Thursday, 13 April 2017

The most effective propaganda is silence.

The most effective propaganda is Silence.

They lie so much and so loudly, building whole citadels. But they only paper over the cracks in their stories.

What lends real credence to their lies is our silence.

Our collective conscience died that night.
That night when you did not pipe up.
For fear.

Fear smothered you better than a pillow ever could.
And like everything, even that fear was built on a lie.

So follow those cracks
Join those dots
And live a little
Laugh in the face of their fear mongering.

Let not your memories of those cracks fade
By your silence
Nor die by them.

Silence is the loudest endorsement.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone


Thursday, 12 January 2017

Son (on his 15th Birthday)


Enjoy your youth.
It goes so fast.
So long those years

Where days used to last
Like years all to themselves.
When not a care

Tarnished your dreams.
Hang on to those dreams
As long as you can.

Fold them up.
Cary them away.

And in those spare moments,
Which are few and far between,
Unfold those swans and zebras,

Let them roam again.
Down through the savanna,
Roam you once again.

Take your dreams with you.
Never leave them behind.

Love your father and mother.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone


Monday, 2 January 2017

Lewishsm Hospital

Lewisham Hospital
Red beard riding his cycle
Up past Lewisham Hospital

So easy to call them other names
Those people, with no place to go

The lost, the driftwood, the twin Sams.
Gathered around that street bench.

What they do there?
Who knows?

Even in the cold of December,
They drift there.

What they do there?
I doubt, they even know.

Them poor lost souls.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Wednesday, 28 December 2016

Rudderless Heart

Rudderless Heart.

I read in a shell
And I heard it tell
Of a thunderous clap
Of a crashing wave.

I read in a brow
That furrowed for long
Of a worrisome grew
That was the end,
Of the man that I knew.

I read in the black, steely night,
When the lights were few
And the air was brash
Of monsters living
Beneath the skin of my psyche.

I read in the tart apple crumble
Against the backlash of its sweet custard sea
A mother's love that might surmount
Amy troubles that there might be.

I read in the stain
That pungent stench of gain
That ever lingered about
That would never wash out

A crime of the heart
Blood red, bleeding hot.
Where I would rather lie
Than submit.

And it's this fear that drives me
That my arrogance might blind me.
That my heart might become trash
Not hear
Not see
Nor feel

A reader less heart
Is no heart at all.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:South Sea

Thursday, 10 November 2016

Khanata's And

Khanata's And.

Aga sat aghast,
Palm 'f hand, damp
"Khanata, was at last."

The Aga's Papy stark splay angry,
Dynasty at and.
Apax past.

Bara-Bera was the pall-bearer.
Matched by name.
Then afters she changed

Her symmetry name,
She swapped e, sawn a.
Papy was at pain.

Gleary saw past stamps.

Regal Bara-Bera spanned
The bane'd past Khanata
Then she became name'd
as the new Dynasty.
The Bara-Bera Khanate.


In our verbal world allowing for full and proper vowelation:

Papy chose Barabara as wife for his regal son, the Aga Khan, because her nominal symmetry was apparent, whilst subtly different. After all true symmetry belonged in the Heavens and not in any earthly domain.

In his dominion and the dominion of his father's, that just off symmetry had been maintained by law on pain of death, that allowed the use of "a" as the only vowel sound that could be used. The ee of y was tolerated as an aberration to be overlooked, and scurried under.

Barabara was the ideal wife for Aga. But there is always a case against being too ideal.

She was loved by the people, the people's queen. Whilst the hereditary power of the Aga appeared to diminish.

Bara-Bera revealed herself and the only Khanata came to an "And" moment. E only just stood equally against A.

Bara-Bera became immortalised in the new Khanate.
Whilst Papy was locked away in a tower with only his regal stamp collection to remind him of those beautiful day, that made him just more bleary eyed.

But the glory of, not his days, but the days of his people would be seen to pass those enshrined in his stamps.

The Aga was confined to the role of puppet to be brought out on show at opportune moments. But once the E was unleashed, who could put that genie back in his bottle?

That he had witnessed the numbering of the days of his Khanata because of an engineered love, that turned into a vile scorn, he would never be allowed to forget.

How many revolutions would it take for the three others to be given free expression?


Tuesday, 1 November 2016

Belt of Air

Belt of air.

His belt was one to avoid
The anger rose
Like a bubble burst

Not the fizzle and dazzle
Of soft drinks
But the fester of those that let the anger build

Any excuse to be rough and crude
Which they put down to inhibitions being smoothed

They float gently to the top
Rolling all the bad feelings

Hang ups, into one
Big venting bubble of an air.

That when it erupts
Hurts, and tears,
Relationships apart

And the atmosphere surrounds us all,
As a belt that keeps within
All the vile bile that spews
When confronted by no difference at all.

Save our skin thick colour
That hides our common blue veins
Our red thumping hearts that bleed, when those inconsolable words, pain.

Our common ancestry
Is conveniently forgot
Or is engineered by paradigm
To seem like not a lot

But blood is thicker than air
And whilst air will out
Blood should not.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Tory England

Saturday, 22 October 2016



Why am I drawn to write dark poetry? Is it because I feel that morbidity is beautiful?

When death is brought on the day of no doubt, to be sacrificed, is it brought as a lamb.
Is it doe-eyed?
Will it fawn and cry?

Will it plead beauty?

When you read a poem about love and frolicking, is it beautiful if there is no desire and damnation?
Was Dorian Gray beautiful instead of, or because of, his ugliness?

Was he beautiful at all?

Wasn't Mona Lisa but a plain girl made beautiful by the seemly swathes of dark that Da Vinci framed her by?

Her eyes might follow you, hauntingly,
But It's not in the eye of the beholder,
That beauty.

However, lust always is.

A rose does not lead a man to bleed, until he picks it.
A beauty does not corrupt a man, until he desires it..

And cannot have it.

The first sight is yours,
But the second is the devils
Because you lusted after it.


Men might lust after beauty,
But beauty transcends them.
Escapes capture by our eyes,

Resides forever in our heart.

And when that is corrupted,
Beauty is lost...

And all that remains
Is lust

A pale shadow,


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Skull Island