Little Blonde.

Little blonde woman,

meek and mild,

another day in the office;

a new face in they grey.

He is different.

Scottish, tall, aloof.

Proof that books read

make a more meaty conversation.

You are captivated;

imprisoned by love and lust.

You will lose yourself to him.

Little blonde

with rusted roots,

hair shaped like a bulb;

the electricity tangible.

He gives you gifts

of ideas,

of how to live life

and shape your destiny.

The sex raw and rough,

he challenges you

to grow with him

into an icon never forgotten.

Little blonde,

he binds you in bondage

and traps you for life.

The meek inherit the Earth

but you inherit a life of four walls

and the occasional visit

from blinded well-wishers.

He broke you with his words,

his charisma

and his De Sade literature.

“Myra Hess” he would call you

as you posed for him,

proud and exposed,

open to him

and open to his world.

Little blonde,

your dark roots expose you

and black and white photos

flash across the world.

Your image brings incitement

of hatred and horror.

Love for one man

has made you forever immortal.


Paradise for Terrorists.

A room spins,

part of a cataclysm

in this eternal yarn,

it’s line swimming like sea waves

and distant as a dream.

White sheets,

crisp and cold

from the constant change

and upheaval

are repeatedly used and

repeatedly aired

to show off the squashed blackberries

that were forced to escape a place of innocence.

He smiles,

eyes hooded.

This red blooded male

smokes a cigar

and pats the weeping girls rump

as she limps out of the room.

The yarn slides down her thigh

and glides connecting

to the line of others.

The sheets are changed

by smiling servants

who place the next table cloth down

to serve his ravenous hunger.

“Praise Allah.”

he says, smiling fondly.

“Blowing that train up was totally worth it.”


He offered words to the birds

because their coos were too crooning.

He offered the knife and fork a small spork

because the spoons, they kept spooning

and through it all, the world,

it keeps moving;

as somebody wins somebody’s bruising.

Bruised cheek, last week,

she can not talk, she can not speak.

Black eye, don’t know why,

the only break she gets on sheets.

Get her breath back, count to ten

then it’s time to fuck again.

Aint got no love, aint got no friends,

got no Mother, it’s men, men, men.

And where is he as spoons do spoon

and little black birds groove and croon?

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,

my oh my, is the world starting to pay.

Plenty of sunshine, boiled grass looks like hay

no food to eat now, so let’s pray for rain.

And the black’s don’t have souls until ’76,

and the towers, they crumble, like fallen twix.

Have a break, have a kit kat as you kill the world

and the rainforest dwindles, palm oil is like pearls.

The world is our oyster and we suck it dry

and get more fat on our backs from eating food fried.

As we get fat arses and doubled double chins

we chuck it all in one bag, fuck recycling bins.

He offers words to the birds

and a buzz for the bees

but where are the crutches

for that whore on her knees.

People get trafficked

and there are millions missing,

for Him to find them

would be like going fishing.

He sits with a line

that is hooked and the sunk

in this Hades realm of lost souls

that are drugged up or drunk.

They can’t grab His line

because it’s not even there,

invisible and hidden

they think nobody cares.

To bite onto His bait

would be like a mouth full of cock

and these poor little choir boys

are sick of having that shock.

Whose to blame for these paedophiles

that can run amock

and throw women in prisons

and keep them locked up?

It’s the Jews,

it’s the gays,

it’s anyone but themselves.

What does He think when he sees this?

Religions in bad health.

In fact it is dying, critical, comatose.

It’s been dying since Chaucer

with the priest whose nose grows.

Not literal, but cynical,

they are all lying c*nts.

Anything to get money,

they pull stupid stunts

like saying “to get into Heaven

you must pay your way.

There’s an entrance fee on the door

or down you go with the gays.”

I’m sick of this fear

and I’m sick of their lies,

Catholicism and cynicism

hold hands in the night.

Do you think that priest prays for your soul

as he counts up those riches?

Does he fuck! He’s a pimp,

and you’re all his bitches.

So Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,


let’s pay the bigots

and let’s hang the gays.

Let’s say Jews killed Jew Jesus

and the Roman’s saved the day,

let’s say the Holocaust never happened

and in a holiday camp they stayed.

“Yeah, they’re a bit skinny,

but that’s just their race.

Too fucking tight to buy food

and put it on plates.”

And that’s what sticks in my throat

and makes me choke,

that these issues of seriousness

are a big fucking joke.

And the people that matter,

the victims,

the dead,

they are forgotten and scorned

and put in their beds.

Shooed like a child

with wild thoughts and nightmares;

“Darling, Auschwitz never existed

now get up those stairs.”

How can our children

learn empathy and love

if we won’t learn from our mistakes?

Instead we are innocent, Gov.

We can’t teach children the past

if it is emotive and sad

but we let them play violent computer games

and question behaviour bad.

And what does He think

when He sees the ghosts of the dead

who lost their lives for nothing

and for Him they were led.

Does He feel guilty

as he croons with the birds

when for those lost and missing

He can’t give them the words,

or the chance to jump out and escape

like a Jack in the box?

Instead they are winded back in again

and the door is then locked.

To Him I do ask,

do we learn and get better?

Or do we keep repeating

the same mistakes forever?

I listen, no answer,

what do I expect?

I’m just a fish in the water,

hungry and vexed.

Swimming for answers

and diving for truths

but these truths are old

and so is this news.


God softly croons

as the birds twitter and tweet

and the poppy’s do bloom.

One day we’ll get answers,

maybe one day soon

but for now the birds sing

and the whores sit alone in their rooms.

Grazed Knees, Bruised Ego’s.

Bully boys in different ties

with pinky promises

and crossed fingers behind backs.

In detention doing twenty lines

for 13 years of daily lies.

During full on fisticuffs

and shambles in the brambles

the two big boys

bore their eyes upon fresh meat.

In the heat of the moment

they carry on fighting

and back biting

while the new boy

notes their behaviour

and decides to be different.

He becomes better,

bolder, stronger.

The longer they ignore him

the more he hones his craft

of words.

Assembly time.

A scuffle as they walk in

as the two smug, smirking

bully boys bray at one another.

It is time to vote

for a new leader of the school;

a prefect to perfect faults.

Brash, bold laughter

as the two try to trip each other,

shoving and smacking each others backs

to make up for the promises they lack.

The new boy watches and waits;

a ninja in the night.

He ducks and weaves

as they state their wants and needs,

raising their voices

and raising the roof

as their ego’s swell

to ‘Alice in Wonderland’ proportions.

This ninja of liberation

slays these two giants

with their own words.

A debate from years of hate

leaves their ego’s hurt.

The red tied boys red lips

suck at air like a fish out of water.

The little boy blue

tries to conserve his energy and cool

but starts spreading salacious lies

about the other two.

His enemy fire backfires onto him,

burning his cheeks

as red as the gasping lips next to him.

One hour in the ring

and they’re knocked out,

grazed knees

and bruised ego’s in need of a massage.

The new boy takes his crown

a new king for this crumbling town.

Word Plague.

Your skin is soft.

Sickle cell of a soul

with a chrome dome:

a giant egg.

A plate of rhymes lead edible,

incredible, up your leg.

Words repeated and seated,

these words in lipstick;

stuck on you.

Words are bad for the heart.

This pauper can not afford you

but applauds the efforts

of this throne placed on an old dust cart.

Sit, my Regina.

You shoulda seen her.

Even the rats let out a plague soaked tear

and drowned in the beer of Death’s camaraderie.

Malarkeys with you mean the world to me.

Galavanting, sauntering and taunting,

teasing and pleasing.

We ease ourselves into a love without words,

but without words we would have nothing.

Without words we would have –

Whispers in a Jar.

Hard, dry, crumbling ground,

quietly cracking from the explosives

hidden, breathless beneath.

Sixty years before

small, grimy, gentle little hands

in the darkness before dawn

had dug deep, with determination

to hide something  within them.

It was a secret that

wouldn’t be known  for six long decades.

Those children grew

into stunted, tortured, twisted bodies

that could not escape

those harsh, tense touches in the night.

Lying in bed,

they wait for the creaking crack

in the door to grow in size

and for the shadow to flirt with the ground

and the decision of whether or not

to rape a child.

Eyes surrounded by puffy wrinkles

still wait, with the covers

pulled up tight to their chins.

The home for children

was meant to be a haven

of safety and security;

but instead of colourful crayon

drawings  placed proudly on the walls

there were whispered words

written in light, shaky hands.

Light enough to be almost invisible,

these children were hidden from a world

not yet ready to understand.

In that day and age such things

did not exist

and were easily missed  by blind eyes,

milky with the dew of patriotism and ignorance.

Sixty years on and those brittle,

broken words are finally heard.

They escape from the cracked jars

they had been banging on,

burdened and buried under the crumbling ground.

Like a phoenix they rise

free from those lies and the perversion

of people who were meant to care.

The Roots of Vines.

Mr. Vine,

a teddy bear of a man,

died alone in his home

of 100 years.

A divine achievement

as he watched the cycles

of time that sweeped by.

The long tender stem

of his loyalty

wrapped around his home,

kept it and his morals

firmly in place

despite the £100,000

cheques that fell on the mat.

Four different monarchs,

eighteen different prime ministers,

a Waitrose where there used

to be a cricket green;

but still the same soggy England,

the same rain

falling on the same house

with only intentions

of cleaning chimneys

and fixing bicycles.

Dying in his sleep,

Ted left in a way others

dream of; leaving

behind him a legacy

of loyalty and history.

The grandchildren of six

and fourteen great-grandchildren

pledge an allegiance

to Mr. Vine, his work,

his history

and what he stood for:

“He was born there,

grew up there,

brought his own wife home

to that house.

You can’t put a price on

100 years of good memories.”

A month later

and there is a for sale

sign on the wall.

Ted’s Vines have loosened;

family roots ripped up,

all for a different green.