The hammer trumps the Joker.



The wager lost.


Pedigree in question.

Provenance in doubt.

Joker is of a lower caste?





A chance game of cards,

A game of cards a chance?


It matters not a jot.


Yet on a good day fortunes may have changed hands,

Sad thing is currency and Joker never made great bedfellows then or now,

They eat at each other yet are devoid of nourishment.


Until the hammer blow,

The purple bruise,

Lucky, it could have been much worse.

Nothing broken.


The wishing well drained,

Suffocating carp,

Blow flies,

The stench of rotting vegitation.


This Joker throws in the towel,

No currency left for gambling.

Back to the streets,

Bright lights and dark places,

Back home.



  1. May I be so bold as to ask why there isn’t a book with your poetry for sale? At least, I more or less assume there isn’t? That’s both a compliment disguised as a question and an actual question.

    1. Truth is I only started writing the more serious poetry stuff (rather than ‘silly’ verse) when I was suffering more than I usually do with insomnia and acquired writer’s block as a result. Don’t know why I started really yet it seems a worthwhile therapy. I still do not sleep though.

      1. You even sound like a troubled artist!
        Okay, I’m sorry to hear about your sleeping problems, but it’s hard to deny your poetry is a positive side effect. It does make your site a more exciting read too, for one moment I’m (literally) laughing out loud, and the other I’m witness to your words slapping Tony Blair and the likes in the face.

        In my experience writer’s block often inspire posts I tend to feel very good about afterward; I just start writing down my thoughts and see where they take me.

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