Annoying WP is only letting my post appear on some ‘readers’ yet not others…guess it could be a classic example of my stupidity re all things technical though!


book cover 12092015

The conversation went something akin to this!

“Have you ever thought of putting a collection of poems together as a book Mike?” 

“Occasionally young Rachel…it would be a splendid thing indeed to be able to have a bit of hard copy for the grandkids to read one day and ponder on the point as to what went on in the mind of that silly old fool of a grandad they once had.” 

“You should do it then.” 

“Do what?” 

“Write a book” 

“You’re having a laugh surely? When it comes to getting things together I’m about as much use as a fart in a thunder storm; a eunuch in a brothel; you name it and that’s how pathetic I am.” 

“No I’m not joking…just do it!” 

“It’ll never happen Rachel…you know all the practical stuff involved…I’d just glaze over…remember I’m the bloke who…

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book cover 12092015

The conversation went something akin to this!

“Have you ever thought of putting a collection of poems together as a book Mike?” 

“Occasionally young Rachel…it would be a splendid thing indeed to be able to have a bit of hard copy for the grandkids to read one day and ponder on the point as to what went on in the mind of that silly old fool of a grandad they once had.” 

“You should do it then.” 

“Do what?” 

“Write a book” 

“You’re having a laugh surely? When it comes to getting things together I’m about as much use as a fart in a thunder storm; a eunuch in a brothel; you name it and that’s how pathetic I am.” 

“No I’m not joking…just do it!” 

“It’ll never happen Rachel…you know all the practical stuff involved…I’d just glaze over…remember I’m the bloke who struggles to decide which way to turn the key in the door to open or lock as Shirley can verify…besides I’m computer illiterate…a non-starter I reckon.” 

“Leave it all to me.”

And it was thus my American chum, the lovely Rachel Carrera did just that! She played around with a snap of my wife Shirley and came up with a stupendous book cover, compiled a back page and worked on my spine (in a nice way I must stress). Thereafter she, my project manager extraordinaire created a whole book…when I say she did everything she really did…I didn’t have to lift a finger – mind if I had the whole thing would have come apart at the seams!

It is thus that Rachel, diamond gal that she is has given me something of substance for posterity and has my eternal gratitude.

Rachel can be found at – well worth a visit if you don’t know her already.

I understand that ‘my’ (should really be ‘our’ book) ‘Gentlemen Prefer a Pulse – Poetry with a Hint of Lunacy’ is now available at Amazon and on Kindle and can be found at;

For the UK;

Paperback –

Kindle –

For the US;

Paperback –

Kindle –

As to the rest of the planet I haven’t a blind clue sadly! Maybe best to try Amazon!

What are the odds I’ve messed up on these ‘links’ – the one thing I had to do myself – I wonder?



Faberge eggs and assassinations
‘Weather permitting’ suicides
and venom charged pin pricks
pickled wódka brains and this and that
diced red cabbage, rock salt mined
dreams lost to circumstance also

How soon a great Empire crumbles
when bloated and so very tired of caviar

She spoke a little English
sufficient to seduce as and when
purchase a breakfast croissant
have a stab at The Times crossword sometimes
yet cometh the hour
beneath Waterloo Bridge
she thought of drowning in the Serpentine
her unspoken words born of legacy
plus those newly borrowed abroad
all inconsequential when skulduggery was about

“I think they’re on to me”

The English boy listened intently
to this one-time ballerina wearing Doc Martens

“The only victims of oppression here are the pigeons…nothing to worry about’
passing her the half empty plastic fuselage of White Lightening

Three gulps and a driblet of spillage later
“Nobody likes us and we don’t care” her hackneyed riposte
picked up on the streets of old London Town


A relatively mild ‘back home’ Russian winter
may have saved the root veg and rye
likely would not salvage her
though handily ‘they’ have to
uncover her first providing her
at least that small comfort

The placebo effect of threat
idle or malicious gives way
to bitten lips and cold shivers
now is not the time to dilly dally

“I shall re-invent myself I think…good plan?”

No comeback from the boy
she turns about face
finds a grin plus Makarov pistol
flush between her eyes

Not time for her bladder to react
the boy makes his getaway
Timbuctoo beckons

Somewhere in a back street
a vagrant trades new shoes
for something more immediate


me and shirl 2

I’m off for a short break before the clocks ‘go back’ and dire winter descends! The Ardennes and a bit of history beckons and it is thus that I shall be off the radar for a few days.

As ever I shall try to catch up on the offerings of the Reader as I am advised there is the prospect of Wi-Fi, yet staying within a forest I need to see it to believe it. In the meantime I shall leave you with an old caption I knocked out a while back!



“Right then Harry, you reckon she is and you Bert are wagering she isn’t.  For my part I’m with Bert. So then on the count of three we all look up. 1….2…….”

Best of good fortune – I shall report back shortly!


black widow

I met her but the once
stumbled across her
busking or begging
I never was quite sure which
sat cross-legged
upon the pavement
outside a charity shop
in the High Street
dressed in a tapestry of
sewn together off-cuts
of ‘this and that’
a hippie hat also
playing La Marseillaise
on the penny whistle
if the truth be told
it was that that first
caught my attention
stopped me in my tracks
we’re not used to that
sort of behaviour in
England’s suburbia…not used to it at all!
“I simply adore the perfect symmetry of autisms exact recollections…unique don’t you think?”
That my fuzzy brain could not afford a riposte a given
In the light of my silence I was not sure if the look on
her freckled face was quizzical, bemused or if she was
just having an old fashioned jolly good ponder
“You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about have you?”
“Frankly no but that does not mean I’m not interested in what you have to say,” my inadequate apology
“You know so little…anyway have you a cigarette, I’m gasping?”
I offered her a Marlboro Light which she took
but not before pointing out her preference was
a Disque Bleu yet needs must when the Devil drives
We got to chat, she still sat, me stood awkwardly
towering above her she professed that she could
see the Evening Star with eyes tight shut
dawn’s first light long before the witching hour
that the colour of death was snow white
“I rather defy the logic of this dimension don’t you think?  Whatever aren’t you going to throw a few pennies in my cup then?”
“Oh of course…how very rude of me…here, here’s ten bob.”
“Good, name me a tune, any tune and I’ll play it for you.”
“Can’t think of one off the top of my head,” which was true enough for she had me all of a muddle
“Never mind, there’s always another day in this tedious realm.”
I quizzed her as to where she came from yet the
best she could afford me was, “Not from these parts”
and I could have guessed that anyway!
Not wishing to outstay my kerbside welcome and
with a nod and a smile I went off about my solitary
frozen ‘meal for one’ business quite unaware
that she would follow me home
A knock at my door
“May I come in…you see I have no place to rest and you have the look about you of a decent sort?”
How could I refuse?
I had a ‘suffiency’ of eggs to produce a
couple of passable omelettes
she seemed to enjoy hers
more so I suspect that we shared with it a
bottle of frankly indifferent Beaujolais
Scoff over we both were feeling tired
The bed time conundrum!
As a gentleman I offered her the spare room
That she declined surprised me more than a little
“You’re guest room looks a little dingy, may I share your bed?”
Taken aback and part chuffed
part scared out of my wits
I acceded to her request
it was not everyday a girl
a stunning one, albeit an odd ball
expressed a desire to sleep with me
“Best you tell me your name young lady.”
“An unusual name…rings a bell”
After and later, I awoke in an instant
from the deepest deep slumber
felt needle sharp bites to my abdomen
startled me, excruciating pain and
muscle cramps, dewdrop sweating too
in a stupor I made for the mirror
two tiny fang marks red in colour
Anxiety preceded the diabolical echo
of Eos’ ear-piercing manic laughter
I turned about face, my desperation eyes
met hers, hers cold-blooded remote ones
then as memories prevailing and chronicled
stampeded through my death rattle mind
I remembered from God knows where
‘Eos, mother of Hesperus’
Hespurus, he who had lent his name
to the species of Black Widow spiders
He whose name translates from the Ancient Greek
Her final words?
Certainly more tender than one might expect
“Sorry it’s just the way I am…can’t help it really…just hope I don’t get indigestion like I did with the last one”
And yes, the colour of death is snow white!






Where once an amen egalitarian
Round Table and Aston Martins galore
now just the detritus of a bygone
Camelot and bucket loads of ill will
small vices, flawless nightmares and
oh so fractured castles in the air

Indigenous self-exaltation abreast
home grown uninspired Cox’s Orange Pippins
antipathy toward coffee coloured anything
a kingdom that belittles undisciplined rainbows
has dullard ideals and ideas, so ‘rich’ in history yet
destitute in pith, lamentable in notion and deed



She locked herself in

in the ‘great wide open’

shed merry-go-round tears

enough to fill a milking bucket

wishing she could turn back time

to the days when love’s spell was first cast

and he was a genius


Invariably he drank alone

harnessing his train of thought

an important thing to do when

Archangels and heretics were about

trading insults, chanting the unspeakable


In times past little mattered to him

those halcyon days of waking up when he woke up

days of draft dodgers holidaying in Soho

discussing the merits of Acopalcan Gold over Tibetan Temple Hash

always leaving the jury undecided in an immaculate quandary


“Pass me a nectarine would you darling…thank you”


Whimsy and fine red the best of bedfellows these days


“Also my dear perhaps a coffee at that new place in the town square tomorrow…sounds idyllic don’t you think?”


Rarely did she answer his rambling questions

dilated upon on his all too foreseeable notions


“Any way where was I? Oh yes I remember now…the day I ran a marathon…that was it”


This one she could not let go


“No you didn’t…you’ve never run a marathon in your life!”


“Metaphor darling…a mere metaphor”


“For what?”


That he referred to his birth and impending

death entirely lost on her for the present


Mattered not for in a flash his working memory

disintegrated under a tidal wave of autobiographical delusions




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

“What a glorious day it is Inspector Lestrade! Why the raincoat and galoshes’ may I ask?”

“Because Dr Watson it is blowing a hooley and pissing down something chronic you idiot.”

“Oh…um…hadn’t realized, still if the sun were out it would be glorious! Never mind let’s get to the point, why do you require the services of Sherlock and me?”

“Ah follow me to the bus shelter onward a little…it’ll not only give us the small mercy of sanctuary from the storm but it is the crime scene of a murder most hideous.”

“Jolly good Lestrade…we like a good old fashioned juicy murder don’t we Sherlock?”

“Fucked if I know.”

“Now, now Sherlock…be positive! Lead the way then Lestrade.”

“Right here we are Watson…what pray do you make of this?”

“Not a lot as it happens Inspector Lestrade…methinks you’ve got us out on another of your wild goose chases.”

“Not a lot! Good God man how can you say ‘not a lot’ when the corpse of a blindfolded, otherwise naked adult male, hands bound behind his back with twine, severed genitalia….where his meat and two veg are Lord only knows…and if you care to check his torso you’ll note multiple knife wounds…and, and all you afford me is ‘not a lot’…what a dozy twat you are!”

“Me ‘dozy’ I’ll have you know I slept like a log last night…look, pay heed…I’m not even yawning…cheek of it.”

“Your view as to primary cause of death then Watson?”

“Cause of death you ask…well likely this poor wretched soul was an escapologist, probably an imitator of that Harry Houdini chappie. I suspect he was waiting for an omnibus to take him to the theatre where he was due to perform yet thought he would have a little practice of the finale to his performance, however things in that regard went horribly wrong and it was thus he inadvertently killed himself…cause of death most likely the blood loss from the inadvertent chopping off of his John Thomas and family jewels. Insofar as the Coroner is concerned I believe we can safely say ‘death by misadventure.’   Good enough for you Lestrade?”

“I’ve heard it all now! Where’s the knife then clever clogs…moreover where’s his bollocks; where’s his clothing?”

“Plain as the nose on my face the deceased, having tied himself up to rehearse his act got all in a muddle yet had about his person a 33 function, 8 layered Swiss Army Knife manufactured by Victorinox, a firm of knife makers based in the town of Ibach, in the Canton of Schwyz, Switzerland with which he attempted to cut himself free. In his panic…he probably heard the sound of the omnibus engine in the near distance and decided he shouldn’t tarry any longer…things got out of hand and he met his regrettable demise.  Said knife along with his clothing and his unmentionables (possibly mistaken for road kill offal…easy boo boo) all stolen by a passing ruffian perhaps…it hardly matters.”

“Dr Watson you must live in cloud cuckoo land…I shan’t even waste my breath commenting on your pathetic summation you utter total 100% fuckwit.”

“Sherlock you must intervene for that awful Inspector Lestrade is as ever being beastly toward me…tell him Sherlock, tell him that I am an expert in these matters…slip in an, ‘I deduce’…say what you really think Sherlock…spit it out man.”

“Fuck knows.”  



Had it not been for the bellicose
gargantuan hoof of circumstance
tramping upon time twixt the
dyad of cataclysmic wars then in
Never Never Land the lovely
granddaughter she would never have
would be a Goth, piercings, tattoos and all
headphones tuned into Metallica’s metal

Aside the banks of The Rhine the
glamour of the outdoors lost on him
a onetime lance corporal the
Academy rejected methodically
paints in watercolours the symmetry of
architectural structures on the opposite bank

An ‘expunge the nix Teuton’ hypochondriac
bitter sweet ‘thus far dreamer’ of unspeakable
deeds ahead and odious days he shall father
ensures foul play is not just confined to the playing field

For now though he who would liquidate free spirit settles into his work

A chocolate box Bohemian girl of the left’s left
twiddling the reddest parasol under a fiery sun
Zelpha confiscated butterfly nets and fed stale
pumpernickel to the impetuous quacking ducks
‘live and let live’ her mantra

Fate had it that she stumbled upon the ‘artist’

“Flora and fauna not your thing then?”

“Not really young lady”

“But look…above the skyline…a skein of geese…you could draw those”

“They bore me”

“Surreal art then?”

“Anyone who sees and paints a sky green and fields blue ought to be sterilized”

“That’s hardly a very nice thing to say…I rather like the thought of blue fields”

A decade or more on and in full bloom
Zelpha will never again tread the great
river’s hit and miss towpath, watch the
day go by or think great kindly thoughts
for now she is a victim of he who once said

“I do not see why man should not be as cruel as nature”

She of pedigree purer than her creed’s bête noire
She an egalitarian worth six million of him, eradicated



She found it for the best to have about her an umbrella
when riding a comets tail chasing the solar winds
you see an umbrella when opened afforded her a safer, more
predictable landing upon those rare orbs where gravity held sway
“I’ve seen more life in a tramps vest than within this wretched infinite space and time. It is thus I feel compelled to alight…to touch down…to savour the clatter and hustle of people and places where dualism prompts the delicious activities of mind and body,” so said this extraneous mischief maker
High up upon the windswept granite moor behind bolted
tavern doors in a land where sheep outnumbered populous
where goats and ponies had long since dislodged wolves and wild cats
where erratic ‘love-hate’ weather was the only real beast of prey
she, now in serving wench mode dished out porter and strong ale
to a motley crew of miscreants and run ragged clergy alike, all
topping up their already ‘full to the gunnels’ grotesque beer bellies
That the clientele of dubious morals and manners remained
‘after hours’ was to bear witness to her songs both bawdy and blasphemous
lewd and crude, no stone left unturned, fabled far and wide
Later though, when rip roaring volatility gave way to sleepy heads
resting on oak table tops in an ‘almost silence’ of snoring, farting
the occasional ‘best swallow sharpish’ belch also, she would call time
send the whole horde away to their beds, lovers and swine
In her heart of hearts she knew it was only a matter of time before
her one-armed centurion arrived from a beaten and battered Gaul
out of his epoch and into hers before the cockerel’s first crow, naturally
The pair once had been ‘intimate’ back in the days
when a rising Rome still saluted those about to die
“What on heavens earth are you doing in this pig sty of a place girl?”

“Playing…or perhaps I should say about to play tricks with a counterfeit Kings shilling as is my current want…it’ll wind up the locals when I slip it in their drinks and they shit themselves at the very thought the Press Gang are about”
“Ah the threat of a watery grave…how very cruel of you…long time no see”
“Why did you seek me out?”
“Surely you always knew that one day I would want my arm back…so attached to it as I was!”
“True yet was it not you who once said you’d give your right arm to have me…a fair price to pay”
“Changed my mind”
“Too late…you had me!”
“What say you give back my arm and I give you my heart?”
“Why should I?”
To a one time more or less tamed shrew to be taken for a ride
by a two-timing centurion who’s notoriety with the ladies went before
him demanded that the ‘pre the event’ proffered appendage be hers
so while he slept within the legionary encampment following the
Battle of Cissa she seized the opportunity even thieving his own much
cherished Gladius for the cut before taking flight beyond the aurora borealis
“Profess true love and I might just acquiesce…beseech, threaten or woo and you have no chance…think on it for now I sleep”
While the temporal one was in slumber
an old soldier, her umbrella in his solitary fist
made haste for a distant horizon where all
was becalmed, a place free from solar winds