Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Rain, Rain Go Away

When i was younger i used to hate the


As it made skateboarding treacherous and football mud heavy

I suppose being English

We eventually all learn to love the dark and the dank of wind swepts streets
And that thin rain tht soaks you through

Affection duly learned for England's
Autumn  and wintered tears

There is something comforting in the


Like when your camping and the


Beats down on the slim outter layer
protecting you from the elements

And the sound it makes when it increases
Its downpour

And for a while you are back into the

Secure and Safe

Oh th
The closest ive ever been to a

Women and probably
Will be again

So rain down on me
England cos im already


Monday, 28 November 2011

Baba Yaga...A Slavic Fairytale

Come one
Come all

And hear this Slavic Yarn

And hold your children tight
Whilst i tell  you the tale of

Baba Yaga

Vasilisa the Beautiful

With her beauty

so fair
so true

Made her own
Mother Mad

A Green eyed

Hateful Madness

Olive Ruin

For she knew well
Of the house on

Chicken Legs

With no Windows
And no Doors

But told
 to go out and

Seek the crowne that dwells
Those cursed walls

Where satanic

And she flies from the
Chimney in bellows of

On her wingless

A mortar she does ride

And flies out of the chimney

As she cackles
and spits


From her

A Rudder of Pestle
And a

Silver Birch
To hide the

She rides on


And heavens
dare not
Stare into her
Wicked eyes

As she cackles from her mortar
And flies on
By .....


Baba Yaga
On that

And wondered

Forest all


Approached this
Ghostly House
Chicken legs
And said those


Hut, O Hut...
Turn your back to the
To me

The House

Vasilisa fills


At this Magical

And hastily
From the
Mead in her
Peuter Receptacle

The Keyhole to her
Front Door
Was filled with

Sharp Teeth
That gnashed

Drooled at the
Fresh Soul
For Molars

The Fence
Surrounded Vasilisa

Was made of
Human Bones

With Skulls
On Top


To become

Baba Yaga

And This
Titular Young Maiden

Was given
Three impossible
To to

But unknown
To this

Was give
A tremendous
Mother Love Bone

For in her pocket

A magical Doll
given to
Her by


Would keep Baba Yaga

And Vasilisa

And passed them
Cheeky Smile

That listen
Whilst huddeled in your
Mothers Bosom

Or in bed Alone
Scared stiff
And Wooden

Remember that
That you Cuddle
By your

And Sleep

Sweet Child

And let
Put pictures
of comfort
Behind those
Sleepy Eyes

Because tomorrow
Is a New day
With the Sun
You Must

And like
A Phoemix From

From  your
You must
Break Free

And Grow
A Mighty
Man or Women
As you
Time Unlocks



The Devil called him Malakai - Tales of the Diddakoi

Two Lovers embrace
whom never should met

Hidden behind a Barley field
In Tall grass they're lusts fired
And were quickly spent

A Raggle-Taggle Gypsy
And the higly respected
Lady Marple-Pendragon

They would have not met if not for her husbands quarrel
the week before

For one stormy night Gypsy Rose Lee did come a knocking



Tapping on the that bolted Oak door

For her lucky heathers and pegs did not please

Lord Pen Dragon at such an hour

And for her intrusion she was cast to the floor and kicked
And left in the
mud and rain

But as Rosie Lee pulled her face out the dirt
The devil did heed her call and
spoke a curse

Such a devious Diddakoi
With the devils fiddle by his side

Did bewitch this ladie's ears

And leave his liquid seminal lust's effluvia
In her unsuspecting region
Her parted thighs

Nine months pass



But a baby is born
In secret

Under a red-full-Satanic Moon

This new born hastens to cry

And rejections swells
In his mother's consumed eyes

For this new born is neither:


This bastard reminder
Of a Pen-Dragon's
Virtue weak

The baby was given to the


And denied any title or Identity
On this fateful night

The Gardener awoke
In a



And shoving a demon
Off his chest

He held this babe out
The window
Under the
Red moon

And said

" Malakai" is your

Now demon please
leave this

Malakai was indeed his name
And neither did he belong to


And his only crime was to
be born

And he did nothing

The Gardener's wife
did also conceive on this
Verbated night

As the Gardener was not

And the moon was jus

Malakai was four
When his Baron-ess]
Did bore her
Infant True

And Malakai was sent
To work and Beg
And shine shoes on
Cobbels of the High Street

When Malakai
Was eight
The truth be told

That you wretched son
Are not my own

And leave our bosom
Because you've had your

On his departure
Lady Pendragon
Did Come
And spoke to
His father's name

He left when the moon was full and red
And this new information
 was all he was given and was bequeth

The Infamous

Paddy " Iron Fist" McVerity

A King of Kings
Of Romany Stock

And laid others
To waist with hammer

And his prize-winning

For Malakai
Would not rest before
He found where he belonged

But to go to this
This Treachorous Tinker
would have been
Mortally wrong

For Gypsies are a noble breed
And do not accept the


Espescially If they have
Coarsing through their veins

And dirty a Gypsy Lineage
Is like Bathing in
Acidic Rain

Over Glen and Dale
Malakai did walk

Hoping to come upon

A Gypsy Caravan
Or a
Fire or Food

Eventually by chance he happend to find the famed

Appleby Horse Fair

And Malakai walked in
and the rain went the


Cock fights were fought
And lurches set on rabbits

And all the while
Malakai'a heart was

A withered old crone

Pony and trap
Beckoned this stragley familiar
Pauper to her
carriage door at the

To foretell his
Fortunes and perhaps steal his
Money fill his
with ears lies
And Honey

Cross my palm

Dear Malakai i know that is your name

You no named ghost
You belong to now one
And have no soul

And dear Malakai your fortune
I will tell
That you shall never be at peace
And spent eternity with your

But Malakai had no money
To give
and did sleigh this forutuitous hag

For his blood did burn
Hells fury

For this no-named ghost
And an eternity spent in flames

She so hastily remarked
Did antagonise and pained the sinews of his

Now has money
And a

Pony and Trap

And ventured to Ireland to
Fill his souls
Cavernous Gap

Once in Ireland
Things did change

And Malakai did Wholly remain

And met a red headed women called
Aisling O'Shea

Who had enough soul for
both of them
And saved him from pain

He took her last name
And now they sit for eternities

In a picture frame above my fire

Trapped in a

Pony and Trap
 There Beautiful Babe

Sunday, 27 November 2011


Oh Guinevere

Sweet Guinevere

Oh "White spirit" Of times forgot

With your

Golden hair
And Green eyes

That seem so deep
As if eternity could be found in them

Like Medusa and Helen of Troy
This Femme Fatale bought down

And Kings

And destroyed the Round table
And many chivalrous knights with her
lascivious thighs

Wed to King Arthur
But Loved by many

Lancelot has your name embroided on his sleeve
And as he rides into this battle

The great wake of this warrior
reaping men's souls for their mortality
and your love

And Sir Mordred does proclaim to
Slate his Uncle's name
For just a moment with those lips

And on that faithful day not
one knight was left alive
In tha name of your beauty
And your crimes

As Arthur rode back to Avalon
Wounded and dying

And Mordred lied bloodied and dead on the battlefield

To redeem your sins a Nun you became

On Amesbury hill you genuflect in this holy cave

But Glastonbury is now where your tomb does lie

And flowers dont dare grow in reflection of these

Heinous Times

Saturday, 26 November 2011

Oedipal Awakening

As a boy
I had this

For maturity's
Libidinal Learning

It was a teacher at first
I was merely

And studied each contour
And short-skirt slipping
With an eager eye

The next i think was my

General Practicioner

Her Bosom was full and busting

My boxers after
Being reduced to little but seminal

The next was perhaps
The shop clerk at

I would become enchanted
by tha snaking of her hips
And how tightly fitting was her suit

And how desperate i was for it to be
Ripped apart

Just to take a glimpse
of her voluptuous
lady parts

And the next curiously was a

Who was an aquarius
and a Vegetarian

She was a tad crinkled

to lay this beauty flat

Smooth those unsightly

And take all those years back

The next was a saucy minks

Who teased me with pictures
Of her body divine

The next im certain was not my

No matter how desperate
No matter how much Rum

For Freud was mistaken in this place

For the attraction to the older female
Is surely the lure

Of power and autohrity

And i for one am sure
Im not in the

Friday, 25 November 2011

For Russia with Love...

A cold and biting wind chills

As hes takes another drink
From the Brown crumpled bag he clutches

Hiding the 80% proof
Vodka from the
Outside world

He drinks to keep warm

So did his


They died in the winter
a decade apart
For the same

Hides herself from
The other orphans

She imagines she is in the middle of a
Russian Doll

Safe and protected

And collects them putting them on the
mantle piece


A picture of Karl Marks

And a copy of Dostoyefskys "Crime and Punishment"

I board a train at Moscow Central
Bound for St Petersburg Stacion

And the snow dusts the tracks
and a
Russian Beauty
Sits next to me

Like a statue and

Her Latte

The women of Russia are truly
The most beautiful ive seen

My Train pulls up on time

And we board the Trans-Siberian Express

That tip-toes along
Russia's Spine

All the way to

And the

" Road of Bones"

Laid in darker times
and created from the dead of those atrocious execution camps
and binded with

Fascist antiquated notions
which defined this time

A man steps into our carriage in uniform
and checks my
tickets and papers

His eyes are

And i dont tell him
im a jounalist

The KGB and agents of the Kremlin
Walk these carriages
And i feel like a
Double agent

The Door opens suddenly
and Drunk
Russian Youths
sprawl around us
Still chanting they're

Footbal songs
and Blind drunk

They are heavily tatooed
 And scar faced

They catch my

The carriage falls silent and the
Biggest approaches me

Without a hesitation
My front
Comes up and i hold his

He asks:

" What football team do you support"

" Liverpool mate"

I respond instantly

His face changes and he pours
Home brewed

My Neck

Thank Fuck for football
I think....

The universal language.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

On the Eve of Samhain (Celtic Folklore)

I seek Awain

The divine

And tonight is the night when the
The veil will not deviate these eyes

For Gaia and the moon have syncronised
On this hallowed eve

Water, earthly mounds, narrow bridges
And wells mark the openings

And as these gates open up

Hells furnaces fire with the promise

of fresh fodder fuelling those flames
And cries echo from the stock-pile

For those that enter

These druid, poets, philosophers and
fallen angels

I implore your ears:

Balor the misshape giant
one warning i raise

To not look like straight in those
sunken eyes that gaze

As he roams beneath lakes
and seas in black purgatories

Across the frozen lake the
boat keeper awaits

And an island we pass with
the most beautiful tree

For lovers seek this unearthly place
for to kiss under that magic tree
is to make this
love last eternities

But for those that enter
I implore your ears

And make this story rouse your fears

And one warning i must exchange
 for a moments time with innocent ears

For Searbahn dose lay in wait for those lovers true

A one arm, one legged, one eyed misshapen
 warrior whose virtue's true

And guards this magic tree and these magical berries

And save only a few for the  piskies and fairies

And the gates finally close with the morning sun

And Blodeuedd the fairest woman
 in the world does wake

And bares witness to what a new days
Dawns creation make

Wednesday, 23 November 2011


The skies open up
And a hammer swings

A star is born
on a Valkyrie's wing

Clouds that clash
And on high,
Helga sings

Aloft a fjord an echoing
cry collide with granite

Like these soaring eagles

And as battlements of green

With Odin's tears

And lightning then strikes
The ground like spears

And once the final berserker
succumbs to slaughter by fears

Would you believe in Valhala
if death was near?

Eric the Red heads west
on this forborne vessel

As the edge of the worlds manifest
into new lands and cultures that

Trade and wrestle

And such terrible paths are laid in wait
For ill fated travellers that dare go

Because Olga had a vision of ice caps
laid to waste long ago

And Loki the jester
pulled the mask of his face

Because every viking knows
what hour Thor doth

When the longboat burn

And the Fenrit Wolf and Norsk troll
doth die

And this Fly Agaric the Celts consume before
Sirens a Guttural

We are lead us all to the altar
By these Druids

And our blood stains the soils of Albion
and we become nothing
More than

Covering the dead in lime and saccharine
After the
Bloody Battle

Tuesday, 22 November 2011


Hands tied at her wrist and bloodied
she is paraded through the square

And her red tawny hair still burns a crimson fury

As she locks eyes with us

This savage

Still ferocious and battle weary
her resolve is not tainted

Like a hideous statues she peers
at us defiant

And penetrates our civility
with green eyes

A civility that flogged her once,
and raped her daughters and broke that spirit.

Oh and how Camulodunum

and the Iceni did rise
Led by this


And purple blood
steamed and seemed
to burn as it
it exchanged virtues with steel and this

Albion air

But still she is a woman and her tunic rides over her skin
and shapely breasts and down powerful hips to her ankles

Where a gold bracelet sits indicating her blood right

Such delicacy and danger together meet
And she becomes all the more alluring
For her strength equals that of any man
And her beauty though slightly hidden
behind this ferocious

Is still
and obvious

Monday, 21 November 2011

More tales from Medway

Something in the post (A child at christmas)

He stops mid flow...

That which flowed like a rapid river 
Of anticipation and excitement 
Has now turned silent

We hear a shallow knock at the door

We'll i dont..
Medway does 

And rises to attention
like a meerkat.

Interuppting this melifluous tirade
Of marvellous language
and excitment

Which he animates
theatrically with messianic gestures
and a manical resolve

Like a child at christmas or a cheshire cat
A smile grows across his features

Spliiting his face like a canyon
Making its away across his
Weathered and telling face..
and his

Muscles mold this manuscripts mask he wears 

As it erupts in joys
And blisful bursts
Of pure elation

Which is infectious:

And innocent
And beautiful

As i also become enchanted by the post
And the forbidden treasure that lay in wait

Jus to think carried her on the
Footsteps of respectability
 All the while unsuspecting 

another worker drone just did their job
On appointment by her majesty's service
And on time this jubilant jester receives 
his treasures

These spirit keys:

Which unlock psychedelic doors
That spiral infinite corridors
And stir the sensual awakenings of the soul
the kundalini snakes its chakral energies upwards
As molecular spirits rouse
sleeping ancient regions
of the

Which once were dormant unused
 Are now being sparked

As visions interupt my vegetive gaze
 and the veil is lifted

I suddenly syncronise with nature and this furniture and the fag burned carpet
Espescially the clock and that

Dripping tap....

The spirits
My ancestors
And the realms of theunknown and the unseen

Place that are conscious but incommunicable

My Shangri-La lays in wait

Comfort awaits
 And the purring of a satisfied heart

And this wailing souls siren turns to song
And this bluebird churps again

He's still in there despite the abuse

" Hold in there little buddy "

These which are forbidden  are bought under the nose of those who might think  such actions were not of such a beautiful nature

Instead that were immoral,

But for know not one of u gives a
Flying fuck!!!

In a flurry of fists that punch at the air 
And rip the brown turgid parcel paper that envelopes 

The bounty has finally been revealed
And a bright angelic light shoots out and brings life and light to this room

"Fuck mine"

He proclaims to the heavens!!

Ive done it a reliable source....

3 strips of Xanax  - 1ml
2 strips of valium - 10ml

50 tables in all..result

This monday mourn mutates
marvelously making merriment
maybe more miracles are destined from this
magical mail

" Fuck!!! I think hes fucked the order up too
but has actually given me more than  i paid for
He also thinks he owes me from the last order".

This man is a gentleman

A professional

A grand high master of widsdom

Intergalactic psychonaught
Of the finest fettle

A man who will become in time
like a brother to me

Saturday, 19 November 2011

After the Storm - (A man will make a beast of himself to deal with the pain of being a man - H.S.Thompson)

The storm has finally stopped

And we step out of the shadows to see whats left

And there is nothing left

The curving of my spine and my muted mouth

And these deathless ears seem to please them more

I remember when people thought i was quite and shy

Oh he's jus quite,
they used to say, shy

Non threatening and likable

I hated that person but others liked him more

I guess he was unoffensive and placatory

I dont know who to be

The quiet me got ill and nearly died out of greif of how pathetic this fleshed vessel was

I guess ill trek back into the shadowlands i once inhabited

that half-life

Put on again that tormenting mask

I put it on

and the pins push into my eyes
and the gag slips down my jugular
and chokes at my throat

But people will like me again
and i wont be

I hide my true self
and present one which people

Its a shame no one likes that person
Or i cant find anyone that does.

He could have done great things.....

Extradition to the Emerald Isle...(More Tales from Medway)

A Tale of Gate Arrest and Shotguns

I remeber a screw opening my cell door

" Get your kit packed Medway your going to Ireland"

Fuck!............. The irish hate the English.

 i thought..

I find my self standing in a dock

The judge says:

" This is an horrific crime but it was seven years ago and a man can change....But you havent because you've just come from prison...Im giving you four years and im starting it from today...........But judging by this report which is a very good report i can see your trying to save your life.....If theres a place for your in cool mine and they accept you, you'll be released and conditioned to call my theraputic community"

Oh what joy
seven people per cell
jus me and six others
maniacs, criminals
and im


I remeber the day we decided to do it;

I was sitting down the boozer with burner

And we bump into this skally

" Im doing an armed robbery but im not doing it on my own"

Burner says hes out but i ask him if he's got a shooter

Im pissed and need to buy fags

We head back to his to get our tools

A jumper hangs cut up over the armchair in the lounge

He grabs it and fashion a balaklava

Were ready....

Is there's enough time for some marching powder i ask

" it wouldnt be a robbery without it"

he retorts...

A man must be ready before he fights a lion

We roll upto the bookies but the cunts closed....

We mope a little but this fire and wanting still remains

This scally,
This chancer
he looks at me his eyes
 glistening and says he knows a wealthy widowed geriatric with more money than house security

The parasite finds its host

The windows are tressle and are easy opened
we climb through the window and search....

" Theres nothing here mate let shoot " i said

" Its gotta be under her bed"

Our eyes meet and we head upstairs without a word

The door to her room sits at the end of the corridor
And while we creep
i think about my nan
my mum
and poppy

Im not this person but im commited
And am into deep to quit....(To be continued)

Friday, 18 November 2011

Mount Joy Prison ( A poem for Crystal R.I.P and Kenny)

They used to call it the joy
But this was when i remebered
what that

And time has passed since then

my lady sits wrecked with greif
As do i in this mocking cage
whilst we commune on this
astral plan we share
and i imagine her touch

My weary soul knows
that i'm only a tiny fragment of her pain
And this hurts

 As i cant comfort her
Cant whisper those words of ambrosia and sweetness to her

Longing for that familiar kiss

That Warmth

And she has no one now apart from me
And all that love and security
that which enveloped and nourished
us is

She will be a tear that stays in my heart forever

Thursday, 17 November 2011

Black Beard

Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of rum

Blackbeards swinging from the gallows my son

For Totrtuga was taken burnt and won
Blackbeard born from a musket gun

Yo ho ho and a bottle of tears
Blackbeards beard ablaze whilst cannons bursts ears

For the Pearl did sank and this ocean deep
On the ocean floor Blackbeards chest did keep

Yo ho ho and a bottle of pain
dice are threwn across the deck again

First mate morgan and one eyed Mclain
Blackbeard's mutinous men betray

A blunderbuss booms and cat a nine tails quoth pain
Blackbeards slices another knape in vain

Yo ho ho and bottle of curtsy

Peg-legged pete and panty hose percy
Walk down the plank in this rained down mercy

And as the flying Dutchman lurches across these seas

And the ports run red with pilage, rape plunder
& disease

Cos Edward teach doth lie on the ocean floor
And whilst mermaids feast on this pirates soul
And calypso weeps in a dwarf-lings bowl

And these rats run across the decking floor
And have stopped singing about the fact their poor

Captain Coleman crows from the nest above
The English are here all hands on deck my son

Haazaar comes the cry from the soldiers fair

For England and country
And the press gang lure

For Britannia owns the ocean seas
And for every slave thats born on this vessel of trees

And every weeping women stuck under boot straps boot
And every bastard child born into this group

For lime and lemons will keep this scurvy at bay

And we can moonlight with this loot
and take the rowing boat away

Yo ho ho and a bottle of regret
for pirate dreams we should not forget
are no more romantic than a crowing curtsy
because i hope know wolly dreams such a these do

desert thee.

Fare the well muse...transience fades

To long i have sat here and thought

When did this all happen and why

How did she do it
She must be Wicca

Its the only rationale for her cruelty

Only a servent of fallen angels
would hate man so

She hangs this over me like a clenched fist over a toddler

Im sure you have had enough of babysitting me

But the last tear shed

Shreds scar tissue where you once sat

I dont let people in
Its too cold for most

To cold for you

Farwell and good luck
Thanks for the inspiration

Muses' too are fickle as love and fashion....

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Free the Weed :)

Make the most of Indian Hemp seed and sew to everywhere

Udaipur city of Lakes

Driving out of the Aravali hills which legend foretold would help fortify this city from Mughal invaders, we had almost arrived in Udaiour - dubbed by some " The City of Lakes"

Waking up as ou car approached felt strange and confusing. Its was as if we had been wisked away on a magice carpet to a mediterranean seaside town or dropped on the set of Octopussy. What ever the reality it felt good to arrive and our driver assured us we were still in India.

Udaipur has much to offer and been the location of many a celebrity and film crew, emphasising the beauty and romance with which it is so associated. It also houses two of the best hotels in the world and is mentioned as the birth place of Bageera's birth place in Rudyard Kiplings " The Jungle Book".

Udaipur certainly has a unique lure which sets it apart from the other cities in the north. Its relaxed by Indian standards and visually stunning, making it a welcome break for any weary traveller.

We stayed at two hotels our first was the - UdaiKothi - a charming property decorated with ornate glass bringing the same quality to the property that the lakes bring to the city. Without a doubt the roof top swimming pool is ts best asset with a jacuzzi offering stunning views of lake Pichola,

Our second - The Taj Lake Hotel - proved to a masterclass in the finer things in life and a place reserved for a priviledged few. A stay in a hotel that can only be described as the jewel in the crown of luxury. I could write about its grandeur and hospitality for hours. We were totally spoilt.

My first venture out on to the streets of Udaipur was a solitary one. My companion weary from travel opted to relax by the pool. I decided to seek out a sitar tutor and maybe see a few religious sites before finding a watering hole for a quick beer ( Godfather - 8.5%) and returning on foot the only way to get a feel for any city.

To prevent getting lost though i jumped in a tuk-tuk and having consulted a map, waited for driver to name a priice one i thought reasonable if not a little generous.I over estimated the distance and ended up giving him two days worth of payment which do add insult to injury he nonchantley accepted.

I arrived a few doors down from the Jagdish Temple an Indo-Aryan construction built in 1651 by Jagat Singh and also from the top of the steps, the camera angle for the tuk-tuk race in Octopussy.

I was greeted almost immediately by Babalu a warm and bombastic Indian with an infectious mood and my guru of the stringed arts for the next hour and a half. The lesson went amazingly well so much so that Bablu bought out some tablas half way through and for a few golden moments, we sat totally immersed in the music.

On the strength of this lesson and the integrity of my new found friend. I inquired about a purchase and after much negotiation settled on a price.

The night began to draw in and as the white washed walls and buildings which were so alive during the day had started to discolour and loose their potency. I rejoined my travel companion nad we headed for Sunset Point Terraceto savour the evening and enjoy a drink. The scenery and ambience of the spot seemed stolen from the pages of a romance novel and would have been the perfect location for a marriage proposal if i was so inclined.

As we sat on the rooftop terrace and sipped our drinks giant bats swooped and circled the lake, serenading the moon and each other as they feasted on insects that swarmed the banks. It was truly enchanting we looked longingly across the moon lit waters, gazing at the Taj Lake Palace and marveling at India and her many secrets.


“Mark Twain once wrote that Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together”.

Just a walk through the bustling lanes stands testament to this notion; as paths weave out ahead like some historic tapestry of vapid colour and abstract geometry, where dark alleys start wider than they finish, in a mind-bending architectural warren that makes you feel like you’ve slipped through the looking glass. - Though a meeting with a lethargic cow is much more likely than a belated white rabbit – This sense of age and culture is inescapable in the lanes as hidden shrines and esoteric schools lay in wait along with quaint cafes that serve “special tea” and have dancing girls and traditional music in the evenings.

To merely define Varanasi as an “Old City” however does little to reveal its true essence. Especially along the banks of the river where moments of cultural theatre play out amongst beautiful parasols and serpentine flags, along with chess games, mass yoga classes and the odd game of tennis ball cricket.

Historically this city has always been a centre for religion and learning and is regarded the cultural capital of India attracting Buddhists, Hindus and Jains from all over the country. According to Hindu text Varanasi is dated at 5,000 years old but realistically is estimated to be at least 3,000 meaning it out dates Christianity by a thousand years. It continues to attract writers, painters and philosophers and was even visited by Buddha along with notable others, writing its self into the pages of history as a place of great influence and importance.

It was Mid March when we arrived and to say it was hot would be something of an under statement. The city glowed blood red in a cloudy haze of rising heat and car fumes that created ghostly apparitions in the middle of the road that would appear ahead and vanish as we made our way through the frantic streets on our two –seat rickshaw.

We were heading for the newly opened Nadesar Palace that is nestled amongst Mango orchards and Marigold fields in the city center. The Nadesar Palace is the grandest hotel in Varanasi and historically was built by the East India Company becoming the eventual residence of Maharaja Prabhu Narain Singh in the 19th century. An affiliate of the highly esteemed Taj Group which alone will speak volumes for those who have stayed in their grand Hotels but for those not so familiar I turn to the words of Frank Lloyd Wright the great architect for enlightenment who said. “Give me the luxuries of life and I will willingly do without the necessities” which about sums up the feeling of staying at one of these hotels.

We had been at the Nadesar Palace little over an hour and the night was drawing in. Ordinarily I would have ventured straight out on to the streets but we were due to wake early in the morning for a boat ride on the Ganges, so we decided we best sleep and wake up fresh.

We awoke at six am to join the boat trip from Dasaswahmedh Ghat to Manikarnikha Ghat and back. The city was alive and buzzing as if it hadn’t slept from the night before and the prodigious Ganges; the mother, the creator of this city lay bare before us.

Pilgrims performed puja on the banks and children somersaulted into the waters, disrupting the mirrored glow of the rising sun as we boarded the boat and caste off from the jetty. Our boat bobbed around in the murky waters as we watched the activity on the banks. It was not long until we were joined by another boat. As is the nature of the country you are never far from a sale in India and we bought some tea lights and petals from the boatman who gave us a big smile (for free) and planted a Bindi on our foreheads. Entrepreneurs are as endemic as the cuisine in India and the most proficient silver-tongued salesman live and are born in Varanasi. So expect most interactions with locals to have some financial motive which is good to be aware of but shouldn’t taint your trust, this is India after all and Varanasi just happens to be its edgiest city.

The boatman rowed downstream and we caught sight of the main burning Ghat whose flame has supposedly not been put out for a century. It was extremely calming floating on the waters and we released tea lights from the boat, which pirouetted off into the distance riding the ripples along with those wandering Hindu souls making their way to Nirvana; a place where Hindus believe the soul will be freed from the cycle of rebirth and will remain for eternity in a state of perpetual bliss.

I would recommend Varanasi to anyone. I spent most of my time in this city and it would be the first place I would go when I return. For those who are not familiar with India and its eccentricities it may be wise to wait until you’ve become better acquainted. It is certainly not a place for the faint-hearted, as the guide book alone will tell you, but for the discerning traveller already India savvy Varanasi is an experience like no other.

Jaipur and The Red Deserts Sands of India

The road rolled out before us cutting through the arid vista and quivering in the heat as it led through the dust that danced along its course. We sat content in our car but distant from the surroundings, safe in our air-conditioned bubble as it met with Camels fairs, brightly coloured trucks and feral children along route – It was our second week in India and we were back on the road and heading for Jaipur.

The day before we had been discussing diamonds and carpets at a factory showroom in Agra. We were met at the gates by the owner, a very charming man who took us under his wing and personally led us around. He explained about the 4 C’s (Colour, Cut, Carat, Clarity) which denotes the value of a diamond and showed us some of the traditional techniques used for rug making and marble inlaying that have been developed over centuries and are a close guarded secret. It was amazing how attentive and complimentary he was. Later on he revealed that he thought I worked in the film industry (Hollywood). It was quite an assertion and I could only assume an association with travelling under the Pettitts umbrella. Though equally as possible would have been an attempt at a rouse, to part me from my money by appealing to my vanity. Which I’d like to add he managed to bring to a whole new level by suggesting to me - in full ear shot of my female travel companion!! That I should return in the future when I have a girlfriend that i don’t mind spending money on. She wasn’t very impressed I on the other hand couldn’t help but like him.

We had been on the road for six hours by the time we reached Jaipur and the city seemed mysterious, hidden amongst the arid hills like an ancient desert town in some Arabian fiction. We had reached Jaipur a bustling fortified metropolis with wide boulevards and regal architecture, built within astrological alignment and regarded as India’s first planned city.

Jaipur is the capital city and commercial centre for Rajasthan and is awash with colour, seeming a direct response to the bleakness of the surrounding landscape. Oddly enough the old city is painted pink; which we were told acts as a mosquito repellent but also historically was painted for the arrival of the Prince of Wales in 1853.

It was our first day in Jaipur and we were on the back of an elephant riding up the walkway to the Amber Palace. The elephants were highly painted and of good temperament, our mahout was not so inclined and dressed in a bold red turban with a handle bar Moustache, t. The elephant ride was great fun and in retrospect a necessity considering the walkway was a veritable gauntlet of faecal mounds and running gold streams

Once inside the Amber Palace we dismounted our elephant and met our guide an erudite local who looked like a slimmer more Indian version of Stephen Fry. He was effortlessly articulate and bought the palace to life with his fervent prose and messianic gestures. I couldn’t help but lose myself in the world he so perfectly painted, a world of infinite riches, hundreds of wives and total indulgence. The craftsmanship of the building itself was astounding with intricately carved arches and lattice windows, mirror inlays and revealing paintings. It was a real contrast from the outside of the fort which looked weathered and impenetrable.

From here we made our way to the City Palace across town and through the city. The city was indeed planned more like a modern city, the wider streets bringing space and calm to the frenetic bustle. We stopped on route at the Howrah Mahal – the Palace of The Winds - It was a beautiful spectacle like a pink stucco formed honeycomb crafted with the grace of amalgamated Rajpute and Mughal design. It was built by Maharaja Sawai Pratap Singh in 1799 and constructed for his many wives to view precessions and the activity on the street whilst remaining hidden and cool. It was a great feat of engineering and had an illusionary feel like that of the Taj Mahal which had you questioning whether the heat of the Indian sun had finally become too much.

On route we stopped again this time to view the sundials and other observatory equipment at the Jantar Mantar. I have never seen a complex like this it looked like a child’s playground at a Mensa Institution and was filled with impressive looking concrete and marble constructions. I was amazed at the accuracy of the sundials which kept local time to an accuracy of two seconds. There were also twelve planetary post separated into the various signs of the Zodiac and instruments used to predict eclipses and other astrological events used by mystics and fortune tellers.

The final landmark on our tour was the impressive City Palace a grand souvenir from Jaipur’s decadent past and curiously, home to the largest pyjamas in India. The pyjamas were the property of Sawai Madho Singh who was over seven feet tall and over four feet wide. It was quite an unexpected find and the museum aspect of the palace was something I particularly enjoyed. The weapons stronghold was by far my favourite place and had a massive collection of exotic weapons; spring loaded daggers, knuckle dusters, blunderbusses and many more. The Rajputes must have been fearsome warriors and their arsenal was as interesting as it was frightening

I continued my walk and came through another beautifully crafted archway. I was instantly blinded by what I initially thought were two gleaming orbs. On closer inspection they were two massive silver sterling containers six foot high and made for Maharaja Sawai Madho Singh II’s trip to Britain. He was apparently untrusting of British water so decided to
bring his own from the River Ganges, quite an audacious request but one that I think perfectly sums up the character of Jaipur’s Maharajas.


As a general rule women like to feel before they think...which menas you have licensce to be as orrible as you like to them and they'll love you for it....within reason!

Im poor...

If you click on the advertising i get paid and can pick up :)


I like to ask women why they are so cruel

I do this often and am always amazed by their reasons and for how long they speak

Their capacity for cruelty is inspiring

The female of the species truly is more deadly than the male...

Tuesday, 15 November 2011



At first glance it seems weak, pathetic and meek

But i have this sting in my tail and this passion in my heart and these words my weapons

Step on this scorpion and i will turn you to dust!!!

Poem for Lupus

A wolf sits alone
and howls at the moon

Whilst the mad-dogs of these golden streets
Rabid and barking below
Bellow brazenly at each other

And night owls reluctantly accept
Another night without sleep

Isolated and alone he croons his murdered midnight musings
Walling with passion and rage

Like this wolf has ever been in a cage?
Why lonely wolf even the moon has her stars
And cares not for your vanity.

Why lick that tempting blooded blade
 Thats your blood your drinking  now
But drink on if you must

A thespian dancing on deaths daggers
And enchanting us with his performance
 like a dark shamen

And we stand here his tribe and we howl al the moon


The jubilant jesters looking at you
 with intent and indifference
 but wanting to know you

kill this isolation
discover new worlds
accept were all alone
and put to bed
the black dog
that resides in your

Monday, 14 November 2011

Pandaw Flotilla cruise Burma before the uprising

Burma - Pandaw Flotilla River Cruise

Burma is a country not on the minds of the average traveller. A country which at first glance might seem distant and secretive - lost in the telling whispers and media spin of an unjust government and joyless society. Indeed Burma has had its fair share of problems but its relative isolation has helped retain much of the tradition and character of a colonial Asia lost in its neighbouring countries. With thousands of beautiful pagodas that cover the country with shimmering golden bells and an age-old innocence in its people. Burma is effectively a looking glass into the past, where western fashions and pop culture haven’t diluted the culture and apart from the occasional Man United t-shirt there will be very little here that reminds you of home.

Our itinerary stretched from Rangoon the former capital in the south, to Mandalay in the north. We were travelling aboard the Pandaw riverboat cruise on the mighty Irrawaddy River which bisects the country. It was an enriching and relaxing experience. Not only was our vessel charming and luxurious but I only had to unpack once and from then onwards just lounged on the deck watching the landscape roll by sipping a brandy and ginger ale and waiting for the next port of call to arrive.

The Pandaw Flotilla itself is a great boat and would have looked more at home on the Mississippi with Mark Twain at the helm. The design is taken from the Quarter Wheeler steamers of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, built in 1947 at the famous Yarrow & Co. shipyard on the river Clyde of Glasgow. The boat’s cabins are excellent and enormously comfortable with rooms that have superb air-conditioning and hot & cold power showers. The food was exotic and eclectic with sweetly tasting red bananas on the menu and enough variety to satisfy even the fussiest of eaters. The boat has three decks; two which house the cabins and a dining hall as well as the top deck, which was used as a lounging area and for entertainment purposes in the evening.

The itinerary for the Pandaw cruise is comprehensive to say the least with off shore excursions to old monasteries and temples, lacquerware factories, potteries and off the beaten track riverside villages; where locals greeted us with traditional Burmese marionettes or classical dancing.

It was in these villages that I experienced something very special and reassuring. It seemed to be something inherent in the characters of the Burmese people we met in these remote places; a virtue which you don’t often see in people and was surprising to find here. Especially in people who obviously were living a hard life, had next to nothing and very limited options for the future. Initially I thought maybe they’d resent us for our riches and rotund appearance, as we blinded them with our intrusive cameras. When in fact they were the opposite. I have never been smiled at so often and felt as welcomed as I did there. It was strange in contrast because places that I have visited in the world that are wealthier and had taken advantage of tourism/capitalism/consumerism were a totally different experience. In some places you felt like a 20 pound note floating in the breeze. It started to make me wonder whether the transition that these communities would inevitably take, so called progress would improve their lives or pollute the inherent virtue and happiness that
these people seem to effortlessly radiate. Will the shift in what these people think they want change their outlook? Do the modern luxuries and obsessions that we deem necessary for our happiness actually make us any happier? I don’t really know and couldn’t suggest an answer for what system of society could deliver happiness to all. But what I will say is that the people we met in those villages are the last in a fading world of innocence being sucked into the black hole of globalisation. And despite the regime of Burma’s antediluvian government there is something precious about Burma in its people and their overwhelming regard to their faith which shouldn’t be overlooked.

Adventure on the Kalimatan River (Borneo)

Borneo – An adventure on the Kalimatan River

Little did I know on that day when my plane touched down in Kota Kinabalu what experiences laid in wait and in particular what I’d experience that day on the river.

We were heading towards Bathu Pitu in western Sabah travelling by motorboat on the Kalimantan River. As the last signs of human life faded off into the distance the jungle began to dominate and awaken the senses.

Monitor lizards and sunbathing crocodiles where on patrol, strutting along the banks and disrupting roosting egrets which took flight, drawing our eyes skyward to where highly coloured Hornbills criss-crossed the skyline. In the trees gangs of Macaque monkeys threw themselves between branches under the watchful eye of the noble Proboscis monkey who sat regally in his tree like a little miniature Julius Caesar with a Dale Winton tan.

It was unbelievable how quickly we went from civilisation to wild jungle. As if our little boat had somehow stumbled upon a Shangri-La abundant with the lost spoils of Eden, a divine deluge of creation which engulfed the banks and buzzed with intensity. This however was only the start of things to come.

 One of the guides on our boat was a deaf mute with exceptional vision who guided the boat to the best spots on the river to view the wildlife. He began to get very excited pointing towards the banks and flailing his arms.

 I didn’t know what this meant or what was to ensue? Did the boat have a leak? Were those massive nests in the trees above home to some prehistoric giant man-eating bird? What was happening was uncertain, but we started heading for the bank turning off the engine as we moored the boat. 

A brave few including myself jumped out in pursuit of the guides who slashed through the foliage with their machetes. We wondered through, quiet and apprehensive wondering what was to come. Our guide came to a halt so we all hushed up stopping in perfect synchronicity and keeping low to the ground. 

He slowly raised his finger to the heavens and we all looked skyward. Above us in the trees looming over us was a female Orangutan and her baby, staring right at us!! It was an exhilarating moment and a great feeling to lock eyes with such a magnificent animal in such a setting. And although anxious about a snake that had just slithered over my foot, we stayed beneath them for a while taking photographs in disbelief before she began pelting us with sticks and we decided to leave

 As we walked back tiger leaches from the jungle floor clambered up our clothing looking for a fresh feed and moving like an alien army of carnivorous super slinkies. 

We got back to the boat and were in a jubilant mood knowing that we rare few had encountered a wild Orangutan in it’s natural setting. The ‘great man’ of the forest that we had heard so much about from the locals had granted us its council. It was an amazing experience and one ill never forget I only hope that when I return that it will be possible to visit the primary forest in the same manner than I did then. 

Borneo will always have its impressive Orangutan sanctuary at Sepilok but the small pockets of wild primary forest left are another matter. 

 To have spent serene nights in the jungle listening to millions of sounds intertwine in infinite symphony. Knowing that one day they’d be replaced by the sounds of chainsaws and diesel engines was upsetting to say the least.

With the great migration of the disenchanted youth to the cities lured by the smoke-screen aspirations of modern culture and the older generation without much option but to sell up their land to the Palm Oil companies. The primary forest of Borneo face an uncertain future

My advice for any travellers wanting to see the true Borneo as it was intended, without having to look in a book or watch a documentary is go and go soon

India Travel Writings

It was mid-October when I left for India and as I sat in Heathrow Airport thumbing through my lonely planet guide. A sudden gust of cold air swept through the airport, bringing more rain-soaked Brits and their dripping luggage through the entrance of Terminal Four.

I too was equally drenched, soaked but excited and transfixed to the pages that sat before me. They revealed a world alive with colour, flamboyant and exotic. A country not yet tamed or pedantic, proud and defiant in its character and a million miles from the orderly queues, social inhibition, and dismal weather that grinds with the onset of British winter time.

As I waited and fidgeted with my watch, a monosyllabic voice boomed over the loud speaker and echoed throughout the terminal. My plane to India was boarding and in a mere eight hours and after plenty of complimentary beverages I would have arrived in Amritsar the gateway to the Indian subcontinent.

Amritsar and the Golden Palace

The car door flew open and the rich smells and sounds of India flooded the car. I stepped out on the dusty roadside baring witness to the frenzied activity as it heaved on all around me. It was total madness; a scene of near misses and frantic beeping; of speeding rickshaws, bovine lay abouts and familial motor bikes - Moving as one, fluid and somewhat carefree to the imminent danger that it created - Initially my British reserve was troubled by the bedlam, such blatant disregard for health and safety was unnerving for a westerner used to zebra crosses and walking around in bubble wrap. But as I slowly began to relax i realised my neurosis was probably best left at the airport along with my bowler hat and monocle. This was India after all and if I wanted to be part of it I would have to surrender and merge with the madness of the Indian bustle.

My guide Govinda came round and joined me on the roadside giving me a reassuring slap on the back and pointing up the road to where the Golden Palace laid in wait.

Everything about those few moments standing on the side of the road seemed full of promise that for a disillusioned westerner bored with the predictability of the routine I was about to discover something new and exciting.

As we approached the Golden Temple, twinkling silver and gold paper ties danced in the warm winds above us, traversing the streets and giving the walk way an ethereal glow as we slowly approached the main entrance. Outside the Golden Palace Sikh Warriors armed with their Saracen swords and overstated blue turbans crowded in groups and Indian women as elegant as they are indifferent lead the way inside; enveloped in their radiant silks and adorned with fine jewellery.

Lepers, polio sufferers, the old and the poor also joined the group emphasising that even in a society divided by caste and wealth that their shared spirituality transcends the social impulse to alienate those at the lower end of the Karmic cycle.

Over the shoulders and covered heads of the crowd that swarmed in, the Golden Palace shone brightly and looked as tranquil as it did opulent, bathing in the crystal waters that it shared with massive carpe and the morning bathers. It was a truly stunning sight but the Golden Palace is more than just a pretty picture in a travel magazine. In the western part of the Temple people were cooking in gargantuan proportions in an almost industrial fashion - The smell of Dal and curry filling the air as we drew closer -  Govinda explained that everyone who comes to the Golden Palace gets fed and that thousands of meals are made and consumed everyday. This I felt was the icing on the holy cake as I have been to religious sights before where the spiritual mystique of the place has been shattered by an overzealous few with an unashamed financial agenda. The Golden Palace was different however and I felt a genuine sentiment of worship, respect and community.

Around the mid-point of the walkway that surrounds the Golden palace we came to the queue which lead inside; there was obviously no concern for personal space in this queue, people were being pushed and were packed in like sardines, it was chaos!. However being westerners permitted us to go in the exit and we got in embarrassingly easy. Inside the main complex yet more to behold and awaken the senses with three floors of intricately decorated walls and holy men taking readings - We had reached the epicentre – I was in the middle tier of the temple when a musical ensemble below started to perform. The musicians sat cross legged on the floor and began to play filling the temple with notes that twanged and reverberated from the walls all being filmed and I assume beamed across India.

The Golden Palace was remarkable there was so much going on, it had the excitement and atmosphere of a music concert, with the reverie of a cathedral and the humility of a soup kitchen all rolled into one. It was like nothing I have experienced before and a mixture of many things I have. Amritsar and my tour of the Golden Palace was my first real taste of India and for me it was the perfect appetizer for the ensuing feast. In retrospect it demonstrated everything that is beautiful in terms of the culture and religion of the country and for the first time traveller to north India Amritsar is a perfect introduction. As far as the Golden Palace is concerned in my eyes it is the paragon of religious monuments not only in its aesthetic grandeur and outstanding beauty but in its humuility and spiritual service

Mama Ganga

The water flows languidly, sceptic and divine

Transporting the souls of the dead to nirvana
Amongst the urine slicks and fecal decay
that makes up this murky water

As i watch the mirror blood red glow of the sunrise reflecting in these waters
and release tea lights that ride with the ripples piroeting off with the torrents

I catch my ladies eye and she flashes me a smile and i loose my breath for a moment

This is Benares and these waters are the Ganges and this is India

Sacred cows and marijuana lassis'
Organised confusion and some goan molasses

Curry and naan and a silk salwar kameez,
turbans and sikhism
death plague and diesease

Marharaja's in palaces equipped with a menagearie stocked full
like the big black pit in calcutta and as vile

Mother teresa and rudyard kipling, the tyger tyger and king louie swinging

The thugee and Kali, and shiver and godiva, ravi shankar and tennis ball cricket

and treaturous decison about falling wickets

India you are beautiful and i will return

Morning Glory

I awake refreshed and shake what is left from dreaming from my hair

I look at the mocking clock who laughs and clangs for every second has now become a minute and every hour becomes six and this brain wants no sleep and needs no rest so must write this morning

Must write this morning into my glory

I fall to sleep in a bed and awake in a tent of my making with a virilant post at its centre displaying my fortitude and willed vigour

Now all i must do is stray across the room and into her bed where she lies

Creep across the landing where her mum doth lie

The one who kept us apart the night of last

but with each breath and step i take i promise clenching and holding fast

Worried im not betrayed by this brewing of farts

Quiet, radiant and unsuspecting
She murmus softly as i slide down beside her and press my body against hers

I listen to her heart and imagine what it would be like to be given the key

Shes is so sexy and i kiss her swan like nape and move dancing fingers across her navel and down long lushes legs.

I leave her breast as they are
leaving them for another moonlight adventure

This boy has been spoiled enough tonight

And this morning when she rouses from her slumber
i will make her forget her name and scream mine
But will in haste leave contact details or a telephone number ;)!!!

The Artist

The frame sits on my wall and inside its confides everything that makes her so

Corpus lined through
And arcahic words pepper this

Merging forms shape the canvass and swirls of colour disrupt it boundaries
like the effect of a pebble being tossed and jumping over the paper
like it was water

These colours animate my graying soul
And her brush strokes remind me of her touch

Light and provoking
skipping over my skin
and making eager hairs
stand to attention
as do

As i get lost in the picture

She is beautiful
and her works are merely a reflection of that.

Beautiful ties and their Dandelion lies

I like to take to the streets,
I am a flâneur, and dressed that way,

Wrapped in sartorial splendours, distinguished, remarkable.

The ladies in their petty coats skip along these cobbles,
baring their heels to gentlemen in waistcoats smoking cigars,
Who shoot this autumn breeze with curt words of labour and love

A lady sits outside a Parisian café holding a cigarette between her fingers and rolling it back and forth causing wisps of smoke to spiral off.
She is demure and shrugs off every eye that captures her gaze.
She nonchalantly reads the municipal gazette as a tornado kicks up a fervent storm around her.

The dandies down on the tiles have their boys waiting for them much like the greeks,
For there is no relationship more beautiful than that which exists between two men,
They know this but don’t understand it
And achieve only impotence in their endeavours
Much like the wretched longing of their loins.

A carriage rolls by carving a trail through the sludge and filth that makes up this road

A wrist suddenly appears at the window and a white feathered handkerchief is dropped as the carriage rolls on through the fish market, and the beauty that sits in the carriage fades and withers as the carriage drags her through life like a fickle fashion.

Oh that fashion is so fickle
 and so ugly and wretched
 that it must be changed every month to save the mirrors from cracking

Oh and if love weren't so fickle
 then why are divorce, cuckoldry and betrayal so rife

If something was ever cherished in this life
then surely it would be love?

For my love is more love than most,
 and my fickle fancy more changing than most
 but i will love you more than most
 even if you change.

For my love is bigger than your love
. Remember this and sleep well

Footsteps of the Dalai Lhama

We walked for miles away from our homes
 across sleeping giants and the himalayas

Up in snow-capped mountains
Where eagles spiral above the ancient pine

And animalistic spirits roam looking for shamens to enlighten
And nomadic tribes to heal

We finally arrive in Dharamsala India
And the people here greet us with warm smiles and rice

The westerners take our pictures without asking
Capturing our souls forever with their Babylonian devices
Like vampirique cyclops’s head hunting for trophies

This is our exhile and down by the food strike
Pictures of mutilation and torture can be seen

And these yellow faces and asian eyes lul and dampen when they think

Of the orient

and only their faith and resolution can comfort them now

As everything you become attached to will bring you this suffering
A country kills its own to remember its self
And every nations self is expected to kill others to remember which country it belongs to
Is this identity
Or a mask....
Or an
Iron maiden goverment cocoon

caste in fools gold

and lacquered with the tears of the worlds women and children....

Red Bull

Out of the arena the matador runs for his life

And the bulls follow close behind snorting like some diesel run bovine wrecking ball wretched with years of abuse

The madness has begun to grip the streets in a frenzy and the streets shake and buzz with intensity

And the white hats and red handkerchiefs shake in a flurry of fear and anticipation
Whilst the sun turns a crimson clotted red, setting over this Pamplona fiesta

flung into the air and a man hurtled into the skies above
In the distance you can see the wake of the bull as the red mist and sweat rises like a fog above them and the runners are thrown like skittles into skies and on to these cobbled jagged streets

A true beast of myth and legend finally escaped for the labyrinth and ridged with rage of it ritualistic slaughter for the satisfaction of the crowd

Red sails on turbulent seas cause my father to jump from the cliff and a return to an empty house and a heavy hearty steak on the table….

It  is so beautiful it has been knighted and now sits in my belly still raging and royal.

A Taurian and a scorpion battle for supremacy trying to fuse their physical ecstasies but in vain as she stamps the scorpion into the red dust of the arena crushing his heart into the sands.

The bull bolts on ballistic and with purpose when the sniper squezzes the trigger and the hammer crashes and ends this magnificent creature forever.

I sit back on the tango streets of Bueno Aires in this "good air" and sip my red bull thinking about the taurine racing through my veins and that bullish spirit I hold in my heart.

This girl i know and that

 Autmn falls

 Leaves burn red, brown and golden

 Images awake summers burning flame

Capturing this new birth amongst all this death

Everything from now on is about her
  and as i destroy this self portrait that hang beside this painting she did of me

  i watch as the last burning reminence of my former self loathing turns to flame.

  I bare witness to my death and i smile

  I smile for all the things she sees and doesn't
In all that she sees and how wrong she is

  She'll suss me out soon..

 But for now things are good

The Terrors of the night

Night without sleep;

The hands clap and the clock ticks

Whilst transient dreams surround my bed peering down on me

Enchanted in by this hanging Mohican dream catcher that swings above me

My worry dolls hide under my pillow unafraid of the tooth fairy’s trap
And the possibility of loosing their teeth means little compared to the nocturnal awakening that stir around this hour of twilight

Lying here is an internal battle alone with inquisition and these sweating sheets turn yellow and crumple under this duress

Electric shocks and spiders spark along the ceiling being revealed by the head lights of passing cars on the ghostly highway outside

And cats rip each others insides under a street light screaming like banshees whilst the fog slowly seeps in with the cold night time air

Like a ghostly gallion creeping into an unsuspecting village
laid in wait for the pillage
And  the red burning of blood soaked streets and howling babes.
Define this image

As nights sweet maidens cover their cloak over all of this
And the twinkling of eternity shine back into my eyes
And I exhale and my breath is caught on the air

Once again the clock ticks and the hand claps
I slowly dirft into a sleep
And she comes for me

A white hag comes and sits on my chest
And I cant breath….
im conscious, im alive but spinning and being thrown about this room
Suffocating and being swallowed up bt these tormenting sheets..

She comes for me and im certain I will die
I start to fall into the abyss and my eye sockets rip away at my skull
And i'm thrown into icy seas and the terror of the night

POEM For MONICA and the Two Coffee extravaganza!!!!

M Moon

O Opens

N Night

I Imagine and dreaming

C Can you smell the Coffee

A Awesome coffee monica you blooming cherub!!!


Motionless movement, manage and merge moaning men made mad marched by a manic making money.

Masses murdered,minds manipulated made malign - mother earths milking mothers made of marble masks

Micturate mud honey mental mints moderate multiplying mucus in my tummy,

Mary marroned and meedled by the mad hatter's mercury minded madness

Mars moths mermaids mittens and molly's morbid magnanimous mirages malform

Mysterious Men maketh meeryment molding milanese masks
molly coddeled mundane and morbid
Mending minds mandate mercinaries
and masturbating monkeys
 mope melancholic
and defy matrimony maliciously

Mastercating memory molecules mix magnesium
 making molasses moods and this malt whiskey i sip.....

Moroccoan meercates mock markets
Making midwifery mothers mutate into methodical maidens mostly

Most meth moles make mudmotors meander
move mope and mock
 the mediterranean mermaids
 mixing mocha's mostly mating milk and lies

A Milk-shake mumma moving

Meditating and mediating

like mad capped muggers marching on matured magnolia minds

and  the mundane moans like a monday mourning

MDMA minds mutate mindful magistrates
 mocking my morality mostly making melfluos melody marvel at my martyrdom

Malaki mostly makes music and masturbating monologues made and molded by my manic madness

Sunday, 13 November 2011

Jazz Song for my Niece Isabella


Ive got something to tell ya

That your mine forever
My isabella

Your my sisters child but ill protect you from all weather

Cos your my darling niece my Isabella

And as sweet dreams fall from your heart my dear

Ill clear this nasty fog and make it all  seem clear
and save you from your tears

Because a beauty such as your will not fall
but float like dove feathers
Cos your my darling niece
My Isabella

With long brown hair
And a smile on your rosy face
With a mirrors stare and an angels face

You'll have poems written about you
Which means a part of you is saved forever
In my heart dear niece like a timeless treasure

Rosie, Beth, Poppy and Isabella too

Your my Rainbow children babies
and you turn my heart blue


Flick Ups & A Night Time Soiree

Flick Ups

There is nothing

Just this ball and me

And a cushion of undulating air and leather that separates us
And finally im not alone

Oblivious and perfect

Without a thought to the passing of time or if I fail

There is nothing but focus


Just this intuitive grace

And the freedom it gives me

A Roof Top Soiree

The city buzzes’ below me

And a thousand thoughts pulsate

As vagrant and abandoned dreams join me above the smog

Seeking refuge and air from the neon haze of car fumes and advertising

The roads from here stretch out

 Fading in all directions

Inching their way closer to the edge

As do these wired legs

As I size up the next roof top and swell with energy

This is my playground

And the city will be just as alive in the morning

But for now only window lights and the faint glimmer of stars will beguile these eyes

Whilst hourglass figures silhouette and askew

Behind parted blinds

A thousand lives weave out a web and bind each other together

But we always forget to smile at each other

What a money trench this is

But what tainted glamour we’ll share for a while

Wanton Lover

There was a silence between us that day

and she wore that dress
the one she wore the first time
That kicked at her heels and fell losse at the shoulders
whilst we kicked up sparks
that barley smouldered

But still no words arise from within this chest
 and beats that
faded rhythms -cured- broken -up
agaist its test
a wanton heart
not wanting any rest

and could never say those words replete
For every love declared that missed the beat

For want of love and life will never cease
What fickle fancy pervades such peace

A Poem for Virgo..

Today i showed my women i loved her
I broke his jaw

And as my skinny fist rained down righteous and raging
Sparkaling as it crunched and landed on his mandable

And these knuckle dusters turn a claret  red
under a cafe light moonlight

Spectators begin to swarm all around us
Only increasing this resolve

Landing blow after blow
and seeing chiseled features mangal and deform

I stop suddenly

Thinking once again of you my lady....
and the power you have over me......bitch

Sitting in the Park on a Liquid Lunch

Today I was sitting in the park,
 Dried up and forlorn
Just another midday–Monday-mourn

Grey and half empty,
clutching at this cold can,

The people here let their shadows lead
 And wander through

Broken, backs hunched and wistful...

Soaking their socks through their shoes
 in wretched brown puddles
Iridescent from oil 

 Their image fades and shimmers
 in this distorted reflection
 and finally withering out
 like the lasts remains of summer

A woman walks by
and catches my eye
She decides the tops of her shoes will give up no secrets today
And needs to move fast
for the chemist has her script..
She see's me
 and pulls her jumper up to her wrists
 hiding the tracks

A man in a suit follows close behind
He's in sales and is ruddy faced

With a dripping nose and a clenched jaw
He see's only himself
 and is satisfied with that...

An old man sits and rocks
Sifting through the bins
 and drinking methelayted spirits...

His eyes tell a different story though
He was a war hero once

The pushers up by the bins call him Marco Polo
And he lost his mind a long time ago

  But whats this?

A laugh punctures my gloom

.... a smile...

a toddler child

Throwing daggers at my doom
But does she not see the scornful eyes
Or the lost souls wandering aimlessly through

Or those that wait like ghost in limbo
 and wont cross the road on a red light
When there's a clear route straight through
Or perhaps this blackened sky or the death-gloomed-flowers weeping?
Or the upturned umbrellas like dead birds for reaping

How to see the world once again through a child's eyes
And to be enchanted by lies and the vastness of it all?

But for now this
 Means little.....
Who am I?
How did i get to be like this?

Where did my essence go?
And who is this listless shadow
 downing sorrows

Im once again on a liquid lunch
 sitting in this park behind my home

I’m one among many
But among many alone