriers who tell us art should reflect the ideal – because they reject the real. Agoraphobic identity jugglers - who have to find themselves in books so they can write it down in other peoples words and then wave it like a fucking flag while they march to the music of somebody else’s long dead band. I got no time to worry about who I am, or what shape the world is. I gotta put meat on this table and I ain’t gonna find it in here.
For the Urban Hippie – who sparked me off, again.




The line’s been disconnected,

Your love is disaffected,

By the lies that you projected,

They feel disrespected,

Your motives are suspected,

Their doubts are resurrected,

The changes you detected,

Should have been expected,

But now you feel dejected,

Downtrodden and neglected,

You’ve been thoroughly inspected,

And you have been rejected.



19 October 2010

Dirty Harry

I don’t think too much about it, I just write from whatever direction the wind’s blowing. I have no flags to wave, I don’t believe in ‘things’ - so I got no use for flags. I have no cause to affect and no mission to accomplish. I already set myself free, as befits a man of my temperament.

I have no beef with anyone in the normal flow of events, but when some numb nutted, bovine brained, cloven hoofed, worm tongued, would-be Wordsworth wanders lonely as a fucking cloud across MY horizon - I figure, why shoot the breeze – when you can shoot the messenger? - I bark bullets - I don’t take prisoners - I don’t have the facilities.

I dish out summary execration to anyone waxing lyrical on the virtues of agape, or how their soul abideth with some mythological god. I read them their rights  – before I ram my muzzle home - and loose my words - BLAM! - d’ya feel that? - BLAM! BLAM! – do you understand? BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! - any questions? - then we’re done here – one less polygluttonous book maggot wasting good paper.

*This work is entirely fictitious and any resemblance to person or persons actual or fictional is purely co-incidental. The views expressed here are not necessarily not the views of the author.

© Copyright John A Jack @ http://johnjack62.blogspot.com/

9 October 2010

John Lennon



My role in society, or any artist's or poet's role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all.

John Winston Lennon

9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980




Her coffins are filled with the images of dead actresses and the memories of her all her failures. She carries the scent of bitter disappointments which linger like shrouds of crematorial ash and the dark barks of ravens on the wing. She hides in funereal disgrace the abject poverty of her dreams – regurgitating the pulped scripts of lies so long told they have stained her lips purple – like wine pressed from nightshade. She gathers her spewings to fashion paper mache masquerades to hide her truths behind tissue thin lies that fail to conceal the shaming knowledge that she isn’t merely an also ran – she’s a never ran. When the rest left the starting block – she was resting on someone else’s laurels - she’s an imposter in her own borrowed pipe dreams – her greatest ambition is to be someone else. She gives herself a leg up by stamping on the feelings of others and ripping the legs from spiders – he loves me – he loves me not – he loves me not. Loss has long turned to avarice which blinds her thought with searing poison that courses through the arteries of her soul like the Styx in flood – carrying the ghosts of loves extinguished by caustic vapours and scowling intemperance – of jealous rage and acrid recriminations. Father, mother, sisters, brothers, friends and lovers – all battered down into caskets lined with tainted pages of doggerel satin – buried deep with a heart as withered and dry as the womb between her empty thighs.
The Abattoir (extract)

5 October 2010



There’s a silence in me,

The silence of graves,

Where no sound can be,

Like beneath the waves,

Deep under the sea,

In the abyssal caves,

Of unfathomed psyche,

Where contours reflect,

The silence in me.

The End


3 October 2010

The Mark Of Cain

I come from East of Eden,
And bear the mark of Cain,
That may be the reason,
They say that I’m insane,
My boots are caked in mud,
From walking in the rain,
My hands are stained with blood,
From the brothers I have slain.
The End

*Image by Robert Crumb

2 October 2010


There’s the tenderest vibration of laughter’s unheard echo. The emptied out sensation of rooms that are left hollow. They left in their wake a trembling, fluttering, quake of nerves and pulse. A gentle sort of heartache and too long delayed impulse. It’s the sense of something fragile between happiness and sorrow. Something now is missing, some subtle nuance fled, has left behind vacuum of feeling in its stead. Like something half remembered that burns inside your head. Like the long forgotten passages of a book that you once read. Someone’s left the room and gone where you can’t follow, but they have left a shadow that promises tomorrow.
The End

30 September 2010




The hour is getting late,

And now your time is come,

For time you can’t abate,

Your course is nearly run,

Why not accept your fate,

Admit that you are done,

You just can’t match his gait,

You have been outrun,

You’re in a sorry state,

The end is now begun,

Lying there prostrate,

You have come undone.

The End


28 September 2010

Magic Shoes


I wear elevator shoes,

To rise above the blues,

They’re platform souled,

And they make me bold,

They got wings you see,

So they keep me free,

I can’t walk on the ground,

‘Cause I won’t stay down,

I’ve got magic shoes,

That keep away the blues.

The End


25 September 2010



They’re puppets all,


In the thrall,

Of their regrets,

They got bones,

But got no marrow,

They’re throwing stones,

But they cast no shadow.

The End


Theatre of the Macabre


Giant strides in tiny steps – its one step forward and two steps back on the soft treadmill to nowhere fast. The air’s too thick for breathing and leaves me gasping and floundering like a fish out of water - it’s so thick that it’s an impediment to progress - I have to wade through it – upstream. My ball and chain rattle melancholy – lonely spectres in my shadow. I’m dragging yesterday’s half remembered dreams like billowing grey shrouds around my gelatinous form. My mind’s a theatre of ghosts and shrieking banshees - acting out a play in hollow words. The blood curdles in my veins where acid courses corrosive, assailing points of reason. The curtain call rings hollow – echoing a chorus of disgrace ‘author’ ‘author’ at the shrinking man in the balcony. I’m a drunken acrobat on a razor sharp trapezium – my every gesture shreds my flesh as I scream in mute abstractions. Horror show eyes flare like a hall of black mirrors – reflecting every surface of my nightmare. My bones click like ju ju sticks some toothless old shaman has tossed in divination – they lay there screaming that the futures bleak, the futures black. I turn to return – and turn again in dizzying stagnation. My fondest dreams and deepest fears dance arm in arm - wraith like, in lantern shadows across my walls - ghastly tapestries of deceit and disappointment writhing in obscene dimensions to the music of my tortured psyche. I stand in tattered raiment with the howling all around me – where am I among these caustic harbingers of devastation? Where do I stand in this tempest of the soul, this storm in my teacup?

The End


23 September 2010

Pandora’s Place



Pandora’s Place

It is a fragile autonomy, a quake in the soul of quickening pulse and febrile grasp. I’m a tremble, a candle in the draft – a quiver full of crooked arrows. I walk a wavering tight rope, don’t look down. I’m a character in a pulped book, all my pages stuck and my ink bleeding. My kite has run out of string, tugged, torn and tattered on the wind, stuck in a tree. I’m on the vacillator elevator heading down, head first, ground floor deliveries – anxieties and miseries. I got a heart. I got a heart that pounds so loud a band follows it, they’re playing the blues. Just around my corner chaos lurks in calamitous clothes, with malicious intent. Something wicked surely comes with gnashing teeth and banging drums. I got to get out of this fret palace before I loose my mind, before I’m twisted so far they’ll never untie me. Where are my colours? Where are my dimensions? I was resolved, now I’ve dissolved. I’ve gone woolly minded and I’m unravelling - drawn out in a long thin scream. I want to leave, but I can’t find the door. What did I have to come here for?

The End


20 September 2010



I’d never beg for scraps,

From anybody’s table,

I take what I want,

Whenever I am able,

I’ll never fall for traps,

Even if they’re tasteful,

My wildness I will flaunt,

I’ll never be an angel,

You may think perhaps,

I’m spinning you a fable,

You might even taunt,

You’d better do it careful,

For wolves never vaunt,

No matter how unstable.

The End


The Last Temptation.



She was the last temptation,

She really was a flirt,

She was a sweet sensation,

In her leather mini skirt,

She leaked lethal radiation,

From underneath her skirt,

She invited degradation,

One last wallow in the dirt,

This creature was so craven,

I so wanted her it hurt,

My foxy little raven,

So sexy and so pert,

I really ought to hasten,

My eyes I should avert,

But the fascination,

Spurs me like a quirt,

Lead me to temptation,

I’ll bathe amidst the dirt.

The End


15 September 2010

Like A Dolphin


It's like a glittering silver chain, each link bent and soldered to the next just before the mind arrives to apprehend them. Words are linked like the molecules of water that combine to make an ocean. I'm a Albatross skimming the surface of that ocean in an endless, effortless flight. I dip my beak in and fish for prizes. I'm like a great whale powering through the water gliding slowly as a bird in thick air. I'm sifting through the briny for the words that bring me sustenance. I'm a dolphin at play cavorting, reeling, spinning and leaping into the air with the joy of a child with a new toy on Christmas morning. I glide through words and they slip sensuously over my streamlined body. I swim like an arrow. I swim the way swallows fly and caper in balletic symmetry, unpredictable and altogether beautiful. Sunlight penetrates the waves and casts a lattice of light against my dolphin skin. It sheathes me in a shimmering of syntax and lexical possibility. When I'm writing I can see it all, the images sear in my mind - I can never write them all down – I just smear the colours like paint on the wall. When the heat is in me and the words come faster than I can write, it's like free falling from eight miles up - from where the stars live.

13 September 2010



The Angel of Revelation by William Blake


I am the Resurrection

And I bear the light,

Dawning in a new direction,

Like the Phoenix I take flight,

Here by divine intercession,

To reclaim by birthright,

To take my place on Zion,

Messiah of the night,

For I am like the Lion,

I have a lethal bite,

And I will dispatch anyone,

Who’s looking for a fight,

There’s no room for friction,

In my gardens of delight,

Where with subtle fusion,

We’ll make our souls ignite,

For I am the Resurrection,

And bearer of the light.

The End


11 September 2010

Blessed By Angels


White flash, feather pillow, tightly sprung exuberance uncoiled on a cool trajectory arching ever higher into the stratosphere, heaven bent. Blood flush, heart quickens, wax melts in the lap like electric eels on a low charge. Tingling flesh expanding, retracting and breathing luxuriant with newfound sensory opportunities. The air is liquid and cool, chilled through icy funnels. The air is absorbed deep into your hollow body, filling every cavity with birthday songs. “Hallelujah.” Racing and tipping headlong into the moment, falling and flying into the ever expanding now. Cosseted in the knowledge of cool divinity, the light pours out of you. You’re ten feet tall and climbing, every heartbeat propels you upward, outward, onward. Your mouth is sticky dry and your numb throat has you swallowing like a gecko. You are the lizard tongued babbling prophet of the new age of pleasure increase, of soft opulence and gentle vice under the new gods of ecstasy and gratification, heaven here on Earth. “Amen.” You’re as fast as Mercury, your feathered feet don’t sully themselves with the floor. Above gravity, but not depravity, beyond redemption and beyond caring, you are transformed. You have become a god, a lightning conductor for all the grace and beauty in the universe. You are the child of heaven, you’ve been blessed by angels who sprinkled you with sacramental dust that sparkles in your eyes and shines through your pores. Yes, you have been blessed, cocaine, heaven sent.

The Pause That Refreshes

The End

7 September 2010

Less Is More


Less Is More

Three words I adore,

Less is more,

They remind me,

To write with economy.

The End





I claim no ownership of others,

Be they friends or lovers,

All men to me are brothers,

All women sisters too,

For it’s hatred I eschew,

And love that I pursue.

The End


Know It All


Know It All

He likes life’s tempo slow,

He’s become a frightful bore,

He has no room to grow,

Feet planted on the floor,

He’s learned all he need know,

And cares to learn no more,

There’s nothing new to show,

He’s seen it all before,

There’s no where left to go,

For he has closed the door.

The End


6 September 2010

All At Sea

On the shores of life’s long dreaming,
The foaming surf of passions bred,
Churn whirlpools in our scheming,
Crash the coast where love has fled,
And beach the lovers screaming,
For the lives that they once led,
Amid the jetsam of disillusion,
And the breakers of desire,
They are shed of their illusion,
They have quenched the inner fire,
They are confounded by confusion,
And so they wallow in the mire,
Until the tide of fascination,
Drags them where its waves require,
Where they’ll surf in new sensation,
Leave behind the distant shore,
And the cries of lamentation,
Are drowned by the ocean’s roar,
For the lovers they have chosen,
They are all at sea once more.
The End

4 September 2010

Timothy Leary

Timothy Leary

I knocked on the doors of perception,

There was nobody at reception,

Who would give me some direction,

I explained about Timothy Leary,

And his tune in - drop out theory,

There was no-one there to hear me,

As everything went bleary,

The seven tongues of God,

Had made me feel quite odd,

As if my mind were flawed,

He said the politics of ecstasy,

Would help to set my mind free,

And that I would find the key,

In magic mushrooms and LSD,

I wanted another groove,

And I was out to prove,

That I could make that move,

If the Universe is an IQ test,

Then I would do my very best,

The drugs that I did ingest,

Would help me in my quest,

But what I could not see,

Is drugs can’t set you free,

It was always up to me,

And never Timothy Leary.

The End


Ménage á trois

Jean Luc Goddard ‘Bande a Part’ 1964


Three in a bed,

By passion led,

All caution fled,

Nothing is said,

As legs are spread,

Of telling lies,

Or of secret alibi’s,

Just smiling eyes,

Pressing thighs,

And lover’s sighs,

In friendly guise,

On tangled sheets,

Three heart beats,

As love completes,

And then depletes,

In the morning light,

No talk about the night,

And secretive delight,

Three lovers take flight,

Feeling now contrite,

Making their goodbyes,

While rehearsing lies,

Adopting their disguise,

Avoid each other’s eyes,

As their friendship dies.

The End


2 September 2010


rick griffin_ man from utopia_ page_ 011
Picture ‘Man From Utopia’ by Rick Griffin
I’d rather be a freak,
Than be a square,
I don’t wanna be my dad,
And I like my long hair,
I fly it like my flag,
Because I just don’t care,
What anybody thinks,
They can stand and stare,
Let them worry about,
The clothes that I wear,
Wherever they’re at,
Is really nowhere,
They can call me names,
They can curse and swear,
Because I can be free,
But they don’t dare,
They don’t understand,
Men like me are rare,
Anything that’s mine,
I’m willing to share,
Providing of course,
I’ve got some to spare,
When it comes to love,
I’m a millionaire,
They say that I’m a freak
But I just don’t care.
The End

1 September 2010





And possibility,

Stretch in all directions,

Unfolds like a lotus blossom,

Full of promise and broken paths,

Any of which could lead you nowhere,

Anyone you meet might be your assassin,

Or they could just be the love of your life,

There is no telling what the future holds,

There is no telling if it holds anything,

You stumble blindly into tomorrow,

Never leaving and never arriving,

Tomorrows forbidden shores,

Beckon you nonetheless,

You cannot resist,

You must cross,

The ocean,

To her.

The End


28 August 2010


Nymphet strumpet whores cascade down Picasso Avenue in giant stiletto heels. Crack monkeys in sharp threads and wearing sharper faces tap the windows of passing limousines with black – blue metallic shiny raven sheen, driven by sanguine velvet dust junkies with golden smiles and populated by porcine businessmen with their million dollar hookers.
”Weed?, speed?, oxy’s?, meth?, smack?, crack?, coke?, crank?, acid?, E’s?, 'shrooms?, ludes?, peyote?, snake oil?, embalming fluid?” Sample sewn satin linings open like bat wings. “I can turn you on.”
Suburban voyeurs are hassled by dealers, whores and panhandle cops, student vessels trapped in the neon glow. Fledglings crunch popcorn as they pitter patter through pools of blood that await the rain. Zebras and Lions stalk the crowded sidewalks, Vultures feed on carrion. It’s a dog eat dog world, only they ate all the dogs a long time ago. The cops frisk the feeble hearted for dope and pennies, peanuts, but that’s what you get when you hire monkeys. A moon faced born again ding dong chants Hari Krishna hip hop style. His hands spasm before him, signing in ancient Indian semaphore – ‘stay away’. The wolves haven’t eaten him yet ‘cause it’s considered bad luck to eat crazy meat. The innocent are herded and fleeced in a revolving strip show of brutality, horror and vice. Layers of degradation and corruption are peeled for their delectation. Most of them will make it home, but some will end up with their teeth in somebody’s necklace. The rest is just hamburger meat.
The End

25 August 2010

Pens Beat Swords

Fountain Pen


Pens beat Swords,

With mighty words,

Which fly like birds,


For words can fly,

Words can defy,

Words can imply,

And words can reply,


Pens beat Swords,

With little words,

That land like turds,


Words can amuse

Words can confuse,

Words can abuse,

Or words can excuse,


Pens beat Swords,

And make us Shepherds,

Or make us Leopards.

The End


24 August 2010




Writers are thieves,

All that he perceives,

He turns to sheaves,

All he sees, he records,

Like trinkets he hoards,

Magpies with keyboards.

The End
The End

Just Dive In


We hurtle headlong,

Into the future,

We dive in,

We dive right in,

We never know,

How it will go,

But if we want to live,

Really live,

We dive in,

We dive on in.

The End


22 August 2010

With A Passion

‘with a passion’
I love you with a passion,
That’s long gone out of fashion,
It’s gone beyond discretion,
And is becoming an obsession,
By passion I’ve been bitten,
With you my heart is smitten,
Beyond all rhyme or reason,
No matter what the season,
The sun shines in my heart,
For we shall never part.
The End

21 August 2010

Broken Hearted


broken hearted

Here I sit broken hearted,

I paid the fare,

And then we parted.

The End


20 August 2010

I Don’t Believe In Nothing

I don’t believe in nothing
I don’t believe in nothing
But the here and now,
No need to give me anything,
Because I'll take it anyhow,
I can’t abide the boring,
And fools will not allow,
Or listen to the braying,
Of some-ones sacred cow,
I am no-one’s cageling,
And I shall not kowtow,
Or kneel to kiss the ring,
Because I’m the kind of cat,
Who does her own thing.
The End

Tears Shall Wash You Clean


Your tears shall wash you clean,

You may not want them to,

You’ll cling to your pipedream,

Like it was made of glue,

You’ll go to the extreme,

To keep it close to you,

But tears shall wash you clean,

And you’ll be made anew

The End




They call her Harr,

She’s a thick freezing fog,

That rolls in from the sea,

She turns the world to white,

And makes it hard to see,

She bleaches all in sight,

And lends a ghostly beauty,

Your senses to delight,

As she leads you blindly,

Ignorant of your plight,

You follow her carefree,

Through a world of argent white,

I know the Harr well you see,

For I have felt her icy bite,

Now she lives inside of me,

Blotting out all light.

The End


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19 August 2010

Sadness Sits



Sadness sits upon your shoulder,

Teardrops fall like burning rain,

Where the ashes of desire smoulder,

In the place where love was slain,

Now your life’s a little colder,

Now you truly have felt pain,

But now you’re just a little older,

Too old to ever love again.

The End

Red Button



I hate this fucking world,

And everybody in it,

If I had a red button,

I’d push it in a minute!



18 August 2010


Beware the vampires bite,
They seek not haemoglobin,
But your inner light,
That’s why you were chosen,
For visits day and night,
But in the grip of la folie,
You were just too blind to see,
They feast with great delight,
Until they’ve bled you white.
The End

17 August 2010



Every night,
before I sleep,
I pray the Lord,
My soul to reap,
Every morn,
When I awake,
I pray the Lord,
My soul to take.
The End

14 August 2010




God save me from the spiritual,

With their adopted suburban ritual,

Who say that they’re well content,

With the inner glow they claim,

Comes from  enlightenment,

Their inner peace they proclaim,

But the change they underwent,

Left them exactly the same,

Both lonely and discontent,

It’s Karma, so they claim,

Or something they invent,

-  Still it’s like a great big hug,

When you get to be that smug.

The End


12 August 2010

Let’s Be Friends


Let’s Be Friends

There’s nothing hurts more,

Than “Let’s Be Friends”

Because in all truth,

That’s how friendship ends.

The End


11 August 2010


My friend,
You should by now,
Understand that existence,
Consists of an infinite sequence,
Of uninterrupted brutality and pain,
Peppered only by the occasional betrayal,
And interspersed with despondency and anguish,
Driving us inexorably from humiliation to shame,
Binding us forever in chains of lonely isolation.
The End