Wednesday, 3 December 2014


This has always 'been'.

It is older than the world.

When the...nothing... exploded (probably),
To create a universe for us to exist in,
It was this that likely caused it all to happen.

So... in a way,
It is good.
An ironic good way.

We should thank it, maybe.



It is just so God Damn hard to love that
That stabs its little visceral daggers into your every cell,
Making every living minute unbearable.

Just thinking about it in order to write a poem to get rid of it causes a resurgence... of it!


Go away.

Leave me and go and find someone other fool to bother.

You are the ex who just wont get the message.
The one who wants to try to patch things up,
 Because you saw it in some horrific rom-com and therefore it must work.
So you spew out your cliches,
Hoping that one will form some type of friction and stick.

I just don't see a future for us.

You're so good at what you do.
Instead of marking my books and being the Sisyphus,
You have me writing on my blog,
Creating some sort of strange, self-aware, modern-type poem,
Which is NOT going to help anyone.

You just want my attention.

Of course!

You wouldn't want to be left out, would you?

I'm off.

Monday, 7 April 2014

Mr Gove: A Definition.

(noun) 1. A distinctly unlikeable and even detested person.
Commonly used as an expletive.
He's a right Gove.
2. An education succubus.

(verb) To Gove: 1.To royally fuck things up.
2. To ignore everyone else and plow ahead,
despite having no idea or experience of the subject at hand.

(abstract noun) In the sense that Gove's existence cannot be measured by normal physics.
It is something akin to a stomach ache.
Or period pains.
(synonyms) Utter twat.

Friday, 30 August 2013

The Golem and The Djinni

This poem is based on the title of a book I bought today called "The Golem and the Djinnni", by Helene Wecker. I have written this based on the title and blurb alone, and cannot wait to read the book itself! I may post a second version of the poem, based on what I read in the story. Until then, enjoy.

The boy reached out,
His early morning ceramic cup of coffee
instantly crushed,
By his mindless, searching hand.
The droll of his daily routine was a blessing;
It kept him from sobbing.
Instead he reverted to a weary sigh-
As he placed, with surprising tenderness,
The shattered remains with the rest:
A clock, once hung above the open fireplace,
Four wine glasses- not from a party, but from a lack of washing up,
A heart.


The girl reached out,
The tap of the bath glowing with intense ferocity.
She plunged her feet with needy anticipation
of a quick,
Refreshing burst of soothing liquid.
Instead the water parts as though anticipating her touch,
Like Ali and the cave entrance.
Steaming fissures appear in the disturbed water,
Leaving the girl crying,
Her tears joining the clouds of bath above her.


The boy walks from his house in the Quarter,
Boots clomping and stomping like an angry cartoon villain,
To announce his arrival at his favourite cafe,
Where people part like Moses' sea,
Just to avoid his tread.


The girl glides from her house,
Crossing the park of her youth,
The burn patches adding to the history of the already scorched earth;
Past ventures.
She slips into her favourite cafe,


The boy sees the girl,
Past failures clicking through his mind,
Like a mocking slideshow of embarrassment.


The girls sees the boy,
Sees him looking her way.
Anxiety fills her, fluidly,
Past rejections flowing through her mind.


But the boy smiles.

The girl smiles back.

He nods to her table, asking permission.

She nods back.

The talk for hours,
About their families,
Their hopes, dreams, aspirations.
They talk about their youth,
Their difficult and similar paths through school and college.
Long pauses, punctuating their talk, stretch,
As they sit and gaze.
Time passes.
The sun falls down over the horizon with relief,
The moon rises, with giddy expectation.

And the golem is unburnt.

And the djinni is unbroken.

Saturday, 5 January 2013


I sit in a flat.

I am not alone.

But I am.

The language fascinates me.

I hear my name.

And the laughter that follows.

Is it At or With?

Entschuldigung! Ich verstehe nicht...

I really don't.

A Mixing Recipe

Start with an equal mixture
of sugar and flour;
To sweeten the deal,
And provide a stable base.

Crack one or two jokes,
To bind together the beginning
With something... Interesting.
Be careful to avoid any shell.

Separate the albumen and yoke,
Whisking the whites until fluffy.
Slowly... very slowly, add sugar to this,
To firm the mixture until it forms a stiff peak.

While this is happening, have a pan,
Not quite boiling,
On the hob.
Melt some rich chocolate using a Pyrex bowl until it becomes slightly sticky.

Insert the spoon.
Keep the chocolate away from the sides,
Mixing steadily now,
With a gentle, yet firm motion.

Put mixture in oven and turn heat up to 300 degrees Celsius.

Bake for nine months.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

The Offending Article

Disclaimer: This poem was not written by the poet of this blog. He has standards.

Ode to Rob

Rob, Rob
You are a knob.
And for the purpose of rhymes,
You're also a slob.

I look at you, sat over there,
Oh how I envy you have no hair!

You're playing some shit on your ukulele,
Oh what a shame you'll never lay....

I must end this poem with a final line,
You asked for steak,
But I just dont have the time!


A response to an insult

Dear Miss Cotton,
I'd quite forgotten,
How rotten
you'd gotten.

You wrote me a poem,
While in my home:
Apparently, the insult dome.
Still... when in Rome...

I'll return the favour,
Commenting on your poor behaviour.
To be your saviour,
Before this gets graver.

You really must stop,
With the insults that pop
from your mouth. So chop
and swap
your words. All the way from the very top.

Don't comment on how I'm bald,
Instead, say you're enthralled,
By the poems I have scrawled
And posted on my blog; fully installed.

For you!

Be nice.
Think twice,
Before rolling the dice
When choosing your words...

This has gone on too long.