Blog Poetry

Some things change; some things stay the same

I’ve decided to blow up my blog theme again and try something new. Actually I’ve had this theme for a while, just never used it. I’m undecided as to whether to do full blog post on the page format or some variation of the grid style blog or the read more style. The advantage I think the full blog post has is it, if done right, draws the reader into to the post, plus if you’re into the ‘time on site’ metric, people have to scroll further and further down to see more posts, which equals more time on site. Disadvantage – if the current post doesn’t capture the reader’s attention, they probably will bounce and go onto something else.

Enter the grid style blog.

The advantage here is the reader can quickly scan the front page until something catches their eyes, then they read a little bit and if the opening is compelling enough, they’ll click through and read the rest. Disadvantage is the title and opening paragraph is all they read, they never click onto the read more to discover what else you have to say.

I also think I need to assemble my web self together in one spot or at least to have this site to act as journal/portal.

Ok, so with that I mind, be aware that I’ll be tinkering around with the design over the next fews days, possibly into next week as I am about to go into heavy consulting mode over the next couple of days and then I’m off camping for a few days.

Confession. I’ve been feeling a little existential angst over the past few days, which tends to happen some times when I’ve been reading heavy stuff. I finished Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell and his Illuminations. Season in Hell in particular made me question my own existence. What really made Rimbaud walk away from a promising literary career? A Season in Hell seems to suggest Rimbaud, having produced his greatest work, realised it was all a shame – art, poetry and the like, and so walked away from it all to be a trader and an arms dealer in Africa. After A Season in Hell he never wrote another word again.

The stuff going down in Charlottesville didn’t help either. It’s like we’re going backwards. Our chief leader, not immediately taking a stance against such behaviour, made it worse. 48 hours and much media pressure finally got Trump to call out the evil by name. I know he’s a massive showman, but this isn’t a television series. We don’t want to be entertained, we want to be led.

What little faith I had in the system is now gone.

Sorry I digress. We were talking about portals and poetry.

I worked on this today:


I’m not used to fear, it messes up my day. I was taught
to be fear-some and fear-less, never let them see you
sweat, I was told.

I was a blind fanatic at best. My nerves, tempered steel.
Then I tasted fear for the first time, it was bitter and
not at all pleasant.

The sensation – knots in the stomach, anxiety and dread –
came all at once, the moment I felt I had something to lose.
Where once I treated life as a casual affair,

I now hang on in earnest, a slave to my own excesses.
Dull are my senses, factory numb. Only morphine,
masturbation and rum can revive me.

Barricaded behind the four corners of my house,
I pray for Saint Peter to lift me up. Or maybe
the Buddha can unbind me.

I must eliminate myself from this monastic place.
Let go without giving up.

And now off to watch some Thrones. The buzz on the Internet today tells me it’s a great episode!


thin lips

Her paper thin lips formed prayers to a broken slice of lemon drizzle cake.


Nightmare hooligan

I wasted many years
chasing windmills and waterfalls.
Now I finally act my age, and my
friends feel uncomfortable when
I’m serious. So I play the clown,
the eternal court jester, the fool.
I’m a nightmare hooligan with a bloody
nose seeking the Book of Knowledge and
the Truth, if there is such a thing.

Blog Poetry

another season

As a child I never saw a vision of what I wanted to be,
or if I did it was a fleeting glimpse. The poets told me

what I could be, my teachers told me what I should be,
now I only know what I don’t want to be. I don’t want

to be that passionless person in a cubicle or that
over-achiever in the corner office with all the toys,

but no soul, shallow to the core. I don’t want to be
the has-been who’s life ended years ago and now

they sit around telling the same old stories from their
glory days while they wait patiently to die. I saw

Old Man Time standing in a field. He showed me a vision
of who I am. It’s not who I wanted to be though. Is it too late

to cancel the show? Or can I rewrite the script
and try for another season?


Train Wreck

She’s a train wreck
in a black mini dress.

I stood on the tracks,
watched her approach.

There was nothing
I could do to stop her.



Ok, not the most upbeat subject for a Friday, but one does not pick and choose when these things come.



reminisce 1

rem 2


rem 4

rem 5sig


your voice




One more wink

A lone car rumbles
down the street
the morning yawns
you pretend to sleep
not ready for the hustle
just one more wink

Blog Poetry

Something new

I’m dog tired tonight. Weekends make you weak. The only thing keeping me awake right now are three pieces of spearmint gum and the promise of watching Walking Dead later tonight.  I have some neat pictures from my Bristol trip over the weekend which I haven’t edited yet. Bristol left me city-sick. I’ve had enough of small town living. I want to be near a hoping metropolis. It’s a shame Birmingham is such a dull city, otherwise I’d hang out there more.

I just have to come up with an argument good enough to get R to move.  I’m going back to Bristol in April to house sit for a week. I’ll have a good look around and start scouting out some places.

In the meantime here’s a poem I’m working on, it’s called Something New

she had nothing new
to say again today

we sit down
to have dinner

she sits across
from me texting
her mate

i watch the flames
throw empty shadows
across my plate

this is what
passes for romance
between us these days

it wasn’t her i
was kissing

her lips were just
in the right place
a convenient lie
to hide the truth

i need new eyes
a new mouth
a new mind to possess


– soulcruzer


The Altar

our strength lies facing
this personal piece of Hell

after breakfast, they would
take her quietly, get straight
to work doing wrong.

but you wouldn’t know this

life is knowing the lay of the land
how it stands to make
anyone other than me



Freedom is a Mystery

Shameless freedom is a mystery
Wasteland studded

blasting free adverts

What is this really, except
easy fantasies)?

Normal people trickle down the cracks

neoliberal teenagers

Rock The Brady Bunch and
Unemployed achievers

Source document: The Wire magazine


A Voice

So tonight starts the first in a series of year end parties. I didn’t want to leave this until after the party, lord knows what would come out then.


Conscious Torpor


And just like that the house was quiet again.

The source text for this black out poem was an old issue of Philosophy Now magazine.

Blog Poetry

Attracting Love

This is the last of my sloth days.  It’s been fun hanging out with the family and a few friends – eating, drinking, and being merry.

For about a week now, I’ve been in chill mode, winding down the year and generally lazing around.  But enough is enough.  The family all head out tomorrow back to various points on the compass.  Once they go, I can finally draw a line in the sand for over-eating and sucking down cakes and pies and mounds of chocolate.

My belly is so big and round now, I’ve had to loosen my belt a couple of notches!

Anyway, it’s all good.  What’s the point of anything if you can’t let yourself go every once in while. The trick is not to do it for too long.

Oh, yes. I finally have my three words for 2017.  They are:




Something I’m not the best at is patience.  I generally want everything and I want it now, especially when it comes to new projects.  I’m a great starter, but an awful finisher.  If I don’t see immediate results, I’m outta there.  I know this is not good, so for 2017, I’m going to make a concerted effort to be much more of a finisher.

A lot of my projects for 2017 have creativity at their core.  I’ve been holding myself back, for what reason I’m not entirely sure, maybe it’s like Madchild’s lament in Dark Clouds:

Can I rediscover my mind are we wasting each others time
I don’t cry I don’t look up at the sky and ask why
But sometimes I feel like I’m patiently waiting to die
Go thru the motions try to put the pen to paper with love
But I’m still holding back afraid of what I’m capable of…

So yeah, time to stop holding myself back!

And lastly movement.  I need to move more in 2017, get a little bit of the old days back when I hardly spent anytime indoors.  I’ve been so focused on building my little online empire that I’ve neglected being in motion.  I’m getting too old to not be moving around.  If I’m not careful I’ll seize up like the Tin Man.

That said, the featured imagine to this post is a part of my new found poetry project.  If you want to know more about what found poetry is you can check out this link and this link.

The source text for this poem is Lillian Too’s Little Book of Creating Abundance.



reminisce – 1st draft

She reminisced in my name. Fire, meltdown
and the sanity they let lose in a tangled
abstract fantasy of post apocalyptic let down.

She reminisced in the attic for the wind,
the damned, and the free. Her shadow slipped
further. Soft she lay as the boys came for her body.

She looked to reach them in their sleep.
One by one they came inside her, cuddled
her body like the damned carry sheep.

They wouldn’t reminisce in her beauty
took her dress for rags, her hair for
loose strands of braided hopelessness.

She reminisced in the darkness. No longer
lonely, a mystic fastened like clockwork,
I never tried to see her face.


all the paths i could travel & jane doe

Here’s an excerpt from my poetry collection, A Thousand Bullets Gone Astray:

all the paths i could travel

All the paths I could
travel are pointing me
in 360 directions

Which path I choose
is hard for me
to imagine.

If I move in one direction
the circle collapses and
my path becomes fixed

I can’t help but wonder
what would happen if
I chose another path

Where would that one lead me
What would I be giving up
What would I become?

You can be or do anything
you want, so the words go
and that’s true.

The problem isn’t lack
of choice; it’s too much
choice that spends my head

Which path to choose I
cannot tell, so I stand still
keeping the circle in tact.

BONUS Excerpt:

jane doe

it’s cool she said,
put your hand on
my thigh

ordinarily I would
comply, but you see
i don’t know her name

she smiles, shifts in
her seat, asks: ‘how
about my toe?’

i say, ‘I don’t know
is this a game?’

you’re cute, she says
but just the same, can
you massage my back?

she moves her hair
aside to make room
for my hands

before long we’re
in the sack, i still don’t
know her name

she came just the same
called me a girl’s name

shannon i think it was
or maybe heather

i forgot when she
broke out the leather

the things she did
with a feather made
me come like a cannon

the sun chases
the moon
from the sky

she slips on
her dress, kisses my
nipple and says

i beg for more

too late

she closes
the door

i try to call her
but i don’t know
her name

now I see her
everywhere, the
bus, the train
the crowded shops
and playing fields

she even turned up
once at a school recital
in a black bridal dress
made of leather with
strips of feathers
around her waist

now every girl i see
that looks like her i
want to run and ask:

are you the one
who left me in bed
rummaging through
every female name
in my head looking
for one that would fit

they shake their heads
no and scurry away
in haste,

no wait, don’t go
are you my jane doe?

You can order the full book or ebook here.

Blog Poetry

Can we breathe

Already clustered full,
my morrowed eyes looked
beyond her vintage lips.

Can we breathe, once again,
marked and boundless, a broken
wing, crushed by ignorance.

I could have wandered on,
lived my life asleep like
an old door.

I never really understood
why she said she could only
hate what she should love.


Who is you? – 1st Draft

My friend Julian Stodd has inspired me do what he calls working out loud, which is, in effect, sharing your works in progress. I thought I’d do the same with some of the writing stuff i’m doing on the prose poetry/flash fiction/aphorism side, beginning with this piece, which was inspired by one of Gregory Corso’s poems from his book The Happy Birthday of Death (I can’t find the specific poem, I’ll cite it when I can).

Gregory Corso, by the way, is probably one of the lesser known, but prominent members of the Beat poets. I was reading interview with Allen Ginsberg, and in the interview, he mentions this particular book of Corso’s. I’m about half way done with it and really enjoying it.

So this has no title yet and is not in it’s final form, which I guess is a long way of saying this is a poem in draft:

Who is you?
Don’t look in the mirror, no-one ever found an answer to that question staring back into their cold dark eyes except maybe the witch who dissed Snow White and gave her a poison apple to eat.

Who is you?
Don’t ask your mother, your father, your sister, your brother or your weird uncle Ernie. They’ll just try to shape you into what they want you to be for them. And then, you’ll end up confused with multiple personalities.

Who is you?
Don’t ask the government. To them, you’re a rounded off number in one statical indicator or another. If you’re lucky, they’ll use you as canon fodder. Otherwise, welcome to the machine, where you turn the tools of productivity until they break your body and your mind.

Who is you?
Don’t ask God. He checked out of the program a long time ago. Some say he got bored of watching man’s inhumanity to man and packed his bags and moved to the other side of the galaxy.

Who is you?
Don’t ask me. If you don’t know by now, the joke is on you. Let that fester in your burnt out skull.

Process: I really just started with the question Who is you? which was a question I found in one of Corso’s poems and the rest just flowed from there.