Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


The depths of winter stare daggers from a distance,
war cries arrive on the wind,
and I am bleeding by Autumn.
I am gathered and gutted,
my soul, spilled across meadows,
my mind following it,
just to find some peace and quiet.
I’ve got nothing left,
but the vultures venture to where I was last seen,
smiling with full beaks,
breaking their jaws to swallow more,
because there is always more to consume,
always someone else to swallow.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


They are tempted by my temper,
because my exotic flair makes it feel like passion,
something fashionable,
like in a French magazine,
since sweet sixteen,
and further back,
in the fables of my life that I have forgotten,
I was rotten to the core,
storming through each day with a smile and my rage.

I dream of diamonds,
around my neck and down the throats of all those that I dislike,
spoiled brat,
Queen of the pampered Princesses,
running through benefactors for nefarious purposes,
never satisfied by their platinum cards and best wishes.

Last night as I strolled through the shopping centre,
I saw a little pair of shoes, painted blue for my little one,
feeling so blue because they had tightly tied laces and left a taste in my mouth, without my lips even opening.
Ghosts were following me again,
the things that money cannot buy will always allude me, they never let me live,
living in my bones and setting fire to my soul.

There are geese gliding across the rising sun as I recall last night’s dream,
boil a kettle that will never be poured,
pouring over my seamless, endless era of madness,
because I truly want it all.
The streetlights switch off,
and I switch on the siren waterworks.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Until They Vanish

Rolling hills that once went on for miles stutter to a stop,
interrupted by industry, with slender, skeletal fingertips that wrap around the wild, wide world and snap her struggling throat.
Money trickles but it never rains on the deserving,
and the children grow weary before they’ve even left their mother’s wombs, because they know they only exist to edge the pennies into the slots and watch them tumble down until they vanish.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Comrade Santa

It was the night before his most important night,
and Santa could tell that something wasn’t right.
He had checked off his list,
he had checked it all twice,
he had checked the sleigh’s brakes and got travel advice.
He had been to the gym,
he had kissed Mrs Claus,
he had wrapped the elves’ presents,
and walked his snow dogs.
All that was left was to sleep before his shift,
but Santa had a feeling there was something he’d missed.

The children were waiting,
and the year had been a waste,
so Santa was ready,
Santa was on the case,
but there was an itch,
not on his beard or his knee,
something niggled at Santa,
something haunting and deep.
He stared in silence at the toys,
wrapped up in red paper and bows,
jigsaws and trains, teddy bears and dolls,
and he knew, that no matter how many presents he stuffed down the chimney with care,
it wouldn’t be enough to last the whole year.

The children were grateful,
the children were good,
but their parents were queueing at churches for food.
Work had dried up,
wage packets were small,
but every parent did their best to push through it all.
Santa stared at his wealth,
his Christmas Day feast,
the pile of gifts for Mrs Claus,
and he felt like a beast.
Even though he gave each year,
he still had so much more,
cheques from Coca Cola sponsorships,
and gingerbread on every door.
He’d give on Christmas Eve,
but there was more to be done,
so he set out a plan,
to have some Christmas fun.

On Christmas Eve,
Santa took to the skies,
showering every child with toys,
sending stars to their eyes.
He ignored his divisive list,
merciful to the “bad kids”,
and decided, instead to punish someone who really deserved it.
With his sleigh on the roof of all the richest men,
he snuck down the chimney and took out a pen,
he left each a note, after dipping into their wallets
“You’ve got too much cash, and you don’t really need it.”
Then back off he went,
back to each poor child’s home,
leaving twenties and fifties everywhere that he roamed.

The Musk’s and The Bezos’ cried out on Christmas morning,
but the police could never find a trace of a break in,
because Comrade Santa had been careful and clever,
red suited Robin Hood with gloves made of faux leather.
Every year after he played this extra role,
taking from the selfish and giving to the proles,
because he knew that unlike him, trickle down economics was fake news,
and that he had a duty to save poor kids from the blues.

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.