moon girl


She likened him unto the moon
‘at first light’ storms and a dark side
electrifying, magnetic, intimidating
impact craters, devilishly dapper
she quite overlooked his failings
that there were times when apathy
prejudiced her come hither games

Finally adversity eclipsed cajolery
only then did the she-moth spurn the
come hither charms of dark celestial
and instead, back on terra firma fell
head over heels for an incandescent
quite bare lightbulb, she paid the price
for infidelity, a betrayal of constancy
lost herself within the white lightening

Stiff collared the know all therapists
crippled thinkers the specialists
xenophobic the nursing staff
limping invalids the lot of them
in a place serving to mend the
‘from the outside looking in’
plausibly ‘fit as a fiddle’ inmates

Her only family now a dog-eared overcoat
the powers that be entrusting her a
rambling mastermind, one who juggle with
her wounded notions on a distracted whim
preferring crossword puzzles above mending
prescribed unavailing high voltage and pills

Bombed out and shortly to open a vein
she wished she were a meteorite again

On hearing this the man on the moon turned
another page, visited another grave



A CASE FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES (even now still suffering from detective’s block)

“Ah Sherlock and Dr Watson sorry to drag you both out on a wretched night like this yet as you can see from the corpse before you there has been another incident…I think we have a serial killer on the loose. The similarities in the modus operandi of the murders are identical each and every time. The poor soul we have here is the eighth victim. You’re the medical man Watson…what’s your take on it.”

“Inspector Lestrade when will you learn never to jump to conclusions. My first instincts here tell me that we are dealing with nothing more than an accidental death.”

“Accidental death…what are you Watson, a moron?  For God’s sake man how on earth do you work that one out?”

“Look here Lestrade…here…just here, the corpse is plainly that of an adult male and you will note if you can bring yourself to bother to look properly that the thumbs of both hands are horribly mutilated. Indeed they are bent backward something chronic. That alone suggests to me that he was involved in a skiing accident, nothing more…Holmes and I shall take of our leave now that’s been sorted out.”

“Hold your horses Watson, a skiing accident!”

“Yes, I repeat…a skiing accident. It is obvious to me that he simply, albeit irresponsibly, affixed the strap of the upper part of his ski poles to his thumbs for safe keeping in case of a fall.  In the event he did take a tumble and bingo, mutilation of the thumbs.”

“OK then Watson, so assuming…which I’m not in part or at all by the way…that you are correct then how do you account for the fact that both kneecaps have been smashed to smithereens with, I’m guessing a heavy blunt instrument, likely a club hammer and the fact he has a courgette stuffed up his arse? That’s flummoxed you hasn’t it you dithering old twat.”

“Don’t you call me a ditherer Lestrade you intellectually challenged PC Plod you…use your imagination, think about it. Consider our victim here…he’s whizzing down the piste like billy-o, takes his tumble, rolls down the run, his knees smash against some protruding rocks shattering the same. In great pain and shock he screams out ear piercing profanities so loudly as to cause an avalanche the force of which carries him ever forward down through edelweiss adorned meadow land into what I am supposing are tended allotments where someone is growing courgettes and one such courgette regrettably ends up in his anal cavity.”

“Well Watson you’ve surpassed yourself this time…on a scale of 1 to 10 in the ‘talking a load of old bollocks’ stakes I’m scoring you a 12 you….you…fucking idiot.  And what’s more this is the eighth corpse we’ve come across all with exactly the same injuries, all with a courgette up the jacksie and furthermore all the bodies were found out here on The Norfolk Broads, the flattest part of this great nation of ours and nowhere near a bloody Alpine ski slope prone to avalanches. Tosser. I don’t know why I bother calling you out to my investigations for you are about as much use as a fart in a thunderstorm.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock that Inspector Lestrade is being beastly to me again. Sherlock you must agree with me apropos my analysis as to cause of death.  You do agree don’t you Sherlock…tell me you do?”

“Fuck knows.”

“No Sherlock no…my reputation is at stake…give him a swift ‘I deduce’…say what you are really thinking Holmes…just spit it out man.”

“Fuck off.”



It was on the hallway carpet that she found me,
Stark bollock naked and face down on said floor,
“Are you dead or just method acting as per usual?
You look like you’ve been killed in some ghastly war”

Not that I could hear her what she was saying,
For I was well and truly sparko; out for the count,
And thus it is the true tale of my sad demise,
That by way of this short verse I shall recount

You see I had taken an impressive tumble,
Down a full flight of the very steepest of stairs,
At 4AM Friday morning just gone,
In hindsight what a shocking state of affairs

Had I not fainted on the first floor landing,
I would have been safe and ensconced in a warm bed,
Yet circumstance overtook my best endeavours,
And it as it happened I plummeted instead

As I slowly came round to my senses,
I noted my wife gagging to take a pic,
Of my black and blue butt that was hurting so much,
So she could post it on Facebook double quick

You see she, my spouse whose name is Shirley,
About her has a most mischievous streak,
And the sight of me naked, battered and bruised,
Looking not statuesque, not even ancient Greek
Plainly had amused her in some strange way,
Although later she put that down to the shock,
Of finding her husband of many a long year,
Having taken more than just a bit of a knock

In the end she took pity and decided,
It best she did not take the snap,
So around my left knee that now was bent the wrong way,
A bag of ice cubes she felt it right that she should strap

At the A&E the nurse enquired of me,
As to the red raw carpet burns about my back,
Whether I had had a few lazy nights in a brothel,
Or had the Inquisition whipped me whilst on the rack?

Perhaps my new quack will later discover,
The exact reason that I fainted and blacked out,
As for me just a brief recollection when falling,
Was mouthing, “What the fuck is this all about?
Later when an order of some semblance,
Had returned to our humble abode,
Over strong coffee we tried to determine,
How I had come almost to the end life’s rich road

“You are lucky you didn’t break your neck you know,
Or end up bed ridden and paralysed,
For a minute I thought I’d lost you Michael Steeden,
For a minute I was so very terrified” 

It is said that love works in mysterious ways,
And some they insist that love is all,
Yet the love of ‘Nurse’ Shirley has been the best thing,
To have come out of my most wretched fall!

MIND SHE DID POST THESE WORDS ON FACEBOOK! ‘Mike passed out and fell down the stairs (it’s ok the new carpet was not destroyed). He’s now getting on my tits as he’s bruised from head to toe and covered in carpet burns. The accident happened at 4am so he only wore his modesty at the time. If he mentions his aches and crakes one more time I shall be forced to slaughter him. Yrs Nurse Blamey’


paris 1


The epoch of Molotov cocktails, workers revolutions and common ownership
long since holding sway in the heart of Mother Russia had put unvarnished truth on ice for
both the refugee dreamers and the wide-eyed sleepers now nesting in The City of Love
little to amuse other than conceive modern art, huddle as one collective and to beseech the
shortest, poorest allegory of all, “Outside of the cave is merely outside of the cave”


Floozies and intoxicated summer nights distract, even belittle the new-fangled totalitarians
brazenly peeking over the brink of the Maginot Line planning this and that for another day
yet as of now wrist tattooing and counting golden fillings, logging the places the fiddler still plays
while spawning ever more flawless blond, blue eyed specimens for tomorrow’s humankind


The restless young dog day neo-impressionist behind the game his peers play listens intently
to news from Moscow told askew, as the jagged Soviet stood upon the rickety table broadcasts
to the left bank café crew the lie that all is well in Utopia still, yet turning a blind eye to the
greed and, or ambition of comrades to the fault line within the philosophy of Mordechai’s son
Those with willing ears they listen, they absorb, they believe his intrigue even as innocent thinkers
‘settle in’ in Gulag’s east of nowhere, the progressive Hexagon socialists get the news they want


Up high in the 18th arrondissement at least that budding blinkered artist had his seasoned lover
and all too willing muse in these days of political polar opposites ever at each other’s throats


“I’m bored, perhaps I should paint you outdoors for once…banks of The Seine maybe…you can keep your clothes on this time”


“I should hope so too”


“Never marked you down as modest! Besides there’s barely a living soul left…it’s August and those that can have migrated south. The city is deathly empty”


“Yes though there are plenty enough American writers and film-makers throwing dollars hither and thither”


“When have a few gawping Yanks ever bothered you? Imagine out on the Île Saint-Louis I’ll wager the sight of you au naturel would top up our dwindling coffers…maybe you should?”


“True…yet the gendarmerie would lock us both away”  


“By the way I might head off to Spain…join one of the International Brigades and help the fight against Franco and his scum”


“The ‘Rather Hitler than Blum’ brigade fascists will have your guts for garters you know”

Come winter in a ramshackle barn south of the Pyrenees’ blood red
upon a blood red mattress scattered thoughts and memories
three kisses of a cut throat daily no more, idealism crushed
the artisan who flirted with leftist polity became carrion

She, his erstwhile fascination, the one who had been around the block a few times
on a whim of necessity remarried her gentle gentleman from days of yore
forevermore regretting that she had let the boy leave Paris


jungle 1

Escapees from up in smoke dazed dominions

Crescent, Cross and ‘Couldn’t Care Less’ alike

young, old, bambino, brothers and sisters all

just twenty wet miles away a foreseen island of

top of the milk cream and dripping honeycomb

free from menace, out of harm’s way sanctum

journeys end so close, expectations tantalizing

‘Go tell that to the Royal Marines’

the open arms of Liberty a vast ocean away

here scattergun animosity prevalent, here

‘On England’s pleasant pastures’

serpentine dreams and half-forgotten promises


 “Bugger off back where you came from”

“We don’t want you here”

“Not our problem”

“Starve for all we care”

“Besides you only want to take our jobs”

“Charity begins at home mate”

“I blame the French”


We are few it seems

we who care and give

though our compassion

impotent in this land of

white bread stand still mongrels

would be purebreds all

in shameful denial, as

politicians’ so called ‘Swarm’

char, chill and wish their lives away

in Calais’ open Jungle wound




“Oh Superman I’m so glad I found you.”

“What’s up Lois luv?”

“Well the boys on the news desk at the Daily Planet have been getting reports in that a massive asteroid the size of Metropolis itself is heading directly toward the Earth…worse still it’s made of deadly Putinite and as you know Putinite contains the virulent and lethal ‘Asinum Red Crudam…that’s Latin for a red raw arse by the way…Difficile’ bacteria. If the asteroid should strike then any survivors will all die of having the runs…you must save us Superman.”

“Right Lois I’ll be on the case in a jiffy…just got to pay a visit to the little boy’s room.”

“No time for that Superman…the asteroid will strike in just 5 minutes time.”

“Crikey Lois it’ll take me all of 5 minutes just to get out of my special Superman suit let alone have a jimmy riddle.”

“I’ve noticed that you’re always in the loo these days Superman.”

“Bit of a personal problem luv…the old prostate has enlarged a tad.”

“What a coincidence that bespectacled little twat news reporter Clark Kent back in office has that same problem.  I mean there’s a queue a mile long outside the gents there whenever he’s trying to squeeze out that last drip.”

“Does he by Jove…still that’s his problem. Look Lois me zips jammed you couldn’t give us hand could you luv?”

“If you think I’m going to unzip your fly you’ve got another think coming matey boy…I’m not that kind of gal!”

“No this bloody suit doesn’t have a regular fly, it zips right up the back and what with me hopping from foot to foot desperate as I am to point Percy at the porcelain I can’t do it meself.”

“Well I’ll try but you must understand the survival of the human race is in your hands Superman…right that’s budged it a cock…best you make a bolt for the khazi…and by my estimate there’s only a couple of minutes before the galactic collision.”


“Bollocks, couldn’t go…tried to force it…nothing! Ah well best I find a telephone box and take a quick spin so me Superman suit fits proper like.”

“No time Superman, I’ll zip you up no problemo.”

“Doesn’t work that way Lois…I have to do the spinney thing in a telephone box for the zip to go up.”

“Look there’s one over there…set to it Superman…only 45 seconds to oblivion now.”

“Right Lois leave it to me I’ll just have a swift knee dash over to the telephone box and all will be well…having said that I’ve just been consumed by the overwhelming urge to have a tinkle again.”




Presently we have a bespectacled chain smoking electrician constantly turning the electricity meter on and off at seemingly random moments, two burly, shirtless builders (the wife has taken something of a shine toward them) outside breaking up concrete (hell of a noise I must say) so as to lay a new drive and a random Russian (former KGB by the look of the chap) plastering the dining room. I cannot write or even think with all this disruption so I have decided to escape for a little while. Moreover I am conscious we only a have few weeks of summer left to enjoy.

It is thus that it is my intent to cross La Manche and aim for France…that is if the Blighty bound migrants have not effectively blocked the Channel Tunnel and/or the disgruntled redundant former ferry workers (who’s cause I support by the way) haven’t left burning tyres on the motorway thereby shutting down The Port of Calais!

The very best to one and all of you and my thanks to Inchy for the pic he’s mugged up showing me in all my socialist glory!

I shall return full of orgasmic smelly French cheese and lashed up with crates of red!


ceiling rose

My life in some ways has been blighted by a propensity to take things literally. It happened again just yesterday when my wife said, “While you’re out don’t forget to buy that Victorian Ceiling Rose will you?”

I was minded to ask, ‘What Victorian Ceiling Rose’ yet thought the better of it.  “Of course dear…I won’t be long…catch you in a bit.” 

Plainly even a fool like me is aware that there are many, many types of woody perennials of the genus Rosa yet in all truth I had never heard of the Victorian Ceiling variety. Still as I made my way to the garden centre I felt sure that the nice (well very nice if the truth be told) gal who works there would point me in the right direction.

“I say young lady I see you have many varieties of rose in stock from climbing versions to shrub roses, hybrids and even miniature ones yet I cannot spot the Victorian Climbing Rose my wife has sent me on a mission to purchase. Could you point me in the right direction please?” 

“Certainly Sir…may I suggest you pop along to the builders merchants up the road, they have them.” 

“The builders merchants are stocking flowers now are they…bet you’re not too keen on the competition?” 

“Sir a Ceiling Rose is but a decorative plaster moulding affixed to the ceiling from which a chandelier or light fitting is often suspended…not a flower!”

Obviously I felt rather embarrassed and took of my leave in an instant. £65 later I returned home with the Victorian Ceiling Rose. All was well.

However this event (a true story by the way) reminded me a similar misunderstanding twixt my youngest son and I a few years ago when he was likely 15 or 16 years old. You see he also takes things literally!


To my son who takes things literally

Unto him I did once say

“Could you be a good chap

And recycle our waste today? 


All you have to do son

Is chuck it out the front”

I presumed he knew that the bin was there

For in the affirmative he did grunt


Yet to my great horror

I spotted the lad outside

Emptying our food waste

About the lawn and on the drive


Outside a gale was howling

Around our hilltop home

And peelings of potato

And such like they were blown


Far and wide all down the street

In truth such was the mess

That I was fearful of litigation

And in a state of some distress


“Why did you do that?” I enquired

“Do what?” he said, quite blunt

And anyway he added

“You told me to ‘chuck’ it out the front!”  


And thus it was I turned to

St John’s Wort to help me cope

And contemplate the point

Is there any fucking hope?


I have previously posted this particular verse a couple of years ago when I first commenced this blogging malarkey.



The day the scallywag backed the lot…the whole kit and caboodle…on the Aga Khan’s horse, Blenheim in the ’36 Epsom Derby would herald a change of his fortunes. Whether for the better or not only time would tell. Regardless, that his horse came in at long odds, 18/1 if the truth be told, saved his bacon for the baby metaphorically speaking really did need new shoes. For a wheeler dealer who had lost everything after Wall Street had crashed including a toffee nosed wife and a ‘hardly home enough to recall what he looked like’ child – she and sprogling had run off with a Genghis Khan lookalike – a day had arrived that at long last held some promise.

31,500 Guineas, albeit converted into high denomination £100 notes was a lot of spondoolies and following a good few annoyingly repetitive (to those around him) champagne toasts to jockey Harry Wragg he headed back to the dubious sanctuary of the West End. Soho to be precise. On the tipsy side of sane his preference was, as ever a familiar old back alleyway rather than the ‘look but don’t touch’ Windmill Theatre he could now afford to patronize.

Her two up, two down terraced cesspit within such a passageway with a tatty postcard affixed to what could arguably be termed a front door (it had been kicked in that many times) read, “Large Chest for Sale” and it felt like the closest thing to home he had these days. In truth the gal domiciled within had much more than that for sale! Whatever he regularly enjoyed the comfort of her debatable charms and found the wicked revelry they shared ‘cheap at half the price’ – that is when he could afford it and right now he was positively lashed up.

“Well Harry if I were Mae West I’d have something to say about that there bulge in your skyrocket.” So said the largish yet well-formed ‘almost’ mutton dressed as lamb brama stood before him taking time out from picking her teeth with a cocktail stick in the shell shocked decaying hallway.

“I’ve had a bit of a result as it happens luv…you know I won’t have to ask for credit or pay in instalments anymore…besides I’ve come to make an honest woman out of you.”

“Have you though but! Tell me why I’d want to be an honest woman?”

“Don’t muck about luv…look I’ve had a windfall…took a punt on a rank outsider and it won…my ship has come in luv.”

“Are you pissed only you look pissed and sound pissed to me?”

“I cannot tell a lie more than a few sherbets have passed my lips this day…but I’m telling you the God’s honest truth.”

“How much then?”

When he told her the quantum of his winnings she put the back of her hand to her forehead, whispered in true theatrical style that she felt faint and promptly parked her arse on a chair.

“I think I need some water…how much…tell me again so it sinks in.”

“Water! I think we can do better than Adam’s ale don’t you…it’s off down the pub for us luv…put your best togs on girl.”

Much later that night as the landlord rang the bell signalling drinking up time the now well-oiled mawkish couple reflected upon his earlier proposal of marriage.

“Tell me then Harry why oh why would you want to marry an old Tom like me?”

“I’ll tell you why all right…because you’re not a stuck up posh tart…because you’ve got a heart of gold…and I don’t want to be just one of your punters no more…that’s why. I’ll buy us a mansion by the seaside and we’ll live like King and Queen.”

“What about me regulars…I mean I don’t like letting them down…especially the vicar…oh and the Lord Mayor.”

“Fuck the vicar and the Lord Mayor luv…you’ll never have to be on the game again…I’ve got all the shekels we’ll ever need.”

With that Harry dropped down upon one knee in an attempt to conduct a formal proposal only to feel the wet slap of the landlord’s slops laden bar towel on the back of his neck as he reminded them both it was, at this juncture formally closing time and that they should take of their leave forthwith. Harry protestations as to the merit of his quest fell on deaf ears. Still, on the way home Harry observed it would perhaps have been proper to propose after he had purchased an engagement ring and, importantly when sober in the cold light of day. He concluded that in the global plan of things the proprietor of the boozer had done them a favour.

Next morning, a Sunday that would not see a church visit, two hungover aging juveniles shared toast, black pudding and kisses for breakfast.

“So then luv if I pop up the jewellers in the AM to buy you a gold ring and propose proper like will you say ‘yes’? I’ve got to go out tomorrow anyway to put my little pile of beer vouchers in the bank.”

“Reckon I will as it happens.”

“Blinding luv…absolutely blinding news…I mean all this time we’ve been seeing each other…I must have been one of your best, most loyal customers ever. By the way, seeing as how we’re tying the knot you best tell us you’re name…I don’t think I ever caught it?”

At this point Maud kicked Harry in the bollocks dropping him like a sack of spuds. A girl, even a working girl has her pride!



My boulevard of ‘know all’ over-pruned plane trees can never keep secrets
We gossiping motionless ones devour life’s cameos and bequeath them far and wide
Regardless along with my cousins, those dreaming spires and self-effacing cobblestones
we have seen it all before
Whether they be lovers, current or contrary or just in love you will find them here, here in this city of bicycles, wicker baskets and eccentric wind swept academics

What diversion will confound this day I wonder?
An unacknowledged lost sheep wearing a gentleman’s fedora
perched prettily pavement side of an open to question cafe
brazenly breast feeding to the tuts and whispers of mostly obese prudes
she all too aware that this is a place where disenfranchised coffee beans are
incarcerated within paper cups sporting plastic titfers suffering scolding viscous milk indignities
Still needs must when the devil drives
Macca’s words ‘Sweet Loretta Martin thought she was a woman, but she was another man’ loops inside her head as she awaits the licentious scholar
‘The philosopher’s milk cow is the most exquisite thing in the universe’ the sometimes gay aged bright spark thinks to himself as he catches sight of her sat at her precarious table looking as beguiling as before
Albeit late as usual he dilly dallies hither and yon before taking a seat opposite his onetime muse
“Thunder and lightning” 


“Thunder and lighting is what I thought when I got your message…to meet you here that is. Been a long time. What pray do you want young lady? Sorry to have to rush you only I’m speaking at the academy at 3…can’t be late, you know how it is” 
Behind the see through mask of unfiltered Gauloises and half decent espresso candour she asks him for a name for his son, nothing more
 As I alluded to earlier, our circle of paralyzed ‘bark and brick’ have witnessed it all before