wings dyed white


The one who might

Have been Don

Dressed in rags

Now picks oranges

For a living

Under a subtropical sun



The place

He came from

A place where

He says

Power negates destiny

Money lust

Nullifies the purity

Of clemency

A place where

Even the angels

Tote guns

Stashed under

Wings dyed white



Oceans away

His past

Nothing more

Than an irritating



When asked why

He left

The answer was

Always the same

‘It is no longer

the land it once was’


This is based upon a conversation I had with an aging Italian American who from his manners, courtesy and general bearing was once well-heeled. I shared a table with him outside of a street café in Toulouse a few years back.  He was taking a short break in France at the time yet was now domiciled in Southern Italy. A pleasant enough bloke yet one who I detected it would be foolish to cross swords with! The reasons stated here in respect of his permanent departure from the States are, I stress his words not mine.  



I stole my love’s heart in Vienna
Poached her false teeth in Zagreb
Yet rather than steal her high heels in Nice
I hid them under our bed

Once upon a blue moon
All her knickers I did nick in New York
Yet rather than thieve her suspenders in France
I posted them over to Cork

The day that I burst her implants
Was the day that it rained cats and dogs
It was thus that I grabbed her new McIntosh
And filled up the pockets with frogs

To me it was such a great wheeze
To bury her bikini in Timbuctoo
Her bra and suspenders in Neasden
Her sexy black stockings in Kathmandu

That she for some reason went off me
Is the one thing I can’t understand
For I took her all over this planet
From Paris to the Rio Grande

She said, “Darling you are such a tosser
Nicking all my things as you do
Yet I do believe I’d rather keep my kit on
Than be stuck with a complete twat like you”

“My dear where’s the fairness in that then?”
Was all I could think of to say
“For what will you do without me?”
And it was thus that she went on to say

“Because of you I’m flat chested
I can’t chew gum and have to walk with a stick
Also I now get soaked when it rains
Pray God tell me are you really that thick?”



That she who was disposed

to whisper at the mirror

until she broke her own heart

mesmerized the stag whose legacy

would always be a question mark


Through a small hours open

window within his watchtower

under the solicited gape of

that old voyeur moon

risqué raw shadows

would both indulge and bedazzle

‘SUMMERTIME AND THE LIVING IS…reasonably good were it not for those infernal wasps’ as DUBOSE HEYWARD SUFFERS FROM LYRICISTS BLOCK!

December 1933; 1019 North Roxbury Drive, Los Angeles: George Gershwin is at home piecing together songs for his forthcoming opera Porgy and Bess. Things have gone blindingly well particularly so with most of the melodies done and dusted. In his company is his mate, novelist and poet DuBose Heyward who is trying to write a lyric for George for the song ‘Summertime’ – a song that, in the fullness of time will become a worldwide classic…not that either George or DuBose know that just yet! You see DuBose is completely bolloxed as to how to conclude the crucial first line to the very first verse cursed as he is with lyricists block!

“I say Georgie boy I realize that for this number…you know the one you have entitled ‘Summertime’ where you are attempting to create your own spiritual in the style of the African American folk music is a key element of the show and already I find myself enthused with your sublime melody yet have to admit that, try as I may, I just can’t get the first line finished off. It is thus that I’m feeling a tad snookered!”

“Basically Duberry old horse you’re saying you are up shit creek without a paddle on the words front?”
“That’s about the strength of it.”

“Maybe I can help then…I can turn my hand to anything me! What have you got so far?”

“Well you may as well try this out for size…I have, ‘Summertime and the living is….’ Is what? Bastard what? I simply can’t think what!”

“Best I put my deliberation titfer on then…um…ah…no…um…right try this one out. ‘Summertime and the living is…a pain if the ants take it upon themselves to run amok over the lemon drizzle cake when out picnicking’. There that should do it…I mean the African Americans like nothing better than a bit of cake for tiffin out in the open air.”

“George, George, Georgie boy I’m afraid you really are no lyric writer! That is way too long and what have ‘ants’ got to do with the price of eggs.”

“Suit your bloody self then.”

“No don’t get me wrong I’m just getting frustrated that’s all.”

“Right then one more stab…um…I’m beginning to get your drift for this is not as easy as I thought it would be…got it…‘Summertime and the living is…reasonably good were it not for those infernal wasps’. Nice one don’t you think?”

“Ants and now wasps! I honestly don’t think the insect theme sits comfortably with the scene we are trying to reflect with this piece. What a to-do…I believe it’s back to the drawing board…bollocks.”

“Duberry for a man of your undoubted talent this should be easy…so easy, so very, very easy that you could easily and with easiness finish this lyric with ease.”

“Look Georgie boy I’m trying to knock one out here…”

“Pardon me!”

“You don’t get my drift…I’m trying to knock out a lyric here and all this talk of ‘easy’ is doing my head in…best I lock myself in the basement and knock one out there.”



Had she not had the misfortune

to be on the shop till that morning

then it would not have been her who

sold the slick outsider the alarm clock


If so she would never

have been the one henceforward vilified

from the beginning to the end of time,

never have taken the abiding blame for the

perceived curse of imperfections and lechery

of the beef cake multitudes in the eyes of their own,

never have set the scene for womankind’s exclusion

from any and all hierarchies, never have been condemned

as purveyor of the black arts, such was her fate, deemed guilty thus


Until the stranger came to town and in the days when

lightning bolts and earthquakes strummed the chords of fear and wonder in equal measure,

the days when the story book zephyr sparked ingenious chicanery,

the days when there was no perceived requirement for philosophers and sages alike,

little mattered save for sex when the fancy took, gratifying food and a warm bed for the night.

An idle too good to last


A determined stranger of Machiavellian quest yet prone to oversleep is at best left neglected
It mattered not as this one determined to acquire a time piece ensuring alertness for a reprised day zero when he would groom the huddled masses and bring about the perennial epoch of potent ascendency


That it was to him the brittle Eve sold the wretched clock, a stroke of ageless catholic calamity


Long since and from her skylight view into the bustling macrocosm she, the bare shadow of mythos despaired



Even the sanctuary of the squalor of my lowly hovel was, this once at least, welcome following my altercation with the ruffians who sought to steal not just my wallet but my much treasured long eared owl also. That I made it back safe and sound was thanks only to the club hammer I am never without. Still that’s three more ruffians less and the streets a little safer for it.

Regardless, that is not the tale I shall impart this day…oh no for much more interesting (well I think it is) is the fact that in my absence I had had an unexpected guest arrive. I didn’t realise it at first as I was keen to ensure Charlie – that’s the owl’s name – had had his fill of live field mice from the old aluminium fuel tank I keep in the kitchenette. The thing is if Charlie gets peckish and doesn’t get his feed on time his blood sugar is all over the place and that’s when his mood swings kick in. Not this day though for once he’d scoffed a round dozen rodents the old chap, albeit with one eye open dropped off into a deep sleep upon his golden perch.

It was only then…well only then after a cup of Earl Grey tea that I decided to pop to my bedroom -such as it is – for my slippers. It was there, and much to my initial shock that I came across a raven headed well-formed young lady scantily clad in what I’d say was neo-gothic style lying within my hessian hammock painting her nails and entirely oblivious to the fact I existed it seemed.

“What on earth do you think you’re up to my girl…I mean entering a chap’s digs uninvited is really not on is it?”

It seems she was so engrossed in the task at hand she hadn’t heard me so I repeated myself this time with theatrical gusto. She certainly heard me then for she jumped out of her skin and landed with a dull thump upon the bare floorboards, spilling her emerald nail varnish in the process and leaving her more than a little startled.

Allowing her a few moments to regain her composure I continued my quizzical interrogation.  “And you are?”

“Everyone says Perky Butt.”

The thought struck me that this was most apt for she did indeed have the perkiest of said butts!

“To be named thus is very unusual indeed.”

“I suppose so yet when I left the real world of dreams I didn’t have a name. It was only when I took to the streets and was passing the Town Hall where the builders up high upon the scaffolding there doing some sort of repairs or other that one of them for some inexplicable reason wolf whistled and shouted, ‘Perky Butt’ at me that I thought that’ll do for a handle.”

“Tell me now, how did you gain access? I see no signs of forced entry.”

“Oh that…well I walked through the wall…I’m good at that! It does tire me out a tad hence I took to your hammock!”

“That you walk through solid objects can only mean you herald from the Realm of the Dark Ages where nothing is as it seems as do I.”

“I do indeed Mr Merlin…that is why I am here. I’ve run away if the truth be told…the place is so very boring what with the propensity for noshing only upon the foul gruel the servants serve up; fending off supposedly chivalrous knights…I mean only a few evenings back Galahad pitched up at my place armed with a bottle of mead and a goats bladder under the assumption I’d be a push over and that he’d get his leg across just like that – I unfriended him on Facebook of course – and then there’s the getting from A to B on horseback…fairly plays havoc with my nether regions that does…oh I could wax lyrical for hours about how very, very tedious it is there. I’m looking for a bit of fun…I mean I see you have a flushing toilet and your own pet owl…that Mr Merlin is so impressive.”

“So you risk travelling through the ages to join me here just to see if the grass is greener on the other side.”

“That’s the strength of it. Let me stay Mr Merlin, let me stay…pity please…I’ll do anything.”

“Just how old are you Perky Butt?”

“I’ll be 180 next birthday.”

“Well I am 1047 and counting. I’m old enough to be your great, great, great…well loads of greats grandfather young lady.”

“Oh but Mr Merlin you’re a living legend where I come from…all I hear is ‘Do you remember when Mr Merlin played lead guitar and sung the vocals for the Round Tables or that time at the Camelot Festival when nearly all the girls in the audience threw their knickers at Mr Merlin’…so that’s all I’m here for really; a bit of life before I get old and haggard. What are knickers by the way?”

“I suspect not everything you’ve heard about me is entirely true, what with the passage of time and stories being told and retold history becomes distorted and legends are born. And, oh yes ‘knickers’ are a good example…you see back then knickers were not invented…gals didn’t wear them so they couldn’t have been thrown my way. For the record they are a ladies undergarment if you must know…and don’t tell me you’re not wearing any under that perilously short skirt you’ll catch you death of cold if you’re not careful.”

“Whatever…don’t care…it’s just can I stay with you Mr Merlin?”

“No I’m afraid you cannot. I’m a solitary chap at heart.”

“Please don’t send me away…not back to the Realm of the Dark Ages where nothing is as it seems…anywhere but there.”

“You’ve just given me an idea young Perky Butt…yes I think I’ve got it. You’ll have never heard of him but I am good mates with a time traveller by the name of Dr That One. Now the good doctor has a penchant for pretty young gal companions and I am aware that presently he is seeking a new girl chum…I think you might fit the bill you know. I’ll give him a call on my mobile and test the water for you.  How does that sound to you?”

“Brilliant. Bet he’s on Twitter and everything?”


“Well that’s you sorted Perky Butt he’s on his way even as I speak…I think we’ve just got time to pop down town to buy you some knickers…We can’t have a girl from the Dark Ages letting the side down can we!”

“What are knickers again?”




sherlock 2

“Well Dr Watson what do you make of this?”

“Ah Inspector Lestrade you’re here at last.   Well in my estimation what we have is most likely the naked torso of what I hazard a guess to be that of an adult female and from the skin pigmentation I would proffer the opinion that she is of European descent.”

“How do you fathom that Dr Watson? I mean this torso has no brace of wobbly bits, a hairy chest and it is plain to the eye that the skin colour is black, plus…and I think you’ll discover that this is the clincher…it has both meat and two veg!”

“Look Lestrade I’m the physician here…indeed what do you know about the human anatomy? Any way have your people recovered the head and limbs yet, for that may assist in my ability to provide you with something more categorical.”

“Yes we do as it happens…Sergeant Dolt bring over the hessian sack containing the severed body parts and the bloodied hacksaw would you.”

“Certainly Sir…here, I’ll hold it open for you.”

“What then do you make of this Dr Watson?”

“Crikey, from the skull I’d say the facial features are East Asian, the left arm…um…um…likely West African as is the right leg also and as to the right arm and the left leg, well they are certainly North European.”

“They look all black to me.”

“Shows just how little you know Lestrade.”

“OK then Dr Watson we’ll put ethnicity issue aside for one moment. I think we’re both agreed this is a case of murder yet can you give me a clue as to methodology as in the cause of death?”

“Bit of a doddle that one is for I am 100% positive the underlying causation is that of poisoning…yes I can be specific in that regard.”

“Hell’s bells!  Dr Watson if this is a case of poisoning how is it that the extremities are no longer affixed to the body…tell me that clever clogs?”

“Look there is no need for an autopsy to ascertain that silly little question for it is clear that the ‘extremities’ as you so succinctly call them have simply fallen off…it’s not uncommon with poisonings dimwit.”

“Don’t you call me a dimwit you know-nothing quack.”

“Holmes, Holmes do you hear this Inspector Lestrade is being beastly to me again…he’s always being beastly to me…tell him off or something.”

“Well Dr Watson I’m all for having Holmes sort this little confab out…Sherlock we have here a mutilated body, a bloodied hacksaw and your cohort ‘quacko’ Watson has the front to say it is a case of murder by way of poisoning?  A bit of your abductive reasoning certainly wouldn’t go amiss at this juncture. What’s your take on it Sherlock?”

“Fuck knows.”

“Oh for pity’s sake do at least give us a trademark ‘Elementary dear Watson.”

“Fuck off.”



Hanging atop the frigid moorlands even the storm clouds huddle for dear life. Rooted below a tired old toff sits before a blazing log fire within his ramshackle manor house, granite firm within an acreage erstwhile set to lawn, hedgerow and glorious fountains yet these days no more than a frightful brier permeated wasteland.

As the reticent nightfall, its thunder already stolen by lugubrious daytime agony descends the curmudgeonly, infirm codger reaches the end of his deliberations; comes at long last to a conclusion.

“Girl, yes you whatever your name is draw me a hot tub that I may soak away my sorrows; that I may ease the pain in these old joints of mine.”

“Certainly Sir…by the way and for the umpteenth time my name is Megan and I’ve been your house servant these past dozen years…ever since I left school!”

“Oh, sorry I forgot…always forgetting names and faces…curse of time you know. By the way did I ever tell you that – unlike some other lucky blighters – I’ve never had employment that attracted these gal groupies I’ve read about? I’d have liked that I think…extracurricular relations with gals of easy virtue…certainly better than that old harridan who was glued to me for the best years of my life. Still I’ll never know now will I…is my bath ready yet.”

“Very nearly Sir, would you care for assistance undressing and getting in? By the way you made mention of those bad girls who chase men for their money over breakfast and at lunch and yesterday and the day before.”

“Did I? Christ I must be losing my marbles.”

“Anyway it doesn’t matter does it…there that’s you ready…I’ll hold your arm as you step in but be careful you don’t slip when sitting down.”

“Good God woman it’s piping hot are you trying to see me off?”

“Not at all Sir…look I’ll add cold water from the bucket…that’s it, it should be perfect now.”

“That’s better…yes that’s much better.”

“Before I set to preparing your dinner is there anything you want…and I don’t mean, ‘Will you help me find the soap’ like last time when the soap wasn’t even lost!”

“Would I lie to you Megan…of course it was misplaced!  Whatever, fetch me a glass of Lillet Rouge and don’t forget my twist of orange…oh and a pen and pad of paper for I am minded to pen a note…and the razor…think I’ll shave while I’m at it.”

“There Sir that’s your aperitif, razor…your pen and paper. Just ring the bell should you need me or want to alight the bath…I’ll make sure I have warmed towels at the ready.”  


My sons and daughters, friends alive and others of my pedigree understand that the frenzied hounds of time have been let loose and are, even as I write and putting it colloquially ‘on my case’. After much deliberation over many a long winter’s night I have come to the decision that I shall not be prey to a pack of beasts; that they shall never get the satisfaction of even snapping at my ankles. In short I shall not be ‘sticking around’.

That the emergency services ,and I suspect the coroner’s task, be made easy it is in just a moment, suitably naked and ensconced within my bathtub that I shall do the deed the god-fearing amongst you may say is evil, namely commit a hara-kiri of sorts.

That you are, one and all amply provided for in my Last Will and Testament a given, yet exploiting the warmth and relaxation of this my final soak you will understand that the thought of further memory loss eventually rendering me a glorified cabbage and when the times comes that even my walking stick becomes of no use to me when bedridden I have little choice but to do the deed…each to his own I say!

Yet prior to taking the cut throat to my wrist thus allowing my blood to flow fascinatingly unchecked I make one last and very important request of the lot of you. You see just this very day I forgot yet again the name of my lovely young maid Megan – she who attends to my every need (save one!). The very sight of this girl who has cared for me for the duration of my dotage and who makes me wish I could turn back time; be young once more tells me I owe her for the strife this miserable old sod has brought upon her from time to time. Never once has this adorable filly complained or shirked her duties. You will all know that I am a man who pays his debts and as such I instruct each and everyone one of you to deliver up 10% of your respective inheritance to her sweet Megan of the delightful arse – rest assured I shall haunt you to your dying days if you do not!

Farewell, au revoir.


PS: Megan as I slip this mortal coil I picture you the day we picnicked on the beach just last summer, you in your bathing suit, me struggling for comfort within that wretched deck chair. You were a vision then (are a vision still) and I can think of no canvass to take with me upon this, my final journey. I just wanted you to know that my dear!

Concerned that the master of the house might have been marinating too long Megan goes up to the bathroom to check upon him. Plainly taken aback she feels for a pulse…there is none…he is no more. That the constabulary should be telephoned as a matter of urgency she is in no doubt yet stepping away from the tub she spots the note Albert had written. Being a bright girl she leaves it upon the tiles where it is in case it is required as evidence at any inquest but not before reading the same.

It is with chuckles and tears that she checks out her soon to become much fabled posterior in the big bathroom mirror, “Lovely arse indeed.”


island gals

An extract from the autobiography of Twattersley Fromage OBE

One could be forgiven the assumption that for an adult male in his prime such as I was back then were to be marooned on a remote South Pacific island in the company of a host scantily clad beguiling dusky gals all chomping at the bit to utilize his manhood for full on sex with alarming regularity would be akin to a heaven on earth. Yet I can assure you it was nothing of the sort.

Best I explain.

You see back in forty four I found myself seconded to undertake a covert quest on behalf of King and country to relieve Japanese Emperor Hirohito of his treasured pet Dalmatian (disrespectfully named ‘Carruthers’ of all things) and at a stroke bring such shame upon the Japanese nation by revealing that their leader of supposed incarnate divinity couldn’t even keep hold of his own mutt then his military hierarchy would all fall upon their own swords and bingo the war in the Far East would end. Tactical brilliance British style its very self – couldn’t fail!

Sadly I never got to undertake said mission for regrettably on the day prior to setting off on the last leg of my journey, and whilst readying myself for the operation in Australia’s sub-tropical Northern Territory I had an altercation with the world’s largest reptile namely Saltwater Crocodile and I was effectively beheaded. For my part I was merely ensconced waterside, skimming through Lady Chatterley’s Lover seeking out the rude bits – a habit I picked up at prep school – when the wretched beast sneaked up on me and with one almighty chomp swallowed my body whole…one gulp! Almost beyond belief.  That it did not return for my bonce I can only put down to the fact that I had scoffed a garlic laden extra strong Ruby the night previous and that that had put it off a skull pudding.

Fortunately for me my loyal batman, a chap called Seymour Hare (he was in his later years to pen that bestseller ‘The Open Kimono’) upon overhearing the kerfuffle was able to rescue that rather crucial brain box of mine and with the aid of a handy goldfish bowl and an ample supply of white vinegar effectively pickle the orb that was all that was left of yours truly!  Good old Seymour also had the foresight to send a homing pigeon back to London with a ‘what the fuck should we do?’ message affixed thereon. Several days later the rather knackered out columbidae arrived back with a directive that all would be well as some nutty professor type in California had recently overcome the attachment of spinal cords issue and was more than prepared to transplant my head upon that of a recently deceased donor body. Better still I would apparently have a choice of any number of bodies to take as my own! Even though the vinegar was stinging my eyes and muffling my hearing what with ‘me’ being immersed thus in the goldfish bowl this good news came as a great relief – indeed I had already begun to think specifications and additional features over and above those I had been originally blessed…you know…muscular biceps…the sort of appendage that could get me a job in a fairground should the need ever arise…stuff like that.  But first we had to get to California and with some haste as the acidity of the vinegar had begun to play havoc with my lug holes.

Next day I handed over – as it were – the piloting of my trusty Lysander to some Aussie chap who looked the worse for drink and we set off. However said Aussie had quite forgotten to refuel my aircraft the idiot.  In the middle of nowhere over the South Pacific the engine spat out its first, ‘running on empty futt’. Luckily from my vantage point within my see through glorified carafe I spotted a small island encased in a triangular barrier reef boasting what were the most incredible lagoons not that far ahead of our current position. Plainly I gurgled this information to silly bollocks the pilot who paid it little heed.

Not long after we belly flopped about half a mile from terra firma.  Setting me in the sea to float on an incoming tide my companion took it upon himself to swim ahead. In an instant the poor chap was at the epicentre of a circle of crazed sharks who did for him there and then. That left me floating alone but at least en route to safety of a sort.

Within the hour I was washed up upon the beach and looking around – a rather easy thing to do in my goldfish bowl pied-à-terre – I must say that at first glance I truly believed I had found a paradise; an aquamarine sea and adjacent to the beach a forest of swaying palm trees. Better still from out of the forest and running toward me at pace, all smiles and giggles came at least two dozen brace of bouncing young breasts. That thereafter this group of gorgeous gals sporting such prized assets and clearly marvelling at my state of being were to carry me with great care inland to their village haven.

Once within the village I was placed upon a throne fashioned of bamboo next to a russet goddess clad in only a short grass skirt thingy, who with a smattering of English she had picked from her days at Ethel Murphy’s Finishing School for Polynesian Tuna Gutters in East London’s Mile End Road told me that she was the Queen of said island.  Furthermore she advised that the island was only inhabited by those of the fairer sex as, long since their menfolk had left en masse for New Zealand to make up the numbers for the national rugger team! Always did have those Kiwi’s down as cheating bastards and now I’d got it from the mare’s mouth so to speak!

Also I got to learn from Queenie that as she was now the one who cracked the whip (that phrase still stirs my very loins even to this day) she had determined that the next adult male to be stranded upon her fair shores would be called upon to do a spot of repopulation and that had I not had a major deficiency  – what with me being effectively being just a ‘head’ – I would most certainly have been the chap the gals had been looking forward to having slip them one…their own Robinson Crusoe with benefits!

“I say Your Madge I am off to California asap to be reconnected to a body so if you and your gals can hold on a cock longer I’ll make damn sure I return and service the lot of you…I assure you it will be no trouble at all,” I said in a vinegary splutter.

“Really Twattersley, really are you sure you don’t mind…I mean I feel ever so awful putting you to such inconvenience…I mean I don’t want you to think you’re just being used or taken advantage of or anything…gals tell Twattersley just how grateful you’ll all be to have him impregnate you all.” With that a circlet of ambrosial and ‘in the altogether’ beauties sniggered their accord.

“Of course I don’t mind…obviously I have to force myself but in your tragic circumstances I’m only too pleased to offer assistance in this time of need.”

“Anyway you were saying earlier that without transport you were a little bolloxed as to how to get to California.”

“How very true Your Madge.”

“Well I’ve had a spiffing idea in that regard. We can simply put you in the sea when the tide’s going out and the Trade Winds will no doubt float you all the to America.”

“What a blindingly sound plan…I must make haste.”

And so it was that 8 months later I was washed ashore on Laguna Beach, California. Fortunately I had had the foresight to have Queenie scratch a note into the glass of my goldfish bowl regarding the now pressing transplant business so that when a somewhat taken aback local surfer type Yank did stumble upon me I knew all would be well. That the surgeon even allowed me to fashion a new body from a selection of the recently deceased was even better and I felt sure my Polynesian stunners would be…how shall I put it…suitably impressed!

As soon as I was whole again I was off quicker than a bride’s panties back to the island paradise in a Curtiss SC Seahawk seaplane (courtesy of the US air force no less) for a bit of prolonged procreation…hard work I know but needs must when the devil drives.

Imagine my dismay then only to arrive and find each and every gal wandering about the place heavily pregnant and, worse still my batman Seymour Hare supine in a hammock hung twixt two palms smoking a cigar, a smug look upon his face and clearly as happy as a puppy with two pricks.

“You bastard, this was my gig and now you’ve ruined it…I was so looking forward to rising to this occasion…so to speak…you utter, utter bastard.”

“Sorry Sir…I honestly thought you were a goner. After the wreckage of your plane was washed up I tracked your movements across the ocean and started a search island by island. Arriving here the Queen…what an adorable girl and she is a bit of a go’er to boot…”

“I don’t even want to know that bit!”

“Well anyway she told me she’d set you to sea on the outgoing tide and all that and I concluded you’d never make the journey alive or if you did you’d not return in one piece…I mean it has been nearly 9 months hasn’t it. Whatever, it was then that the gals begged me to stay and as you can see I’ve put myself about a bit…did get a bit tiring toward the end I must say…I was boss-eyed and had developed a tic for a few days after clubbing the last of the bevvy yet sometimes in life one has to go that extra mile doesn’t one?  You don’t fancy doing bit of midwifery over the next few weeks do you only I could do with a hand?”

“Piss off…I’m heading back to Blighty”

It was thus that I hitched a ride home atop a giant turtle a broken man.



Lost in a foetus dream first remembered then forfeited

as a still born into the abyss of erased forget me nots

As is his want he ambles toward his hideaway of volition
cursing his checkmate disposition, yet unable to configure ‘How so?’

By and by over an expresso too many and nicotine too little
a garish tabloid headline triggers the homecoming of rationale

‘You hate America’s brash materialism
The bumptious pomposity of the British
And your perceived view of loose morals
Within those realms counted as Western
You fashion words, enact the foulest deeds
Ride on the back of a God you name as the
Same one your brothers and sisters in their
Droves know not at all; have never known

As wayward loose iron filings to a magnet
Your pubescent numbers inexplicably swell
Your target innocents suffer rape, mutilation
Abominable death you justify as token punishment
Thus furthering a cause beyond all perspicacity
Granting as your own the blessing of echoing your God
You make sons and daughters suffer so for the
Crimes you determine their ancestors committed
The idiocy of playing both judge and jury lost on you
The feral ones tangled in the faraway maze of blind faith ’

With meagre thoughts thought it is only then this thankful misanthrope
is able to think how fortunate he is that no God claims him and that he
will never lie down upon the piss stained mattress of the compassionless