STICKS AND STONES – A POEM FOR A ZINE ON MANHOOD 

Writing

Sticks and stones 

may break my bones

but words shall

never harm me,

Don’t be a girl,

A wimp, or worse,

A faggot, play with army

toys and other boys,

Find maggots in the dirt,

Boys don’t cry

and men should die 

before they say they’re hurt;

Shoot wooden guns 

under the sun,

Get muddy trousers 

washed by Mum,

Become obsessed with 

blood and cum

and look up those 

girl’s skirts;

Build dens with friends

and camp out there,

Compare dick size 

and pubic hair,

Behave,

Tuck in your shirt;

Score tries and goals

don’t read that book,

Do what you’re told

don’t ask or look

and when you’re old

you’ll thank me,

Find a wife 

and treat her nice,

Go to work and 

fuck at night

if you can

get it up,

Drink beer and ale,

Grow beards, tell tales

about the good old days,

Wait nine months

you’ll have a son,

Wait ten years 

he’ll have toy guns 

and friends to joke and play,

Wait five more he’ll want 

to know just how

babies are made;

He’ll look up to you

with all you do,

and be scared to

make mistakes,

Sticks and stones 

may break his bones,

But his heart is yours 

to break.  
MY OTHER WRITING – HERE 

PALM – A POEM

Writing

Tucked well beneath a blanket,

Morgue white, the colours run,

Rusting iron begs to feel

the wilting winter sun,

As the outstretched hand

of a heartless moor

drips all its palette into one;

Purple, lavenders wheezing face,

Lies deep beneath the silver lace

of an icy frozen pond,

Its violet blood clings hard to mud

to preserve sweet summers bond.

The golden glow of grass, in shoots,

Hides in respite from the soles of boots

that love to roam the land,

Tufts of ferny feathers wait to

scatter grains of sand, under this white

that lives forever

in the palm of winters hand.


READ MY SHORT STORY – HERE 

WAITING – A POEM

Uncategorized, Writing

Upon the misted veil of solemn moors

the howling wind did come to pass,

Blew grey snow beneath the trees

and made the heath show white to black;

Shades of evening rolled on in,

Empty branches shivered bare,

Yet a body of tree stood limped; frail,

A wizened oak for centuries there.

The rock face sheer, silent, stood behind

its protector glad in wooden mail,

Gritstone shield for winter’s sword

and the axe of night to no avail,

All left the oak to stand alone,

No more shoots from earth arise,

The furies of storms swooped to provoke

The crack of thunder, lightning cries-

The oak did not stir from its place,

Roots well burrowed in frozen ground,

Within itself it remembered life,

The smell of summer and the blackbird’s sound;

How the creatures of nature refuge amongst

the scars of hearts that men have carved,

With their lovers and a rusted blade

before sitting where the ground now starves.

The oak can only look to days of spring

to warm its gelid, bitter core,

And there it shall enjoy its days

before winter creeps and kills once more.

HURRICANE – A SHORT STORY.

Writing

I will not divulge what crimes I am supposed to have committed, for your judgement means nothing to me; there are greater things at play. No, if I were to quench your thirst for such information, you would not be able to see beyond it, and I would be reduced to a sentence. A word. My bones would be boiled down to stock, served in the halls, splashed onto trays with a chunk of doorstop bread. You would cease to care for the finer details, the explanations, and, at the end of it all, me.

3,666. That’s how many lines there were on the walls. A tally. A countdown. Something, at least, anything, a memorial to sanity. I had dreamt of someone finding it in years to come, standing in the doorway with sadness in their eyes, remembering through those lines upon the wall. It took a while for me to start; at first I would squat upon the tombstone of the bed until my knees screamed, pushing my ear into the stone, moist, cold, listening. That was all there was to do, before the lines anyway. I was lucky once; I heard a shout, and then a noise that I replay within my head. Sometimes I decide it was the crack of a whip, then change my mind to a gunshot. One day I even thought it was both.

3,667. That’s what it should have been, but that morning didn’t give me time. My fingernail, a chisel, bloodied but tough, was just about to start the line, hovering. Then the noise. At first I shuffled to the door, an iron slab, slot for food, nothing else, waiting for the leather serpent of a whip to hiss or the short anger of a bullet. Nothing. The same fingernail scratched my head. I remember before I bled for my country I went to watch a pantomime. He’s behind you! I called, and the man in make-up spun on his heels, never catching the villain, nor wanting to. I chased the noise like this.

A howl? It had grown to torment me, a wolf. Hungry, they called, eager for flesh, famished for as long as I, but their claws were slightly longer. The wall trembled. If only you’d seen my hands when they came for me; I shook like that! I pushed against it, ear turning to ice. It was colder than usual. The howling grew louder. I had gone mad. One last line for the memorial; show them when I broke! The lines were on the cold wall, neat in order, regiments like the old days. I looked handsome in uniform, ask anyone. I always kept my boots polished, big and black and shining. I once trampled my own path, now look at me! I laughed.

My ears had once been deafened by the pound of guns. That’s what Hell sounds like. Artillery big as anything, raping the divine silence of night. I heard that for years, with my polished boots. That’s what it sounded like, when the cold wall ripped off. My fingernail was about to declare the last day I could trust my thoughts, then everything came all at once. The stone vibrated, violent, and I jumped back on my screaming knees; my memorial crumbled, chalk, and I saw the world.

You have seen the way that man can ravage the land. Drilling, dumping, burning, shelling, all nothing, boring in comparison to her. Mother. Look how she goes! 3,667 days of four walls, one bed, one bucket. Now I watch the world end; the island flooded, holy, wind that could strip skin like paint. Grey skies, grey water, grey Earth. I was deaf again. Hot piss ran down my leg. I have run into death in polished boots, taunted the tips of bayonets in my handsome uniform, never felt a thing. Here I am scared. Here I have pissed myself. My legs collapsed, forced me to crawl to what’s left of the room, quivering, shut my eyes, plug my ears. Spat on by the blades of rain. Everything feels like it’s on the precipice, balancing, about to slide into the waves. It’s coming for me! Stop looking, shut my eyes.

Without my tally, I don’t know how long I cowered. I’m not ashamed, either. You would have died or done the same. The wolves had eaten, although they howled, it sounded satisfied not hungry. I heard and saw again. Water up to my screaming knees! I waded to the wall; you’ve not seen anything like it, because I haven’t. Watchtower snapped, a twig under my boot, lying on the rocks in pieces. Everything flooded as if the ocean had bowed to its own greed. I walk, soaked to the bone. Everyone is dead. I pull at some hair in the rubble. Bodies float, face down, the guards don’t look handsome in their uniform. Ask anyone.

0,001. That’s what it is now. First day of freedom, but I’m even more trapped. I found the kitchens; I’d not eaten for a week or so, I was as hungry as the wolves. I served myself, please and thank you for the doorstop bread. There’s a room where the guards played cards. They’re scattered now, I watched the Queen drown and wash away, but that’s my new wall. I still use my fingernail, even though I’ve found a blade. I wonder how long until they send them all.

I’ve found a gun. I’ll wait.

 

 

MY POETRY/OTHER WRITING CAN BE FOUND – HERE

 

 

 

 

 

CAVE – A POEM

Writing

We walked to the tomb of 

the hillside,

A wound carved caverns in smooth rock,

Eternities of echoes lay

with crumbling chalk and curdled clay,

The air was hot with fear;

Ancient thunder lay in wait,

Drip,

Drip,

Drip,

Darkness pooled from drooling lips

of the crooked smile above,

We cowered in the womb;

Every chamber bore new paths

to the belly of the Earth,

No sun could have fed us there,

No stars to occupy our stares 

and distract us from our fate;

Bones shivered, broken by the sin

that dwelt deep within the cave,

Our brittle bodies grew so thin,

We became the echoes trapped within

that long forgotten grave,

Drip,

Drip,

Drip,

How we wish we’d wash away.

LIBRARY – A POEM

Writing

I have sat here for hours;

Rows intersect and expand,

As if every inch of the room

is moving outward,

A universe.

Military lines of books bound

and stacked, marching down 

a shelf that seems to run forever;

I wish I could too,

But I might find myself

between these pages 

if I stay.

 

OTHER WRITING

 

RAINBOW – A POEM

Writing

I am surrounded,

stuck, shrouded on

an island, black and white,

Marooned by melancholy

draining colours from my sight,

They slip along these sands of grey

and mingle with the ocean spray,

Hiding like the night.

 

I want to step upon

the shore, fall into

water, start to swim,

Leave the dark behind me

as I claw with aching limbs,

Remember all my eyes have missed,

A palette that still glows with bliss

upon your rainbow skin,

Pink pastels trapped within

your lips,

I hear echoes as you sing. 

MORE POETRY

 

 

 

SCREENS – A POEM

Writing

Pixels portray an age of screens,

Vision envisioned through light

in flight from stars

long forgotten,

An emerald bosom bleeds

and weeps as hilltops burn

to scar the feet

of those that learn to yearn

for peace,

They are whispers on the breeze.

Tarmac traps, grabs heavy hearts,

Soles of souls walk roads that glow

with golden hopes promised,

Aspirations of a nation,

Instead young faces drown in fear,

Ears echo with the sound of jeers

that creep up closer ’till they’re near

to shape new paths 

and make it clear,

They are cracks of thunder.

Daylight draws a happy few,

Once idle eyes see skies of blue

they idolise the world they knew

through their age of screens,

Blossom from the billboards

that try to mould their dreams,

And fly with might 

out of their plight with truth

so loud it screams.

 

A RECORDING OF ME RECITING THIS POEM CAN BE FOUND HERE

CLICK THIS LINK TO BE TAKEN TO MY OTHER POETRY