Thursday, 30 May 2013


they screamed at me as I climbed
higher and higher, from up here, the world looks so small
ant people scurrying about, their problems don't matter at all
Even if the revolution happens and it isn't televised,
I wouldn't care because I've got my eyes on the prize:

they cried, but step by step I ascended despite
my fear of constantly moving up, try as they might
those people who scream
can't stop me from taking flight tonight.

Then, there was silence. The kind filled with anticipation and dread
as my foot caught on the top rung of the rope ladder of success
I had almost broke through, I could see the stars shine,
but all the sympathetic cosmonauts offered no hand, nor took mine.
Down I fell and hit every obstacle I had overcome
and the indentation in the ground when I landed
means I start again even lower than where I set off from.

This depth may only be inches, but it may as well be miles,
face down in the mud I can only be concerned with my own trials
and those tiny ant people now tower above me,
as I blunder between their busy legs
"Sorry, I do not wish to bother thee"
I yell in my little, insignificant voice.
Exhausted from a whole day of this, sleep brings no rejoice.

What a fool I was to think that I could climb,
to see things only meant for the eyes of the divine
to be that one in a million who tastes the fruits of their own success.
"Sit down and shut up, you were meant for much less"
Why didn't I listen to the voices which screamed no.
Maybe then I wouldn't have fallen.
Maybe I wouldn't feel so low.

After some time spent gathering my strength
and remembering when happiness was only at arms length
my burlap sack packed with my dreams and Lucozade,
I set out to climb that rope ladder without any aid.
Even though I know I'll probably just fall again
and that the voices which scream are the voices of the safe but mundane
I'm well practised by now so without a fuss
I slowly start to climb again; a modern day Sisyphus.

Monday, 27 May 2013

Absurd Rhymes With Albatross

Of course, it doesn't. But it does rhyme with turd.

As the most curious species
and with brain power to boot
we try to swallow the whole sun
and think the face in the moon is cute.

We pretend that time's a circle
and that we can live this moment again,
we call ourselves unique, like snowflakes
then score beauty out of ten.

We praise multiple gods, and one, or none.
All three are but primitive tools
to deal with the hypocrisy of life. Example?
We teach science in Roman Catholic schools.

We take their valves to work our hearts
but "all pigs do is stink".
Being human is such an absurdity,
all the more because we can think.

Thursday, 23 May 2013


Dancing in threes, living life
step one two.

We share a heartbeat, me and you.

Sychronised steps, arm in arm
turn two three.

No thought to thinking, feeling free.

Past mistakes made we laugh off
as we spin.

Lips touch and we dance, skin to skin

Facebook Friends

The people on my Facebook are my friends,
they're not.

They are friends of my friends
people I knew before;

they are people at work
cease to be when I leave.

You are my Facebook friends
un-friend is just so rude.

Are the people on my Facebook my friends
my "friends"?

Wednesday, 22 May 2013

A poem about people I hate

This poem's title is literal. This is just a spoken word poem about people I hate. Or more specifically, something I hate about people. Below this, you can listen to the recording hosted on SoundCloud and below that, you can read the words. There's no layout, it looks like this because it's written to be heard and not read, but this is my blog and I want to post the words. Whatever.

All my life I've been called a nerd, a loser, a geek.
Just because I love to learn.
I want to know why our calendar has seven days in the week
and why we are averse to telling people how much we earn.
Thank god or zeus or even the big bang for wikipedia
because without it I'd never be able to bore workmates
with facts and interesting titbits about who really controls the world's media
(it's not a conspiracy by the way, Noam Chomsky told me and his name holds weight in debates)
It's just fate that the curse placed upon my tiny little head is now plastered across all these fucking tshirts on little girl's chests. Slogans designed to impress because being a geek is somehow cool now?
Like I didn't get my head shoved in a fucking bin and my childhood is just one big fat cash cow?
It's like I wasn't so scared of ridicule for joining the debate club I ran away and ate lunch on the pavement on my own? Wow. I've barely told anyone about that.

Where was I? Oh yeah, tell me about your adventures in the Warhammer universe fellow geek. Tell me about the time you spend reading short stories by only Phillip K Dick and Bradbury for a whole week.
How disappointed were you that the overarching story in Asimov's I, Robot was completely missed out in the Will Smith adaptation?
Who pushed you down stairs in school because you thought superheros were cool? Were you the last in your group of friends to pull? Yes, teenagers can be cruel but I'm still being ridiculed by the exact same people who paid to see The Avengers four times because Chris Hemsworth and Robert Downey Junior make them drool.

Dungeons and Dragons is nothing like playing with a Barbie doll and you sound like a fool for making that comparison, but I try to take it on the chin. Because I never expect anyone to understand why I run Linux instead of Windows on my netbook, or why I continually fix my eight year old iPod instead of buying a new one.

And I'd never understand why you would mute the news or think it's boring to see a meteor caught on camera crashing down to Earth with an impact like a giant cosmic gun. That's the reason I'll never buy a tshirt that states in VERY LARGE FONT, that everyone can read that I'm a domesticated dog, on a very short lead.

Tuesday, 21 May 2013

Peter Pan

I like the rhythmic quality of this. I've been writing things in threes recently and I don't know why. As you can see, this is structured so that every line contains three syllables. I may have the punctuation wrong which would lead some to read this in a way I didn't intend but honestly, I think the commas and full stops, as well as the line breaks let it flow without the reader having to think of composition too much.

that I think,
I create.

that I think,
I create,
I control.

that I think,
I create,
I control,
I destroy.

Not Captain
Hook, I'm the
first Lost Boy.

Monday, 13 May 2013


It isn't often I'm lost for words but when you kissed me, my head was with the birds, in a cloud and I could hear my heart beating so loud I thought it would burst from my chest, then you said

"are you ready?"

Time stopped, and that's the most beautiful thing because I don't want to waste it, like seedlings in spring. Am I ready? "Of course", I said dizzy, heady from kiss and you looked at me with doe eyes, and said

"don't hurt me"

Us two alone, only moonlight exists, the sole witness to this tryst sits high above watching hands touching hands, hands touching hips. In this moment we are one (no space), an everlasting embrace.

Thursday, 9 May 2013


I love the way the sands of time trick our mind.
How pleasing the feeling
we were young yesterday,
the notion that all we know is innate.
A smile arises when I think
of troubles, previously significant
that no longer hold any pain,
or of all the times we tried in vain.

Shifting sands of time
distort our mind in pleasing times,
distracting us from the reality
of humanity.

Absolutes are abhorrent:
hate and love are but two sides of the same coin,
with one comes the possibility of the other.

To hate and love at the same time
is absurd.
To hate and love at the same time
is human.

So you see
the paradox of humanity.
It is a struggle to remain sane

Tuesday, 7 May 2013

Every Atom

It's not love that tears us apart, its the heartache that does.
A troubled mind stuck in time looping ifs, buts and because,
predisposed with thoughts of who, when, why and of what was.
Heartache ruins us.

If its not love that tears us apart, the memories will.
Ruminating good and bad
then out       they        spill
to anyone sparing a shoulder or ear
and we can't stem the flow until,
heartache drains us.

Love will never tear us apart
because humans we are,
and every atom in our body was once part of a star.
What is the loss of love when life is this bizarre?
Heartache cleanses us

Friday, 1 March 2013

Borrachero Prologue

This is the first draft of the prologue of the novel I'm working on at the moment; 'Borrachero'. All feedback is appreciated and will be taken on board, unless you're correcting spelling or grammar. That stuff will be fixed when the whole novel is proofed. Thanks for reading.
The crowd outside the research wing of the hospital had grown quickly in a short space of time. Not quite with the same speed that a flashmob would come together but for the passerby, there wasn’t much difference. Signs and placards were held up by men and women wearing PETA t-shirts, proclaiming their hatred for animal testing. Among them were the dreadlocked and tie-dyed crew; the protesters who opposed capitalism as a whole and for whom the pharmaceutical industry was one big melanoma on the skin of society. Behind the front line of the protest specific that had been bussed in from far and wide and the protest ever-present were the locals who had heard of what was going down through social media. Publicly shared Facebook pages, #hospitalprotest trending on Twitter, along with Snapchat and Instagram shots being fired about by almost everyone present had made sure that anyone with even a remote interest in animal welfare, “bad” pharma or even just protesting and playing Rage Against The Machine really loud had come along to take part or spectate.
Viewed from a socio-anthropological angle, the crowd assembled outside the hospital resembled a trifle, with distinct layers clearly visible from observing dress code, behaviour and language. The only thing messing up this picture was the floaters. Men and women in the crowd with scarves and bandanas covering their faces and hoods pulled over their heads, milling amongst every layer and making comments to anyone who would listen about turning violent and doing something. These were the dark anarchistic “bad seeds” that the media loved to blame everything on whenever a protest got out of control or riots started up. At an even smaller level that academic observers would miss, there was one hooded woman who wasn’t an anarchist at all, but was using their presence to mask her own purposes. Sophie had an edge, she knew where the cameras pointed and where she could stand and spread discontent without being picked up. Despite the cameras not being advanced enough to have been equipped with face recognition, she knew that the men sitting in the CCTV control room would recognise her. She fixed the bandana covering her face and pulled her hood down tighter so that only her eyes showed and continued through the crowd.