Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


International icon,

you learned to fly, before your time,

missed and mourned,

your sweet smile, savoured,

seen in the rising sunlight,

in the eyes of your Sons.

Reborn at St Paul’s,

you were an angel, on earth,

as all women,

you were worn out,

bound to be everything to everyone,

and like all woman,

you wore a smile,

that same, sweet smile,

as you lit up every Lane your lonely heart landed in.

Princess of a perfect landscape,

longing to live a real life,

to realise the beauty of the valleys and vales,

by staring into them,

as the sunset hits,

and the night is quiet and soft.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Goodbye Garrett

Rain in Vegas,
as heaven hears the news,
the fate of their favourite son.
Such a sweet child,
lost in the lights,
but always smiling,
sailing down the skyline,
garlands of chrysanthemums gaze at the crowd from around his neck,
and white roses fill the row,
landing at his feet as he bids farewell.

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.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Here Lies That Sad Girl From The Internet

Where will the statue of me reside?

When I am a pile of bones in the ground,

rarely recalled by my son,

who has his own life to lead,

and manages to make it back on February 1st,

with roses and poppies to place on a headstone,

where I am identified as a wife and a mother who tried her best,

and a sad girl who fell apart on stage every night for the little time she graced the planet with her presence.

I like to think there will be a statue,

in some town centre,

where I meant a lot to people,

because I wasn’t a slave trader,

or a coloniser,

just a poet and a pop singer,

who liked to pretend she was special,

so labelled herself as “Alternative”.

I can see her,


but I can never picture where she ends up,

because in the flesh,

I don’t know where I belong,

so I don’t know where to set myself in stone.

I will be buried in Barcelona,

but she and I have not shared sunsets and moonlit moments for quite some time,

so I often wonder if she has forgotten me,

grown less fond of me,

can’t consider herself a home to me,

and so I consider if I will be Dartford’s favourite daughter instead,

claiming Kent,

not by birth,

but by sticking around,

drawing out my residence like Charles Dickens,

growing wild and memorable around the ankles of the county,

becoming beloved by the garden of England.

There’s always London,

of course.

Everyone can go home to London.

That’s the beauty of it,

because London doesn’t care how you got there,

it just cares that you stay,

and that you buy your lunch at Pret,

so maybe I’ll buy my lunch at Pret,

long enough for them to tear down some crumbling, unappealing old man,

and remember me instead.