April 13, 2010 at 11:09 pm (essay, prose)

Mon 12/4/10

Writer’s portfolio…writer’s portfolio…oh dear. Wait a second. I don’t have one. No. Definitely. Not. It’s all in my fingers though. These hands wired up to this brain. In a way you don’t see. So you will need to take a closer look. Move closer my dear, I have a story to tell you…

I can tell you a story about  what is loosely referred to as my “professional” career, if you like. It started out when…um…well, it didn’t exactly. I don’t know but I can start somewhere interesting. Or, that is, somewhere less boring.

I have written for as long as I can remember. Words flowed and I used little pictures to illustrate my ideas. When I was a child and they told me to write I made up stories. They (the adults) always told me they were wonderful! Very nice! But they (the stories) were only mine.  And then when they stopped telling me to write, and when I got older, I usually, as many others, poured out things like emotions in free-falling prose, poetry and written streams of consciousness with stick people and shadows and boxes scrawled in scratchy black ink onto comforting cartridge paper in a black spiral bound book that was held closer to me than any other possession.

I’ve filled about three books like this. These ramblings. And it seems to be a constant of my existence – all this arty stuff. Writing. Don’t I sound like a bit of an artist? I do don’t I? Maybe most of it was adolescent rubbish. But then. Maybe some of it was good.

But then I only did it in secret. All this writing and nobody to read it not even the bad stuff! So I stopped my scrawling for a little while. I stopped. No one to see, no one to read, mostly teenaged babbling – what was the bloody point in all this verbal out pouring? But well then after a short break…of a year or so…I missed my pen. I missed my book. I missed the comfort of the cartridge paper. I missed the feeling I got after I put some emotion or ideal or concept or concern into lovely little words.

I couldn’t stop writing. That wasn’t it. But something definitely had to change. So here we are. Here is my public black cartridge paper spiral bound note book. It’s a mix up of several carefully assembled words. And, like the book, a bit sketchy in places.

So go and settle yourself by the fire. Open it with eager hands. Turn the page. I have been expecting you.

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A Word about Writing in Colour

November 5, 2009 at 12:24 pm (metawriting, prose, quotes)

If a story is a painting, and words are the paint, one should always write in colour

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A Note On Writing, Passion and Rebirth

November 5, 2009 at 12:23 pm (essay, metawriting) ()

Living is a strange thing. It brings up all sorts of strange, wonderful, distressing, complicated, terrible, hilarious, beautiful things.

There is an extraordinary tool called language which can be used to translate these things into what people call stories, poetry, prose. The writer’s equivalent to the artist’s painting, the composition, the sketch.

Sometimes this makes life  more real, more vivid so it can be better enjoyed, savoured. Sometimes it makes life more abstract and distant so it can be better endured and coped with. There is writing that teaches and informs, there is writing which simply plays games, but writing which strikes me the deepest, and remains within me the longest, is that which offers a shared experience.

It is up to the skill of the wordsmith to put the right words in the right order to create within the reader a faithful evocation of what the author had in mind when they started writing. These words – in stories, poetry, prose – therefore come full circle. Drawn from the author’s experience they should create a vivid new reality within the reader.

Life is a story. And a story well written should give birth to new life.

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Play Rough, Play Nice

August 14, 2014 at 8:18 pm (poetry)

bathroom floors are no places

for sudden



hearts heal over

harder than before


and people come to you in pieces


Pull me apart again

Flick through my history books

And leave

That’s okay


I hope

these wide eyes

cold truths

and grazed knees


will bring me

enough beauty

to un-break these bones

over the bathtub

and pull

the pieces of me out of the plughole

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August 14, 2014 at 12:39 pm (poetry)

go on
go ahead

I will too

there’s nothing wrong with
making your Heart
Beat faster

and I don’t care about
cuter black haired girls

My Job

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August 13, 2014 at 6:17 pm (poetry)

to Europe
to drink
but I’d rather
in bed
with you
and eat

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July 31, 2014 at 11:09 am (poetry)

Love is a christmas present
That most people
Leave up in the loft

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Greyfriars Bobby

July 29, 2014 at 3:32 pm (poetry)

What do you do when your heart is
straining under the weight of
someone else’s mistake?

holding on like a dog
wide eyed
to a dead man

tight clenched fist

you can’t wake him up
he’s not here.

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July 22, 2014 at 11:59 pm (poetry)

i listen to the loudest music
but it still won’t drown you out
she said you’ve got to sleep on it
but my heart’s planning every day
with you
and the furniture we will have.
what did you do to me?
i think it must be some
hell of a
beautiful drug
you slipped me

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Time Management

July 13, 2014 at 10:59 pm (poetry)

Though I was born this life’s not mine
I cannot be a waste of time
Must uphold faith, truth and humanity
Be a functional member of society…
write a bestselling novel
put out a fire
build a multi million pound
international empire
i should
learn everything
all there is to know
be a classical composing virtuoso
i should teach myself to jump 9 foot high
perform surgery
on something that
would have died
Be an ambassador for peace and
make my country proud
Learn to dance
sing out loud
I should get a first class medical degree
build a school
and an orphanage
save a chimpanzee
Develop good posture
Dress up smart
Do twenty press-ups
Take care of my heart
Don’t litter, remember to put things away
Be punctual, presentable and watch my weight
This and some more
Then there’s nothing I’ve missed
except one vital thing that I left off my list
see we all die fast – there’s not a second to lose
so out of all of the things
there’s one thing I choose
see it’s my most constructive thing to do
to sit
and spend
the day
with you

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From Your Lips this is Poetry

June 21, 2014 at 6:31 pm (poetry)




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Falling in Love of a Night

June 11, 2014 at 2:29 am (poetry)

all of you
id have had
all of you.

and my arms filled with you
water like
to my skin,
swallowing you
in divine sips.
I gave you
your eyes sought,
for my heart to break
and weep
and give you,
all of you,
my pulsing everything.
speeding through
your furrowed brow
in a sweet sweat filled
hot hearted

fire branded to my memory
like a sacred iron bar.
Your Divine
was all beauty and violent
a bladed flame that left
a sacrilegious scar

It’s all I wear now.
A tribal mark.

But it was less than

In the end.
Nothing at all.

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I Can’t Listen to Music Anymore

June 5, 2014 at 5:33 pm (poetry)

everything beautiful

sounds like


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Welcome Home

June 2, 2014 at 1:59 am (poetry)

if you’d like to move in

to our life

then please

be careful

of our things

they break easily.

but if you happen to knock something precious

off a shelf well

accidents happen

don’t be afraid to put your feet up on the furniture

make yourself at home

this is what you’re here for

after all

make a mess

if you like

we can clear it up together

it’s all yours now


and when you leave

it will be all too cutting quiet

but soon we will smile at the echoes of you

and we will be better for having had you between our walls

you shifted all our furniture to face the sun

we will sweep you out of the door

and choking

hang pictures we

took with you

you taught us where we had to look

to smile

and our life

will be better for having had you between its walls

(inspired by ‘the light’ by the album leaf)

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May 29, 2014 at 10:30 am (poetry)

she said


what you give away


but you can have it

you can have it

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Some People Are My People

May 26, 2014 at 3:39 pm (poetry)

When I was spiralling in my mind
The other night
And loud dirty floor faces
And bathroom sinks
Cried out at me
With overzealous embraces
And ill informed naive
Walking on slippery slope slim chances
And slow circled by blunted teeth
On unfed tigers, weak
Eyes baited watching for the first sign,
I remembered You.
Your words,
And Michael Jackson
And it stopped me

Caught before I folded
Like a gasp, like a safety bar

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May 26, 2014 at 3:17 pm (poetry)

fuck your

half full glass.

It’s got water in it

That’s all

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Master of Nothing

May 26, 2014 at 3:16 pm (poetry)

There are the sorts of shadows

That creep into your life

With or without you.

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Not a Liar

May 26, 2014 at 3:05 pm (poetry)

I knew

you were the sort of friend

who loved me

when all you said to me was

You’re right

It will never be okay

and smiled

and offered me the top off your burger bun.

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Live Date! June 14 in London

May 14, 2014 at 2:32 pm (poetry)

Hello dearest readers!

The author of this blog (me!) has a live spoken word gig at the Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden, London UK

Saturday June 14

at a great night called Platform One Poetry

see you there


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I Love Batman

May 11, 2014 at 1:17 am (poetry)

my goldfish is black and silver and proud


he eats his own poop


but he’s not stupid


i fed him a pea and it came out green


he’s a murderer and a bastard


but the cutest one you ever seen


you know i dont even know if he’s a girl or a boy




he’s a fish


who gives a shit.

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The Odyssey of the Goldfish

May 11, 2014 at 1:14 am (poetry)

 I swam.

And then.

I swam some more.

I have a memory vastly longer than 2 seconds

I remember this bit of the tank.

I swim up and down.

Explorer of my own land.

A hero in my own mind,

A gallant warrior and a god of my earth a brave… oh look! poop! nom…

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May 8, 2014 at 11:14 am (poetry)

remember when you loved me?

life was good

back then

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On Quitting Your Band

April 21, 2014 at 6:30 pm (poetry)

we gave up on the fist fight a long time ago

now we’re making bets

and cheering on the violence from the sidelines

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Aw fuck

March 17, 2014 at 12:49 am (poetry)

yeah. technology hates me…

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March 13, 2014 at 2:31 am (poetry)

they’re hidden behind frosted screens
like magic cards up magic sleeves
while we fill in the inbetweens
with theory, booze and magazines

see I’d tell you if I knew
but I wonder what you’d do
if someone filled in all the bits?
Magicians don’t reveal their tricks

not sure if it would be enough
if it would make your life less tough
if it would help your heart to beat
if you knew where to move your feet

and would it take you magic places
if life filled in it’s missing spaces
and answered all it’s question why’s
with more than silence, gaps and sighs

see I’d have told you long ago
If I’d have known – but all I know
is every breath and tear and this
exists because …
because it is

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When I Grow up

March 12, 2014 at 12:44 am (essay, metawriting, non-fiction, poetry, prose)

Questions: How did you get into poetry?

You know what dude, I never meant to be a fucking poet. It’s not something I woke up one morning and decided to be. Or even something I dreamed about. It’s just something that was.

I always think this sounds egotistical but that’s exactly how it is.

I always wrote poetry. I always wrote down EVERYTHING in this odd, differently expressive way, and I thought everyone did that. Simple as that! I thought everyone wrote down everything and it was the most natural thing in the world, like walking around, or drinking juice.

Then I read some stuff to people out of sheer boredom, and suddenly it’s this ‘gift’ or this ‘talent’ or something ‘special’ but it’s not. It’s only me. It just is. It’s a way stuff comes out and it’s nice that it comes out eloquently and aesthetically.

You’re made in this particular way and you act in this particular way. Nothing made me write, it’s not effort to write, no more effort than, okay excuse me but going to the toilet, because it’s something I just need to do. And if I don’t I just don’t feel anything. I don’t know how it is if I don’t write. I guess I’m fine, but it’s what I do. It’s how I expell some things or share some things. I guess it’s like talking out loud, or an extension of an inner dialogue that never stops.

Well it takes energy but at the same time it takes no energy at all.

I don’t write a poem, it writes itself – I’ve heard lots of writers and creators say that. That their best works make themselves – it’s filtered through me yes, but it’s not me that’s writing, not where the best stuff is concerned. Me? I write crap poetry – it’s only when I’m not in the centre of things, there’s just this thing, whatever writes – that’s the only thing there, then I write…IT writes okay whatever. That’s when the best stuff happens.

It’s a process like…sending energy to your legs to move – you don’t create that chemical reaction, you just eat and sleep and move and then it just happens. With writing you live and you get this keyboard or pen or whatever and there we go the chemical reaction. Boom. And it’s as natural as your blood making energy, or your lungs taking in air.

So what you have to do is be that clear path for the work to walk down and get to where you want it to be. You are so insignificant when compared to the things you create, your just a disposable tool. And as such, there is this lack of control. I certainly can’t control this thing called writing that my body, it does. I can control what I do with it, but I’m stuck with it. It won’t leave, and you can bet I’d miss it if it did.  I’m sort of used to it now, like having two legs.

But then sometimes I think to myself – why can’t I be gifted in making melodies or something because music is the Zeus of the creative gods, but I got poetry. And poetry is like Bacchus, or Venus, one of the hedonistic, histrionic, sexy ones. I get to do great things just because I am who I am, and that is ridiculous. Really fun things like travelling and talking to interesting people and performing – I love performing. I get opportunities and I communicate to a few people on a level that just fulfils me so much. Not many people, but some. I don’t want to go shattering illusions or romantic misconceptions but there’s not so much of the berets, or the posturing, or even quoting the classics at everyone, it’s just communicating with people about things and having some of them hear you, and both of your lives being better for having done so.

And that’s all it is really.

And maybe that’s how anyone is what they are – they don’t become anything, they  always were: someone just taught them the language and handed them a metaphorical pen.

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Junk Food

March 2, 2014 at 1:52 am (poetry)

They tell me
Give it up
Eating Junk food’s such a sin
But when I open up my cupboard
All I want’s a piece of him

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RIP My friend

February 28, 2014 at 11:04 pm (poetry)

Dear Yoshimi
I was glad that I had you
I introduced you to some gentlemen
I shouldn’t have introduced myself to
I watched you spin in your bowl
Like an executive toy
Didn’t even know if you identified
As a girl or a boy
But Yoshimi

You always looked after me
So I’m sorry I didn’t know
What fish

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You have a Painting in your Attic

February 27, 2014 at 8:04 pm (poetry)

Looking again

I never realised that parts of you

Stuck out like broken bones

And the smell of too much cologne hung off your skin

Like flakes of rot

I never realised

Your skull was so scuttle-like and mottled

Greyed and stained like a stepped over dust sheet

Or your dim paper boy walk, heavy booted and clumsy like a

Darted fat drunk.

I never saw

Your  eyes

The colour of warm lager that washes out the taste

Of the morning after

Or the words spat from your split lips

Propaganda of your times

Self serving, blank and sharp suited in their sell-something eloquence

No I never realised

But now I look again

I do.

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Penned In

February 27, 2014 at 5:52 pm (prose)

She wants to be a dancer, a singer, an actress, an artist. She has no time as she’s a teacher and hates it. She is sleep deprived and doesn’t tell jokes.

He’s fabulous on guitar. He’s 33 and working at the same company he was at when he was 23. And he still hates it. He worries about the washing up.

She’s got a job and is studying. She has a boyfriend who is addicted to coke and doesn’t have any money.

He’s 24, married, with a pet rabbit. He acts 45. Unless he gets drunk. She bickers with him a lot about who’s right about the technicalities.

She is young, studying the best thing in the world but she lives with these people in a house in a neighbourhood full of dead ends. People penned in to theirselves.

So she moved out to nowhere and the story began.

written nov 10 2009

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Empty Box (aka Shangalang Gets Screwed)

February 27, 2014 at 9:43 am (poetry)

nothing that you say is real
it’s just a caberet
when you told me i was beautiful
it was just a thing to say
when you pushed away my hairline
it was just another move
when you asked me to go out with you
it was just you being smooth
when you made love to me all night
it was just the thing to do
when we spoke up in the morning
it was really nothing new
and i don’t know what you want from me
or what you would suggest
What should I take away from this
Theatrical address?
Don’t know why you had me over
When you didn’t want me round
Thought that you were buried treasure but
You’re just some junk I found

I should have had that threesome with
Your pretty little friends
But I thought we were seven
when we’d stopped playing at Pretend
Sure I shouldn’t be so foolish
when I’m looking for romances
But I’ll never hear the music
Till I take these stupid chances

Nothing that you say is real
lines written in a play
couldn’t tell me if you meant it
or you thought you were on the stage
beneath that dust sheet of an ego
you think you’ve got a lot to prove
And me? Just a dusty old romantic
Falling for a stranger’s moves

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The Law

February 23, 2014 at 4:26 am (poetry)

Don’t be confused by surfaces; in the depths everything becomes law

Rainer Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet

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No one get’s their words right

February 23, 2014 at 4:12 am (poetry)

No one gets their words out right in public. Maybe they get the right ones, but not the true ones.

That might be a good reason why some people write poetry. Because it’s easier to get truth out that way, without the noise.

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Your Sparkle

February 17, 2014 at 1:54 pm (poetry)

There’s an eyeglass I use
To turn over all the polished crystals in your mind
I look every day
Even you don’t know how many carats
You are to me

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You’re Done with Me

February 15, 2014 at 1:05 am (poetry)

I hope there are more boys like you
Who eloquently love the Pixies too

But you’re done with me

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February 14, 2014 at 8:57 pm (poetry)

No love?

I’ll settle for


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to be frank…

February 13, 2014 at 11:22 am (poetry)

i wouldn’t want to

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I don’t care enough about you to stalk you on facebook

February 13, 2014 at 9:19 am (poetry)

Next time I break
I want to break in two
To be lost in rivers into you
I want to cry out my heart
And go insane
Not this dull edged, half arsed, paracetamol pain
Give me concussion, knock me out
Don’t make me shrug, make me shout
You were a thump on the shoulder
Not a slap in the face
Not blood in my mouth just an unpleasant taste
Next time you break me
Do it properly
At least then
I could write some decent poetry

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February 12, 2014 at 3:58 pm (poetry)

If you keep moving

You get some place

Who knew

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Perfect Match

February 12, 2014 at 3:40 pm (poetry)

And you perfectly emptied out

Like a bed ridden girl

All silenced

And beauty

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February 12, 2014 at 3:13 pm (poetry)

I hate your worms too

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Some Words

February 12, 2014 at 1:53 pm (poetry)

Fuck philosophy

You are




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Lacking foresight

February 11, 2014 at 9:33 pm (poetry)

how predictable
that you
leave me

how predictable

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February 11, 2014 at 9:11 pm (poetry)

right or wrong

you don’t belong
and nor do I

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February 11, 2014 at 9:09 pm (poetry)

You are a strange question

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February 9, 2014 at 1:10 pm (poetry)

And there’s an oblique way you say it
That is like not saying it at all
I have no signs
You are beauty turned cold

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“Dear Who” aka “A Sensitive Critique on Certain Veins of the Modern Poetry Scene”

February 7, 2014 at 1:05 am (poetry)

No one gives a flying fuck
about your wrinkled sweating genitalia
or what you do with them
(I am sure)

are in/around/under them
and talk about
For example
Psychotic killings
or Child abuse

And leave your
Self indulgent
To your fast moving

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Rag Winged

January 30, 2014 at 11:33 pm (poetry)

I get butterflies in my stomach when I think about you. Knocking against my diaphragm like retarded moths.

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January 7, 2014 at 6:08 am (poetry)

Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy,
Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see!


Panthea, Oscar Wilde

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December 31, 2013 at 3:40 pm (poetry)


I am skinny pretty and smart enough to get on in life

The rest is anyone’s guess

But my own.

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December 28, 2013 at 1:30 am (poetry)






with my





can do






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Hang on, Let Me Check

December 28, 2013 at 1:28 am (poetry)













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