His only regret?  Without hesitation he would answer with acerbity

“Inventing the curse of time. Better it was when standstill prevailed

Freeze framed existence requires no sleep, no sustenance, no swords”

Yet time had been within his gift to the cosmos and whomsoever else

pinned in a monotonous state of being, beholden to the conscious precursor

requisite, who had eyes that saw what they saw and dexterous fingers

That he had unwittingly unleased such a calamity haunted his reality still


The wisp of a girl who would tempt fate had forever sought stark anonymity

it was thus that she was never without her silver Volto Masquerade Mask

such is the way of contradictions to one spawned of the immaculate union

of ‘Time’ and heavenly ‘Circumstance’ his lover. They had named the girl ‘Kismet’

a proud partisan of where all is foretold in a place not suited to giddy libertines


Backside upon kerb, under the shade of a million new red leafed sycamore

puncture repair kit, profanities, dripping sweat, at wit’s end, Kismet’s preloved

crappy old push bike had let her down once too often. It would have to die


“Need a hand?” so said the unshaven young man with a swollen black and blue eye

“Don’t concern yourself the bike is destined for execution” 

“That’s a shame…why the mask? Unlike me following last night’s altercation down the pub I’ll wager you’ve a pretty face behind it?”  

“Believe me when I say you would neither understand my reasoning, nor I can assure you, would you want to know” 

Locked temporarily in a pregnant pause he blinks first, ‘Didn’t catch your name?”

“Didn’t tell you…Kismet if you must know” 

“Want to know my name” 

“Not really, it’s of little consequence to me,” benevolence alien to the dispassionate otherworldly girl of predeterminations horoscope


Yet Time was on his last legs, running out of steam, a lost key clockwork mechanism

the chaos of Time’s death-throws would emasculate fate, soon what the future held

would be known to all and sundry as would migrating sanity to those who had loved

Kismet, as was her way clinically considered the unshaven, swollen black and blue eye boy

whispered ‘benevolence’ over and over, contemplated the relevance of both as one


“Maybe you can help repair my tyre after all…yes, a sound idea…your name also” 

“Promise you won’t laugh? Concord, although my mates just call me Con”


Spontaneously, in mystifying defiance of destiny Kismet removed her mask

tilted her head searchingly, gawping at Con, cross-legged in the road affecting

the repair and mulled over as to whether or not an impromptu puncture repair

and a coupling of fatalism and disarray would ensure her regretful old father Time

and those he had awakened a few more living years was the good thing it felt to be


Some decades on, and an enduring devotion salvaged from a turbulent intimacy later

Con caught up with an aged Kismet now living in Paris, asked if she had any regrets?

“Giving up my mask and revamping the temporal model. My father was correct with regards to the latter”




Yesteryear as yesterday

Distracted fingers entwined

New love’s prerogative

Precursor to cravings fulfilment

Any time, any place, any how

Crescendo’s promise made

Crescendo’s promise kept

“Just the new-fangled micro battery to fit old chap and she’ll be as good as new…they won’t need replacing for years by the way”

Not that he had any conception of the whys and wherefores of modern science yet Harry had been true to his word and was to bring his dear Matilda back to life. Moreover, she would be even better than before, maybe immortal even though if the truth be told she couldn’t be that much better in Harry’s book for he always had her marked down as perfection its veritable self

“Please don’t think me weird…tell me you don’t”

The scientist paused for thought, “Well Harry this is, and likely will be the most unusual commission I’ve undertaken, yet in the circumstances, no I think you a shrewd, clever fellow. To have kept Matilda’s body on ice all these years waiting, praying even for technology to play catch up and to bring her back to life fulfils that misty old dream of yours I’d say” 

In his heart of hearts Harry knew the inordinate fee he was paying the scientist ensured such no doubt disingenuous civility. Besides Harry still felt weird yet duty bound to keep that promise he made Matilda in love’s first glorious flush namely that he would love and care for her to eternity and back. That she had died in her prime and that he was now an ancient old crone mattered not a jot for Harry was a man of his word when all said and done, and boy how the pair of them had cherished each other

“Ready when you are then Harry” 

“Go for it”

With that the scientist affixed the micro battery, stood back, put the reassuring palm of his hand upon Harry as best he could and waited. In the event the stay was a short one. Matilda opened her eyes, looked this way and that finally focusing on the old man long since nothing more than just a head in a glorified glass jar, shedding tears of purest joy, strategically placed as he was on her bedside table right next to her. That she did not recognize him as her lover from times gone (how could she) did not bother Harry in the least. That she cast that captivating smile of hers he remembered so well in his direction made the whole enterprise worth every penny

“Shall I turn your life support off now Harry?” Harry did but blink an affirmative. He drifted off in the hope that one day Matilda would forgive this, his final indulgence, that she would see love had afforded him no choice in the matter

Crescendo’s promise made

Crescendo’s promise kept




Beachy Head has been done far too often

A squalid overdose has scant appeal

Jumping under a train is plain selfish

Just think how the driver must feel


A Swiss clinic can prove quite expensive

Although it does have a certain panache

Slashed wrists some think far too messy

And carbon monoxide’s no gas


A shot to the temple is instant

Yet to miss and pull through will not do

An arsenic laced curry stupendous

But there’s always the risk you might spew


A rope about the neck is so awful

Not worth either the pain or the fear

And forget not a note of remembrance

For those left behind you hold dear


So when tribulation consumes you

When you say, “I can’t take any more”

Maybe dream up a new way to end it

For what’s gone before is a bore


One must depart this domain with a swagger

Find an art form of which people will say

“Well he left this mortal coil behind him

In a most sumptuous, extravagant way”


Be sure that your method is painless

Be sure that there’s no letting of blood

Be sure that it’s not from a great height

Or else there will be a loud thud


So if suicides fancy should grab me

Take it for granted my approach it will be

To make love till my body can take it no more

And die in my bed, exhausted, set free


Oh what technique have I thought up

Oh what a farewell oh so grand

To take my leave not with a sadness

But ecstatic to have made my last stand!




Processed with VSCOcam with b1 preset

Processed with VSCOcam with b1 preset

Barefoot shoreline empty wanderings

a beach all hers save the finicky sandpipers

cliffside and far off a cacophony of gossip

lapwings sharing rumours and allegations

fanciful sun and ozone prompted imaginings

an etched yet nonsensical modus operandi

as to the perfect plan to ensnare a new lover


Fantasy ‘Plan A’ unfolds apace with footprints in the sand

“I shall have Nubian slaves wrap me up in a Persian carpet and unroll me at his feet wearing nought but a smile…it worked for Julius Caesar when Cleopatra did the self-same thing. Then again I have a dust mite allergy…um…thinks…suppose I would look rather silly standing there stark naked sneezing and eyes watering…and where would I keep my hanky? Not good and I don’t know any Nubians or Roman Emperors and only have a tatty old rug anyway” ‘Plan A’ shelved


The freshest of breezes from the sea picks up pace

its bosom buddy immigrant cumulus waves a coy hello

temperature drops sufficient to chill Miss T-shirt and Shorts

“God I’m tragic…best head back”

As ever ‘Plan B’ contingencies are few and far between

thoughts interrupted by mountain bike man ahead

nearly on top of each other, wheels lock, swerves to avoid her

comes to a cumbersome halt, misses her by a hair’s breadth


“Crikey idiot, you’ve the whole bloody beach to ride that thing on, why aim yourself at me? You could have killed me!” 

“Sorry about that, didn’t spot you ‘till the last second, thought the beach was empty” 

He gathers his composure, she collects her thoughts 

“You’re new here…just passing through?” 

“No, just purchased the Old Vicarage in the village…moved down from the smoke” 

“Alone? It’s a big old lump of a property” 

“Yes alone and true it is a bit over the top yet I need space to think…to plan my stage act” 

“What do you do for a living then if I may be so bold to ask?” 

“Mind Reader…travel all over the world” 


“Wow to you too! By the way with that allergy of yours, you need a carpet made of lab-developed synthetic blends, polyester maybe…whatever, a non-organic one that repels allergens…they roll up easily which is a bit of a bonus as well…afraid I don’t know any Nubians though” 

“How on earth do you know I have an allergy? You really telepathic then…been reading my mind…I mean everything I was just thinking?” 

“Oh yes” 

An all-knowing wink befriends the pinken glow smile she wears


Will you miss

One from missus…a much younger creature than this old fool


Will you miss the tut you give me as I noisily slurp my coffee

Will you miss your impatient sigh as I trip up the kerb

Will you miss the shout you give when I don’t at first respond

Will you miss the groan as you heave me out of the chair

Will you hell, you bastard

When I’m dead and gone you’ll miss my bouncy breasts, my blond smile as the wind slaps my face, my skip among the sand dunes as we raced towards the shoreline

You’ll only think of the buxom maid who set your pulses racing and that’s as it should be, my love.

View original post



The Garde du Nord was frantic

the night I took the sleeper east

my destination Budapest

my fleeting dream you might fly in from Nice


Too long we both had waited

me delaying, always fearing the worst

yet as the stench of false freedom faded

I travelled unfazed and unrehearsed


’56 had seen Soviet tanks

destroy any glimmer of liberations hope

even so our love had blossomed

looking back how did we cope?


The lucky ones escaped they say

from the stamp of Mother Russia’s boots

yet what kind of freedom is it

when you leave behind your roots?


I had heard your Riviera days

were not without a little sorrow

and I kept the keepsake your family sent

held on to it like no tomorrow


Yet now all these decades later

a Warsaw Pact no more

impeding our right to be here again

and to savour passions red blooded roar


At journey’s end I delayed

a still frame of you inside my head

and on Heroes Square I spread your ashes

you, my lover, long since dead



A revised version of a verse posted way back and themed around an old Hungarian chap, long gone, I once knew



For the adrift prima ballerina with a ruptured Achilles tendon

a ravishing hunger had brought her to a seedy transport café

aside the London bound A13 trunk road, a time honoured haunt

for lorry drivers, suited and booted villains and chipped enamel mugs

she favoured a bacon butty, lashed up with red sauce and strong tea

over the fat laden this, greasy spoon that traditional full English


Tucking into her highly calorific, yet in the light of her injury allowed

sandwich a brash scallywag sat at the window table caught her eye

“Crikey luv, your stomach must think your throats been cut” served

to remind her she was scoffing her sandwich as would a ravenous hound

aware that her propensity toward flippancy was and always likely would

be her ruination she kept schtum, compelled her to suppress the ever

so dire need to convert a wry smirk into an audible embarrassing giggle


Her foot encased within a plaster of Paris cast itching desperately again

the black reflection struck that she might never dance that ‘one more time’

yet this chance visitation born of famishment was to provide the solution

for away from the hubbub of the city there was potential for clinical thought

in an instant she fathomed a plan that would ensure the Royal Opera House

Sadler’s Wells, even Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre would be hers for the taking


“I’m guessing yours is the red Audi Roadster given that none of my regular fly-be-night patrons could afford one of those…nice motor luv” the proprietors passing shot as she hobbled back to her car and off home to her Knightsbridge apartment and her Lenny


Lenny was born an invisible mute, became the long-time lover of our ballerina

the pair had met at Professor Burp’s Bubble Works dark water ride where

Lenny was once employed as a ‘scare the pants off’ voiceless poltergeist

an ideal job for one with no shadow, who could not be seen with the naked eye

She had phoned ahead, “I’ll be back in about fifteen, put the kettle on I have a plan!”

he wondered, incorrectly as it turned out, if that plan would be a reprise

of the night she applied dark indigo body paint to his entire being for what was

quite the most erotic, if a tad messy, of carnal experiences they had shared


Unaware of the tantalizing effect of her twiddling a chunk of hair around her forefinger, “You know Lenny I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never dance again to the standard I once did yet with your invisible assistance dancing with me, holding me, lifting me, twirling me about I’ll be able to perform like never before. A whole new world of choreography will be possible and not a living soul will realize my little cheat”


And take the world of ballet by storm she did, plaudits worldwide

until that is Lenny evaporated as invisible mutes are prone to do

giving rise, by necessity, to this prima ballerina’s premature retirement


A few years later in the elite bordello of perplexed ingenuity

audacious scholars, acknowledged protagonists to a man

hypothesize enlightenment, take liquor, offer critique

fulfil censurable yet nonchalant hankerings

in the firm knowledge that deaths door escape from

it all is just a pocket handkerchief cyanide pill away


It is within that sticky place of preponderance

the blushing undemonstrative ex-ballerina bewitches

nudged she will reluctantly chat about this and that

these days wholly unaware she remains a tale still in the telling

pity some say, she aborts eye contact, censors untamed dreams

rather than don the siren’s devil-may-care scarlet gown

yet always she has her irreplaceable Lenny on her mind

how she misses his silence, his imperceptible perfection


Yet the power of a true love so cruelly removed in just a breath

ensured the God’s gift trophy brigade, dexterous bumbling buffoons,

rakes and gamblers to a moonlighting pigeonhole man cannot touch

Lenny’s prima ballerina, a dazzling pièce de résistance even now




“So young lady you ask what will happen when the world ends?” 

“Just thought you might know, you are very old, have the longest white beard, live in a cave, have a magic wand and keep a pet owl after all…and anyway Gawain suggested I visit, he says you are both sage and magician” 

“Gawain you say…fine fellow by all accounts. True, I do have a reputation in these parts…indeed many think me a wizard yet I’m not all that clever. But yes I can help, I do know what happens come the end. Listen up though for first you must understand some basics before you progress to the spark of magic” 

“I’m all ears”

Positive and negative

good and bad

birth and death

north and south

beginning and end

the constant theme

of all things

all in equal measure

all in a universe

of organic construction


in space and time


In order to know


one must first

have witnessed

the malicious

or vice versa

one thing

cannot be envisaged

without the other


We have evolved

a conscious mind

to ordain such things


All the stars

you see in the heavens

seek to spread out

yet will one day

weaken and wither

become what they once were

a nothing

crushed to the size

of a tiny pinhead

every species

that has evolved

will be no more

all history seemingly lost


In this present moment

the act of coition

ensures survival

and will do so until

our forlorn fatigue

determines otherwise



best endeavours

of the fittest

it is all over and done with

yet ends inevitably

follow beginnings

beginnings follow ends

everything sucked back

into the blackness

from whence it came

then there be renewal

one giant orgasm

the promiscuous coupling of

two intergalactic ‘things’

detritus be creations sperm

newly formed planets be the eggs

one seed gets lucky

billions of its comrades

now just lifeless fragments

become the dross of the void


The realm of infinity

cannot be understood

until we know

this ‘vice versa’


Our corpse of being

will turn into fertile

carbon dust

materialising as

brand new concoctions

wholly bacterial at first

yet living things nevertheless


“What magic?” 

“That which make us cognizant of all around us…nothing can exist until that spell is caste”   

“Oh I see, or at least I think I do…anyway you said all history will be seemingly lost forever! Doesn’t that make everything that has happened pointless?” 

“Not at all my dear, not at all…’everything that has happened’ as you put it will, no matter how important or insignificant, even you and your own memories, always and forever be there, locked in its own particle of time” 

“Particle of time? You must tell me more” 

“One day yet not right now. I sense Ambrose is pining for rodents”  

“Ambrose does look a very wise owl” 

“Believe me he is”



Outcry as Pre-Menstrual Whitechapel Woman Cleared of Murdering ‘Whistling’ Husband With an Axe

This one from a new blog made both my wife and I chuckle more than a little. Do check them out on;
There is a link to their Facebook page there also

The Whitechapel Whelk

axe-woman-chop-lady-laugh-crazy-250x375 Mrs Terry poses happily for reporters after being cleared yesterday

Women’s support groups were jubilant yesterday after a 38 year old London woman was allowed to walk free from court, despite being found guilty of murdering her husband, in what was described in court as: “a frenzied and sustained attack” with an axe in June 2015..

During the six weeks trial, the court heard how Mrs Mary Terry from Whitechapel in East London, was close to the onset of her menstrual cycle at the time of the murder. The court was then told how she had been subjected, to what her barrister described as, “a sickening catalogue of abuse” at the hands of her 45 year old chartered accountant husband of 18 years, Miles.

A number of female jurors wept openly as defending counsel, Penelope Barrington-James QC, described how, during their marriage, Mr Terry had repeatedly made a slight squeaking…

View original post 209 more words



The cartography of gratification

charts only a levelled landscape

whereby dreams get blown around

like tumbleweed mostly

although at certain times of the year

high summer usually

those dreams take on

a semblance of reality

have substance

become edible even


Hence in this place

in that serene spell

the finest restaurant

Michelin stars galore

opens its doors


It boasts no menu

punters seeking

such delectation

must pick from the

the vat of dreams


So choose carefully

select the wrong ones

upon which to feast

then you may find

you have consumed

The Succubus

tastes sublime

yet I’ve heard tell

the most noxious of all things

swallowed whole

one will never be the same again