Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


Do not give your love to gargoyles.

They gaze with awe and envy from their stony, storied homes but they will spend their nights tearing at your flesh,

stone cold,

staring into your eyes as they feast on your feelings,

a mere appetiser for what they’ll do to your entrails.

They never learned table manners,

human decency,


and all you are to them is a trophy,

destined to stay, stuck in grey nightmares,

never feeling the sweetness of the sun’s rays again.

It’s true that the ugliest creatures do the ugliest things,

and you are so beautiful,

so when they call your name,

fix your eyes on the flowers that spring up all around you,

and do not let those enchanting eyes stray above the shoulders of your destiny.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I never made a promise that I couldn’t keep,

but I could never hold on to the many that were made to me.

Soaked in snake oil,

and given to a girl with an open heart,

they were just the right words, at the right time,

from the wrong kind of optimist,

one who thinks that they are capable of caring more than they actually can.

I was never going to be a star, or sew my seeds or go to Stornoway under someone else’s steam.

I dreamed of big things, and let them promise them to me,

because I had to learn (the hard way) that I had nobody but myself,

and myself was quite enough to take me anywhere I wanted to go.

I will manifest in the moonlight on mysterious islands.

I will mimic myself in the excited eyes of a new and hopeful child.

I will glow on low lit television sets that seem to skip and distort when my past sees what he has lost.

I guess that I’m a free girl now,

feeling seasick,

swinging from my necklaces,

tied to the lonely, broke down pier.

I keep my shoes dry,

but never my rosy cheeks,

or eyelashes.

I will never die,

as long as I shall live,

not if I can help it,

out of spite or out of fear.

Don’t tell my mother that I am damned to be a damsel in distress,

just tell her that the last time you saw me,

I was swinging and singing in the sunlight,

and that I had promised I would make it home soon,

with her grandson,

and all my souvenirs.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Cannibal Holocaust

I am human,

so they tell me,

dragged from the river,

forced into the ritual.

I heard a cheerful whistle,

far away in the trees,

a soul who had escaped,


Nobody who knew this horror could craft such a beautiful tune,

and let it escape from their lips,

into all this.

I want to be uncontacted,


but the human race has hungry hands,

and I lay here,

with my soul and my insides outside of my body,

washed up on the bay of a busy town.

There’s more to life than books, you know,

but I don’t want to hear about it,

because the pages are the only peace I have ever found,

and, God, they’ve already taken so much,

so leave me with Carol Ann and my Marlowe,

let me rest in some kind of peace.

I watch cannibal movies, when the sun has gone down,

and a man who still holds onto my heart asks if I’m awake.

I have made many mistakes in my life,

and some may ask “What’s another?”,

“What’s the harm?”,

but God, he’s already taken so much,

so I stare blankly as arms are torn off,

hearts are eaten,

wishing that mine could be cuisine too,

so that I couldn’t hear her hopeful whistle every time I am drowned and reborn.

Could the ones we labelled as savages, do me this kindness?

They shake their heads,

shaking my hand,

offering a salad.

My girl is whistling again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

My Two Fathers Are Watching

He towered over the troubled child,

virtuous, virgin of hope,

a child,

ripped from a child herself.

Messy when she fingerpaints,

messy when she scribbled words that would one day become whole worlds,

messy when she tried to climb the kitchen cabinets for biscuits before dinner,

his very own Macarena.

He had such hope for her,

unable to see her human failings,

and how he’d feel about them,

because a father’s love is beautifully blind,

and she was fantastically flawed,

in a way he would learn to love,

once the disappointment dimmed.


he still towers over her,

watching from God’s garden as his cherished child fingerpaints herself into futile corner after futile corner.