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.