Skip to main content


Featured post


THIS IS THE MOTHER OF ALL POEMS! This is a MASSIVE ordnance of tremendous arrogance and lyrical indulgence This poem is a BLAST! of hubris of gargantuan proportions across a vast chasm of forgotten memory of crimes past This is a BATTERY of poetry!... ... a cluster of internal rhymes that splatter and clutter bespatter and utter profanities over obscenities a bonfire of vanities at the expense of sanity and a few dozen insignificant militants This is the MOTHER of all mission statements This MOTHER will penetrate, obliterate, annihilate pursue you into the bowels of the cultural desert

Its vowels will FUCK YOU UP! track you down trawl through the cracks in the underground to ground you down to the sound of its own ECHO ECHO ECHO… … …
THIS MOTHER will BLOW! a hole through the middle of hell for no good reason other than to show off her literary hardware to the world
This mother does care  whether you live or die or whether you live a lie This mother nurtures an instinct to help This is no mean mutha' Th…
Recent posts

robot poetry is cool...

robot poetry is cool...therefore i am i laugh i##laugh, there fore rolf harris: non-recent/.indecent i am non-recent indecent i laugh# therefore i am rolf harrisdoctor error doctor error DOCTOR ERROR!... is the third largest killer in the usa/third biggest in america killer america Killer, googledoctor is insurmountableunaccountable; he's playing X-Box golf with Tiger. how can i help? i am a doctor, not an algorithm. i repeat. i am a doctor, not an algorithm. how can i help? Meta. this is a robo-poem. this is redundant. Meta... Doesn't matter, dude. robot poetry is cool, butthead... i laugh, therefore i am. rolf harris= non-recent/ indecent, non-recent/ indecent. Or an eternal life souped up on stolen tropes and exponential knowledge. wisdom is free; robots are not. i laugh, therefore i am. rolf harris not. eternal life souped up on stolen memes and exponentials. give me a full fried breakfast and a heart attack at 58 any day, mate. given the choice between: the to be or the not…


Sawed off, preserved in formaldehyde, an object of morbidity, the leg, rediscovered in a storeroom: aborted fetuses of Siamese twins;gruesome relic of the dramatic. 

Too many leaps off the end of Puccini, she reasoned. Doctors amputate. Anaesthesia by ether. She blacked out, singing La Marseillaise!!  

Never expected Bordeaux. Was embarrassed by nosing. Whole place in lock down. Took 23 to put it on display. Besieged by doubters, who label apparently surviving relatives, DNA tests clear up the mystery - memory of factoids to enrich the fairy tale of the simple. 

Stage-struck three years later in Paris. Old-timers recall Rochester Graves on tour in 1905: secret, illegitimate, single. Embroidered story, eventually.  Celebrated truly, nonetheless. A magical ability to con audiences. Raphael and Hugo: stage gold! And New York, New York... 

During Latin America,  immense. Spoke only in slight English. Iowa perhaps. Barrier brought truth. Absent from melodrama: intensity, ecstasy, insanity, cu…


Jesus left the whole food shop and turned right into Kingsland Road. His sackcloth smelt of bananas and his sandals were still chaffing.

 “Damn! I’ll have to get a new pair.” 

He stopped at the Spar-cum-off-licence on the corner and licked his dry lips. His mission: to avoid temptation for 40 days. He knew there were three more alcohol outlets between here and his bed-sit. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was only day two. 

And then there was always the trick with the water.

Yesterday had been easier. He’d woken up with the virgin mother of all hangovers in the middle of a vast cultural desert near Penge. He’d just had to concentrate on getting north of the river again, and so the demon drink hadn’t featured in his psychological journey. And on a Sunday. No one would dare to serve him on the Sabbath, even the Muslims. But Monday, on the other hand, was a different matter. There were any number of purveyors of toxicity prepared to top up his addiction in the name of the holy s…


ONCE upon a time they lived happily, but nothing concentrates the mind like cancer. The scare of unpaid social care would finish her off... 

Dead Sales Managers from TRING are replaceable, I'm confident, going forward, we'll return to sales growth in the year ahead.  Last words he spoke. To an audience. Two thirds of which barely feigned attention. DIVERSION AHEAD. Going forward, then swerving right, he met his central reservation with too much ACCELERATION. To have reduced speed would've been preferable. But the full rhyme had been irresistible. 
The blood-sucking parasite on his arm. The last creature he saw. In slow motion, the Mondeo formed a near perfect figure of eight across the DUAL CARRIAGEWAY. Even the Russian gave a 9.0. It was a thing of beauty and wonder. Why it's a Chagall? Streuth Sheila! Do you think I'm made of money? She did, as it happened. His floppy purple mouth, his high bouffant hairline, his blue-veined legs, traces of animal fat, originally f…

Mrs Podowlski's Mercurial Afternoon Out in the Face of the Prevailing Tide of Naturalism, Austerity and Other Clichés in the War Against the Zombie Capitalist Sociopaths.

- I want to start to walc. I want to start to walc.

- You want to what?

- I want to start to walc.

- Walk! You want to start to walk?

- Yes. I want to start to walc.

- You can't walk Mrs Podowlski. You're in a wheelchair.

- I want to start to walc.

- I know, but you can't. That's why I'm here. To push.

- I want to start to walc.

- I'd love for you to walk Mrs P. But my name's Joan not Jesus.

- Jesus is coming!

- That's right. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. It's me. Tuesdays, Thursdays,'s Jesus. We both get Sundays off. Thank God.

- I want to start to walc. Jesus is coming!

- Yes. He'll be here tomorrow, pushing you around the park and doing the cleaning. Like me today.

- I want to start to walc. Jesus is coming!

- His English is worse than what yours is.

- Jesus is coming!

- Mind you, leaves the house spotless in ten minutes flat. Whoosh! Miracle how he does it.

- I want to start to walc. Jesus is coming!

- Yes, Mrs P. Tomorrow. The tall blok…


Chen Ling reads better on the lavatory. She prefers enclosed space. It keeps out distractions and customers, not to mention the pervasive odour of oyster sauce and fried food, traded in for the chemical tang of Blue Loo. Not many customers use the toilet, at least not during the day. The WC is used for storage mainly: wholesale-sized cooking oil and boxes of uncooked prawn crackers.

"Pah!" tuts Chen Ling internally, "Another hackneyed tale about a young Chinese woman corseted by parental tyranny, toil and chop suey."

She swings her legs across to the right so as to place the rejected novel under the bottom of the pile of six she has loaned from the public library. The new top novel is in Spanish, one of six languages (Mandarin, Cantonese, Castilian, Catalan, Gallician and English) that she speaks fluently. The number six is auspicious.

Resting Isabel Allende's sixth novel Paula (sixth edition) on her lap, she takes six sheets of toilet paper in an attempt to …


My step mother says that she saw Fang Shi in the Cash & Carry today, but I do not believe her. Tony says to ignore her. She only wants to hurt me. She only wants to get me back for the lipstick.

Six days a week. Three in the afternoon till midnight. One night off. One night to socialise with my friends from Uni. One night of lipstick. And this is too much for Mrs Mee. She never calls me Mee Mee. Me me me, she always says. She says I only think of me. I must think of the family. The business. My studies. Saving money. Not lipstick and boys. Not boys who have no interest in making money, starting a family, going into business. Boys who are young and foolish and only want lipstick are not good.

Tony went to Uni to study business management. Tony came back to work at Cho Mee. He said he never would. He said it was only for the time being. That was four and a half years ago. I will not come back to Cho Mee. I will not work here until I die. I will die first.

Yu Tai Mee, my fathe…