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, Personal, Writing

Capitalism Is a Game, But You’ll Never Truly Win

Dawn is dark,

dirty streets,

dirty air await,

thirty pieces of silver,

on the fishing rod of fate,

daring her to betray herself again.

“Jump from your bed!”

The line smiles and says,

dragging her from dreams,

where she is more than part of a machine.

Last night,

she was at Greenwich Park,

parked on a blanket,

with the boy she liked,

hands tight together.

She kissed him,

just because she could,

until the moon was high,

sky shining with stars,

and they walked home,

to a pleasant, but not extravagant little apartment that they shared.

Dawn was dark,

she recognised it immediately,

bleary bleak morning chased away her dream,

the fishing line,

tapping on her window,

to the same rhythm as her incessant alarm clock,

and she sighed,

staring up at the ceiling for a second

(This was her daily treat to herself),

resigning herself to yet another betrayal.

“I have got to earn my keep.”

She repeats,

line by line, along with the fishing line.

“Sleep and dreams are for the weak.”

Following the glittering coins down the stairs,

still half asleep,

but awake enough to know her place,

she is dressed in darkness,

leaving without breakfast,

to join a collective of clouds,

just as dark as she,

all lead by lines of shining spending money,

that always feels near enough to keep reaching for,

but has never met their hands,

in a meaningful way.

She earns and she shops,

but all she really wants,

is that boy,

the one who lives in her heart,

and the little part of her brain that capitalism hasn’t conquered.

She wants,

and deserves,

so much more from the human experience,

but the world is hard,

and has a one track mind.

Dissent won’t do,


off she goes,

to earn,


and scream into her pillow,

before passing out from the awfulness of it all,

to be with the boy she likes,

for just a little while.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The United Kingdom Of Great Struggle and Northern Suffering

I live in a rich nation.

Four glittering goldmines,

held together by the honey,

of busy, obedient bees,

who are fed by applause,

and emoji filled tweets,

that work to the soundtrack,

of a suited somebody,

in a chaotic chamber,

who reminds them that they are rich.


I live in a prosperous place.




I do not remember a time,

when I could walk down the street,

without seeing struggling shops,

hungry, homeless souls,

among the busy, blind bees,

who snitch on their neighbours,

for not clapping,

for taking too many walks,

for spending what little they have

on the wrong type of comfort.


I live in a wealthy realm.

Errol Graham starved to death.

The safety net slips away,


and the people are strangled with it,

by a tsunami of suited somebodies,

who repeat,

as we recoil,

that we are rich.

We are rich.

We are rich.

A death rattle of a starving, screaming kingdom,

that will never see the safety of palace walls,

and Downing Street apartments.


I live in a rich nation,

where people die for being poor.




Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


The telephone cord is a chain,

I am raining on the inside,

storms in my chest,

spreading to the rest of me,

that’s never restful,

on these stressful days,

that seem to last for ages,

raining rage on my desk,

trapped by obligation,

trying to survive,

salaried per second,

waiting for the welcome collapse,

of five PM.