Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Push The Button. Don’t Push The Button.

Down in the depths of the ocean,
a man has made a decision,
so another pushes a button,
and then we’re gone.

The air will be hot and white,
trains toppling from their rails like toddler’s toys,
cars crumpling and colliding as houses slide down into piles of rubble,
melting like butter.

We’ve gone over this before.
War is just child’s play for the rich,
and we are the soldiers in their simulated game.
It has never mattered if we survived,
it always matters that their egos do.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

We Will All Go Together When We Go

It finally happened.

Dead of night,

we died.

Bright light breaks across the sky,

heaven cries poison,

and I’m awake,

as usual,

thinking of you,

as my bones burst from sweet skin,

desperate for your attention.

Sirens are singing.

I harmonise,

hoping it’s all a dream,

but knowing I was never that lucky.

This war is cold,

my love,

cold and cruel,

looking at the lusciousness of love,

and simply saying


but still,

I’m drawn to you,

sewn together by our souls,

crawling along empty train lines,

your eyes in my mind,

like the shining star from a nativity,

guiding me and my gifts to your side.

I am not three kings,

and by now,

you’ll know I’m not wise,


I would walk every inch of this apocalypse for you,

and if that’s not enough,

then I don’t know what a girl has to do,

to prove herself worthy,

of being the first one you think of,

when the last day arrives.

The world burns.

We all used to be so beautiful,

but we are foolish and egotistical,

burning off our own bodies just to spite our faces,

because war became more important than everyday life,

the pissing contest spilled over,

and the whole world drowned.

There was no other way,

I suppose.

I think I might be dying,

but I want to die in your arms,

wherever they are.

I’m outside your office,

what’s left of it,


and I can hear you calling my name,

I can feel you wrapped tightly around me.

What’s left of me,


London is drowning,

and I always imagined I’d live by the river,

but it’s too late for all that now.

I thought I might have a son,

one day when I was ready.

I thought I might learn to drive,

or make things right with my estranged sister.

I imagined I’d spend Valentine’s Day with you,

on that big hill in Greenwich park,

where you can stare at the whole city,

and say

“Yeah, that’s my kind of town.”


it’s too late for all that now.

There’s nothing left of it now.

It’s too late for everything now.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

New Podcast Episode Available

Hola amigos,

There is a new podcast episode available, featuring some new poems, as well as discussions why defining yourself by your mistakes is a mistake, gun crime in the US, knife crime in the UK, and what I plan to do if the UK is ever attacked with a nuclear bomb.

You can find the new episode on your favourite podcast provider here, and you can find the episode guide for Sincerely, Jennifer x here.



J x

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