There are no sparks of inspiration;
No celestial muse will stoke you to flame.
Instead trust your own resilient smoulder.
Brave hands cradle hot coals.

His hot hands

His hot hands are cold on her body.
Furious frost-bit fingers
Fumble obscene gestures;
Etch crude images
In her imperfect skin.

This time,
She does not struggle
To interpret the symbolism
Of those fine lines;
Differentiates graffiti from art.
Still, she accepts,
There seldom is an outcry
When an already condemned building
Is defaced.

Damp and rot penetrate deep.
Thick timber structures
Unfurl fibre by fibre;
Curl inward in revulsion.
Brick-bulked masonry mass,
Slow strength
Built in compression,
Still yields to wet persistence.

In the space of her silent complicity,
She continues to consider the significance
Of historic buildings,
The merits of the arts,
Recognises that she has long-committed
To the inevitability of her

She had been the first
To defile her own soft, sacred flesh.
She had been unblemished
Yet she stripped her cladding,
Clawed and tore at her softness
In desperate terror
Of her deafening aloneness.
Scarred herself with her secrets
In serif-ed fonts.
She had been the perpetrator of her pain
And she had wounded herself in her urgency to escape.

Today she is quiet.
Accustomed to the convenience
Of fault and guilt,
Her mind wanders the boroughs of a sparse city
As he contents himself.
Choking on his pooling drool, he snores.
She lies awake.



More silly poems.
More cheap rhymes.
More cliches,
More mixed metaphors,
More typos.
More uncomfortable synonyms.
More sentences that are much longer than they need to be.
More rhythmn-jarring
Unpoetic poetry.
More dramatic readings.
More over-dramatic readings.
More spoken word,
More written word,
More “just right” words.
More made up words.
More words.


Bonus blog: Some background information

I didn’t know that I could write poems.

I knew that I loved poems before I knew what a poem was, but I didn’t know that I could write them.

I first knowingly wrote a poem when I was seventeen and was told that I was quite good at it. I entered a few competitions and did quite well. Within a few months, I’d written a handful of decent-ish poems.¬†Decent enough.

I wasn’t very happy at that time of my life.
I was struggling a lot. I tried, more than once, to find help but it didn’t ever work out. I felt things far too deeply and had somehow become numb to feeling at the same time.

Writing poetry wasn’t an outlet for me; it was pressure.
It was me, by myself, thinking about myself. Surrounded by myself. And I did not want to be myself. I didn’t want to be anyone. I didn’t want to think.
After those few months, aged seventeen, I stopped writing.

Life got harder, problems became bigger, and escalated to a point where myself and those around me could not ignore them.

Slowly, more recently, life got better.
Aged twenty-four, I wanted to get more involved in poetry again. I remembered that I had loved it. I remembered how to love it.
I started going to open mic nights. Sometimes I thought they were silly, but I always adored them.

I still couldn’t write. There was too much in my head and I didn’t want to listen to it. I didn’t want to sift through it; I didn’t want to organise it; I didn’t want to beautify it.

Now, aged twenty five and a half, I am writing poems again.
For the first time since I was seventeen.
I am still struggling but life is the best it has been. I am the me-est me I have been.
I don’t feel strong everyday, but everyday I do know that I am.

I am enjoying this.
I don’t know how long it will last. I don’t know how many ideas I have left. I don’t know how many ways there are to rearrange the words in my limited vocabulary. I don’t know how I’ll feel in the future. But, for now, I am enjoying this.

I hope that you are enjoying this too.
Thank you for reading, thank you for listening and thank you for your support.

How did I start writing again?
I call it “Bad poetry reverse advent”. It is silly. But, if you like, I’ll tell you about it next time I do one of these blog posts.

Thanks again.



Journalling eternally
Fulfilling something deep in me;
Nurturing maternally
The turmoil that stews in me;
Harnessing and channelling
The things that I find challenging;
The doubting and the piss-taking,
The venom-spat crap shit-talking.
The bothering, the bullying,
The bitching and the bollockings,
The two-faced pre-teen teasing,
Taunting, testing, second-guessing;
And the you can’t dance, and you can’t sing.
The slouching, acne,
You’re too fat,
You’re weird, you’re gross,
You can’t do that;
And shut your mouth, and sit back down;
The “Alright love, don’t have to frown”.
The fucking fights
And family
And friends
And “friends”,
And poverty.
And punishment and petulance,
And ill-judged verbal flatulence.
For every nasty, angry lie–
Another verse, another line,
Another day not in my mind.
Just ugly words for pretty rhymes.