Avoiding mirrors

Like a self loathing vampire

Eager not to see

What isn’t there

That blank stare

Been alive too long

Governed by this

Delicate mind

So easily broken

On undead reality

Sucking dry

Blood of my desires

Which used to pump


For the future

Dragging me forwards

Now all is sluggish

Overtaken by

Misplaced adrenalin

The blood pools

In blackened ponds

Shed in pain

Only to start all over again

A cycle of non life

Avoiding the ennui

Apparent only

In mirrors

Also avoided


Copyright  August 2013


Unbearable Seconds of Sunday


My darkest twin

Writhing within

Uncomfortable and fat

Feeding gloriously

Off the sweetest despair


By frustration

Being stuck here

Unable to make the slightest decision to change


Even scream

For help

In tones audible

To someone

Who may be listening

Or not





And gnarled


Changing blood

Red to black

Black enough to drown

Even the smallest spark

Of intent

That’s not what I meant

To write




The lion roars

My blanket of memories

Stretches back

To Rastafarian times


Governed by

Red green gold

And a surety of knowledge

Soon smashed

This blanket drags me back




Cold seeps in

Encompasses my soul

In icy grim

Frozen in space

Time stills

I crave the comforting heat

Which will not come




One last poem

Before I prematurely chop this day to bits

Each verse carefully severed

From the others

Shoved in plastic

Tied with string

Dumped out on the kerb

For all the world to read

If they could only peer

Bother to see

The rubbish

Swallowing me





Copyright June 2013

My Friday is Blue Through and Through

It’s Midwinter and somehow fitting

That it only reached 14C

The grey endless rain

Again fulfilled a wintery dream

Somewhere behind

The full moon beams

Waiting for chinks in cloudy curtains

Cracks to spy through

To catch humans watching TV

He’s as close as he’s going to get

Will do his voyeuristic best

To raise the tides high tonight

Erode all wintery scenes




What poetry doesn’t get washed off my back

Settles under my skin

Creating green irruptions of envy

I doubt my words cause others

To break out in hives of jealousy

For I am but a hack writer

Reading others in awe




This morning it is all forgot

I am a poetess

Amongst the best of poets

I preen my feathers

Admire myself in the mirror

Who’s a pretty girl then?





Pulsing beat



Oozing out


Much pain

Ebbs back

Flows again

Tide of life

Wasting away


The drain


Copyright June 2013


In order to make jelly you need gelatine. To extract the gelatine you need to boil bones and animal hooves. This was a messy business. Ivan looked down out of his tower window onto what he considered to be a scene of madness. Unnecessary. He didn’t even want jelly for the party. He didn’t want the party. In fact he was beginning to believe he didn’t want Rachel either. He sighed as he sat back in his chair. Perhaps his mother was right it was time for him to grow up, to stop being so impulsive.  He was 784 years old and still turning pretty girls because he fancied them. Rachel had been a huge mistake. The last in a long line of mistakes which needed to be rectified. He swore then and there that he would never turn a living soul again.

Ivan and his mother sat in state upon silver thrones greeting their guests as they arrived. Even vampires normally filled with ennui were overawed by the rich furnishings, the scrumptious wines and the sweetness of the humans on offer.

Rachel made an entrance, only an hour fashionably late. She wore a dress of the finest cobweb. Everyone sang, “Hip Hip Hooray!! You’re a vampire today!!!” Ivan called for quiet as he toasted his “child” with a bloody cocktail. Then he signalled that it was time for the centrepiece de resistance. The massive blood jelly bat was brought in on a huge platter carried by four sturdy men. Rachel clapped her hands in glee. Everyone was served a portion of this delicacy, Rachel having a double serving.

Ivan and his mother watched on from their thrones unnoticed in the general delight. They watched as each vampire ate their blood gelatine. They watched as each vampire’s face turned to stone. They watched each vampire implode into a pile of dust.

After ordering the mess to be cleaned up and signing a cheque to the Pope for holy water, Ivan sat in his tower enjoying the quiet. He was free. Eventually, having not eaten at the banquet, he went down to the kitchen for sustenance. There the maids were tucking into the bloody remains of the gelatine. Revolted at the thought of holy water he went out to dine.

Copyright April 2013