A Note On Writing, Passion and Rebirth

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.


i would like to be fearless
but perhaps
We are not
big enough

i would like to be naked
but perhaps
We are not
old enough

i would like to be un-hesitant
but perhaps
We do not
know enough

i would like to be un-faltering
but perhaps
I am not
brave enough

i would like to Be completely
but perhaps
I do not
trust enough

I would like to be able
but perhaps
we are not
wise enough

Perhaps we cannot


eyes have it

i can’t do this

and so
i am flawed

i don’t want to get naked
with him anymore

i want him to notice
what i can be
but he sees very little
when i show
him me

i thought he was home but
i might have to move
i don’t really know
what i’m trying to prove

there must be something
seriously wrong with me
to want to teach
a deaf man to hear
and a blind man
to see

you’re special

there are flowers
amongst your thorns
but i don’t know if
i want to be scratched

there are blinding
beautiful lights in
your dank caves
but i don’t know if
i want to be blinded

there is green
in your dried up deserts
but i don’t know if
i want to be thirsty

there are houses
in your way-laid-wanderer wastelands
but i don’t know if
i want to be afraid

i don’t know why
i want to be loved
by this

I don’t hate you but you still suck

i have no words for you mister
stomping on the ground about you
like an ageing impotent bull
hoarding its cows

a my way or the high way
i pay my taxes
bloody foreigners
shut up or put up
comedy caricature made flesh

a caveman in a new suit
grabbing at life by the hair.
raging at distant suns
that remain brightly nonplussed

a kamikaze
pull your teeth out
scream until you are sick
boy child

each day catches you
Shuffling your feet
and staring at your toes

a toddler picking up
a ladybird

you have taught me
how corruption takes form from its roots

wide eyed and naive
jumping at shadows
hands over your ears
clutching your ignorance close to you
like some

a drowning man
who finds rope disagreeable

you don’t understand the question
so you are handing the teacher over
to the authorities

and as much as you have tried
to make me your pet
when you open the door to my cage


I don’t hang out with you no more
Your words were too much
For my little ears
They echo of
Bad eyes
In dark caves

I don’t want to speak with you no more
I’m done with working my way
Through broken pieces
You are spilt milk
And frozen smiles
And bad melodies
To me

I don’t want to hang out with you no more
I’ve grown
And squeezing back in by your side
Would only hurt me now
I don’t want to speak with you no more


I’m sorry i didn’t mean to want to
but things happen sometimes
and i ended up like this

don’t look at me with tears in your eyes
i know its contagious
but it won’t bring me back to life

i never wanted to think it
so don’t be mad,
but here we are
and even if I go
I’ll always be your star


I want to breathe in deep until my lungs hurt
And blood bursts
I want to feel fingertips dig hard into me
And to turn you inside out with
Long hearted lust

I want you to crave
Move worlds unmoving
Long for twinkling lights and voices free in open spaces
And feel over each other and each moment in
Sweet finger-tipped fascination

Ignite heart lights and
Watch eyes shut
With taste and sound
And sweetness
And breathless and alive,
Forget that we will die.

The Collector

You netted me like a butterfly
Another specimen for your jar
Squinting squiff eyed at soft living colours
That transmute into wavelengths
All written in the same dull graphite grey
In the scruffy notebook
You keep in your head

Coming up for air
I gasped as I climbed out of your jar
A steel pin through my heart
Crumple winged from your
Innocent, gift-less fixation
A pattern. A type. A body.

Beneath your cool gaze
I forgot all of my warm beauty
You, a fascinated wide-eyed child
Pulling the wings off fairies