Svetlana is my beguiling young housemaid
she looks after my every need
well perhaps I should just say ‘almost’
for not on everything have we agreed

You see whilst I am old and wrinkled
certain ‘urges’ I still have about me
yet when I have tried to seduce her
she simply adds a little something to my tea

True it dampens my ardour
yet when I wake up the very next day
those ‘urges’ come back to haunt me
Yet Svetlana still keeps me at bay

And so I sit in the dim gloom of a lit candle
to the spits and crackles of an open log fire
while Svetlana tends to my ablutions
I watch her still consumed by desire

in my old fez hat and with ear trumpet
a glass of port that never runs dry
this old mansion is not such a bad place
seen through a monocle about my weak eye

And then of course there’s my woollen blanket
at my age I get so very cold
if only Svetlana would warm my four poster
I’m guessing I would not feel quite so old

Personally I can’t see the problem
so I’m ninety six and she’s just eighteen?
with a mere modicum of encouragement
I’d be the King to her Queen

Still nighttime has once more descended
by moonlight we will go on to the moor
Svetlana has readied my bath chair
which I sit in as we exit the door

For this night I have something to show her
something I think most spectacular!
Svetlana will get more than she bargains
when I tell her I’m Count Dracula!


book cover 12092015


svetlana 3

Social climber, Svetlana, would do just about anything to trap a chap, any chap really, who she thought may get ‘ahead’ in life.

Re-run of an old caption from a while back…as today is Svetlana Day!



I am the rusty old sage who lives in a Frigidaire (don’t ask)
A raconteur by nature, a people watcher by design

“What is it you say my dear? No I’m not talking to myself again, I am about to impart a tale to anyone who might listen, that’s all…and yes I am fully aware I sit alone!”

Sorry for the interruption…where was I…oh yes, my story!
A tale to tell, one from days of yore, one of inhumanity,
love and I like to think, one with perhaps a
smidgen of hope in the bleakest of times
Where to start?

Outward, below and beyond
manufactured aftershocks and
proficient barbarians, crippled spires
gargoyle cataclysm, city laid to ruin
last breakout crossing carnage
invader’s flags planted on high
totalitarian emblems seeded
petrified pulse of tramping boots
feckless hands tied tight, back to any wall
no blindfold arbitrary butchery
infants scream and women wail
so beggarly the landscape of defeat

Up where the pigeons rest, on high
within a once grandest old town house
upon a ‘couldn’t give it away
in better times’ sullied mattress
a much too soon young widow
astride a first time beholden
‘all but a man’ wannabe sentinel
the pair of them in another time
another place weather permitting lovers
whatever, for her the event a bitter desires swansong
for him a ‘once before I die’ want

Meanwhile at ground level a heretofore unlatched
doorway blown into smithereens for supremacy’s effect
next the staircase stampede of the howling many
seeking out the powerless few, once inside the uniformed
deviants find no-one at home! No-one to carry off!
“Where’s the fun in this?” sadism thwarted
In their disappointment they discover just the two
perfectly naked carcasses sealed in a timeless kiss
fit only for the ambiguous pit of the humbled, nought else

You see, a shared cyanide capsule is a phenomenal thing
indeed a thing affording our ‘only just’ lovers
an escape from this loathsome dimension

A small victory of sorts for the good souls
on a day when grace evaporated, and
oh yes I very nearly forgot, a brace of pigeons
for tainted supper for the ones who otherwise
would have ritualized triumph in slaughter

There then, a happy ending!



That somewhere twixt idle thought and spoken word there exists within her grey matter a temporal lacuna was beyond reasonable doubt. More examples than he had had hot dinners if the truth be told. ‘Her endearing feature’ he warily labelled it.

For reasons unknown, undeserved even, she had always taken for granted that he knew everything, the whole shebang…or was it just that he was her security blanket. After all, outlandish questions were her forte, as was her propensity to put of forth quite the daftest, sometimes precocious propositions.

She was sat curled up upon the sofa on autumn’s eve, before her a ‘one day soon to be lit’ log fire, reading glasses precariously perched on the bridge of her nose. He took due account of the fact she was looking as delectable as ever. Carefully she rested her shorn of dust cover hardback on the wonky side table. Telepathy gave advance notice that she was set to interrupt his red wine solo musings. Not that he minded the prospect of an inevitable, never less than entertaining diversion.

“Bottlenose dolphins?”

“What about them?”

“It said in my book that when it comes to body mass to brain ratio the Bottlenose has one of the largest brains in the animal kingdom, second only to humans…indeed are even self-aware”

“Common knowledge, what of it?”

“Well I was wondering what they would be like if they had arms and legs and could live upon terra firma…what exactly would they do”

But they haven’t though have they. Next question!”

“No…bloody cheek. Listen to me, if dolphins are self-aware that means – and science has proven this – that they are social, can teach, learn, cooperate, scheme and grieve. Also they are thought to have a language of sort using that clickity noise they make so basically they can do all the things we can do except we have limbs and can make things”

“That clickity noise you refer to is likely for navigational purposes, although I am open to the contrary view…any way where are you going with this?”

“Well imagine a dolphin brain in a human body and lots of them at that, all living on an island together. Would they open shops…clothes shops specifically”

“Do what!”

“Well it stands to reason that once out of the water there would be day/night and also seasonal temperature variations plus…and this is the interesting bit to me, ‘modesty’ to consider. I feel sure young Miss Dolphin would not wish to wander about the place without a stich on…although the Jack the Lad bloke dolphins would reckon it a fine thing no doubt!”

“What are you on about…the bloody things are stark bollock naked in the sea aren’t they…not the slightest bit bashful in the ocean…don’t even know they’re naked”

“We’ve been known to swim naked! I presume you’ve not forgotten our shenanigans in Cornwall? Whatever, so while we might swim naked we certainly wouldn’t wander about the town square thus would we? Besides we’d be arrested!”

“Ever the philosopher…are you building up to some sort of allegory re the ethical virtue of an exclusive brain and limb combination manifestation of consciousness to creationist’s and evolutionist’s alike or will you favour just the one side of that debate?”

“Well without limbs to make things no matter how fine the brain might be we’d spend our lives’ nude”

Or be extinct more like”

“Not if we turned back into dolphins…or any marine mammals…you’d make a good Sperm Whale I think!”

“God give me strength…apes…what about apes, man’s closest relatives…they haven’t opened a branch of Next or planned a new season’s wardrobe for the cat walks of Paris to the best of my knowledge!”

“Monkeys are covered in hair so that doesn’t count”

“Bloke in our cricket team is as hairy as I don’t know what but he doesn’t set off to work in the raw does he?”

“He might as well do…the sight of him with his top off that day made me urge…hirsute or what! I rest my case!”

“Fancy another glass of wine?”

“Why not…and I might add Adam and Eve had their kit off all the time and they were not constantly ‘at it’ to start with…maybe they were really dolphins and the sea was The Garden of Eden…maybe this God chappie kicked them out because they started to grow ‘bits’ and groped and gawped at each other…probably how sex for pleasure rather than tedious procreation kicked off!”

“So you’re saying the development of ‘bits’ as you succinctly put it proves the case for evolution?”

“Suppose I am… ‘Survival of the Most Inviting Bits’!”

“I shall name you Mrs. Darwin henceforth!”



A preamble kiss and a bottle of cheap chilled
something or other would, he felt sure score
another notch on the bedpost of life. Regardless
he would make his getaway as soon as she fell asleep

Come dawns sweet tea she tutted the crabby tut of the
recycled on behalf of ubiquitous snacks through time and station
‘Bastard…will I ever learn’

Long before commentary wedded animation
she envisaged a synchronized vocalization behind
Pathé’s Animated Gazette’s fluttering silent newsreels
The thing that galled so was that others, better placed
than she had done the self-same thing. Crushed in a
modernistic love, commerce and harmonization compulsion
a transoceanic seaplane getaway a clamorous imperative

A thought struck as she lay unsinkable basking upon
the saline waters of the land locked Sea of Salt, namely
that her current resting place was unique, yet not so she

A little later, dangling bare toes in the Jordan River
sipping Perrier, by the bye musing over this and that
she resolved that a reinvention of self was long overdue

Back in her bare bones hotel charmed upon hearing evenings adhan
prized, new-fangled ‘double twist’ ball point pen upon reverse side of
a snatched rather than chosen postcard, she penned what gnostic poets and philosophers
have quested since the conscious remedy for plagiarism was laid bare
“To be truly unique is to think of words and thoughts
the human collective have missed or not yet discovered”

Dogma and conviction were, she decided the only obstacles in her way
well those and a soupcon of self-belief. Her fatal, never to be remedied flaw
was being unawake to the fact that uniqueness breezes in of its own accord
rather than is unearthed, and as the old wives’ tale goes, ‘Be careful what you wish for’
for there is a merciless price to pay when a daydream prayer begs egocentric invocations

Come a new dawns sweet tea
a broken angel hits the dirt with a dull thump,
an audacious ‘Jazz Age’ concourse shies away
and a ‘Roaring Twenties’ lioness spews out her death rattle roar


false memories

Company car keys at the ready CHECK
Stuffed to bursting point plastic carrier bags CHECK
Wonky old suitcase, zipper knackered a bit; just the one functional wheel…bollocks CHECK
Cherished vinyl’s stuffed precariously under a sweaty armpit CHECK
A stolen memento (not telling) CHECK
Fly buttons done up? CHECK
‘My hat…where’s my bloody hat?
Forgot…I’m wearing it’
Got everything?
He hopes so…there’s no turning back this time

There are some events even Time itself is too afraid to dabble with
leaving cathartic flashbacks pure, untouched, crystal clear

He notes a manky mutt now pisses against the lamppost
he took the liberty of ‘lamping’ that day so long ago
preferable to hit the inanimate than otherwise an adroit hunch?
Anyhow, ‘Good luck to you Fido or whatever your godforsaken name is’

Still here he stands
older yet no wiser
exact same place
same street, a shame
‘too many trucks’ use it
A back double these days

Outside that same house
his home one time
done up rather nicely he sees
better nick than he left it in!
wonders who lives there now?
Reckons a young ‘nuclear’ family
yes a family…’twas a big lump of Victoriana after all
flat conversions perhaps?
No…can’t be…just the one door bell
confirms his first suspicion

He penned an ‘almost’ verse that very same day
later on though, early evening if the truth be told
juvenile yet heartfelt; sufficient yet lacking
in the pub, eight pints into an oblivion quest
so long ago now…recalls it read something like this

You draw a line, a line in the dirt, I ask you what it’s for
You tell me I can cross it, you should have told me more

You tell me that it’s time for you to step back and set me free
That unshackled from love’s chains I just might find my destiny

You shrug, say you got bored with the games that we play
That you want for me to move on, you’d be most grateful anyway

I ask you if…I ask you if you’ll grant me just one final wish, just the one selfish final wish, ‘Can your memory travel with me?’

You take some time out thinking, then you treat me like a fool
You laugh as you remind me ‘Lost love has false memories…that’s all’



Ever the gentleman he
held open the café door
for a winsome fossil to exit
only to discover that in her wake
followed a wrinkle of geriatrics
each mumbling regret for past doings

Seemingly an eon later he would observe
the throng shuffling hither and thither
headless tortoises one and all
in an attempt to disperse
making sure to avoid puddles
small children and fallen leaves

She saw him first
his comportment magnetic
tapped him on the shoulder
outside, in the wind swept street

“How kind of you Sir”


“Courtesy is in short supply these days and you patiently waited until they all left in their own time…didn’t hurry them along”

“Oh that”

“Don’t you think they look like a human mosaic?”

“Not particularly”

“Oh I’m an artist by the way…the curse of seeing eyes and all that”

It did not go unnoticed that
she was a walking aphrodisiac
their eventual union inevitable

Some little time later on the kind of
luminous, no light pollution night, the
like of which would see Van Gogh sober
and in the middle of an almost nowhere
he would ask of her, her secrets
that she answered with just a wry smile
a disappointment for he wanted her to admit
that The Intentional Fallacy, her supposed guiding light
was utter bollocks, wanted her to recognize that
contradiction was her one tiresome frailty

Battled-scarred lovers always have a point to prove yet
calculable distractions were quite beyond her perception
and thus far the reprobate time shark had not claimed his exorbitant levy

On the day the world was to come to an end
he found her alone, more fragile than before
unkempt hair and decked out in a ghostly white hooded cloak
sat cross legged within the viridarium of Vatican City
balancing miniature balsa fashioned Wicca pentagrams upon cocktail sticks
“My gift to the heavens…obviously,” her obdurate parting shot
In return a butterfly kiss his gift on behalf of a feasibly beholden Zion,
deserved regardless, for she was in her lover’s eyes
akin to a blasé genius playing Scrabble with a dyslexic cosmos

A codicil to her Last Will and Testament read
“May my footprints in wet sand be left to mankind for posterity”
foolish in the extreme in hindsight
laughable also yet well-meant
she was after all bananas before her time by then
she, his bombastic virtuoso who paid little heed
to the murderous bi daily ‘keep no secrets’ rip tide


jessica 2

Previously when things turned sour in my life I’ve always turned to hugging trees – I find such solace in this simple act of communing with nature the only way I know how. Lately however, every place I go be it at work, to pray, within my relationship with my current partner Harry the ‘Bomb Thrower’ Evans and even at the shops people keep telling me I smell something chronic.  Frankly, given that I wash at least twice a month (using ethically sourced carbolic mind) I cannot see why I am cursed thus. Perhaps – although I am beginning to harbour doubts in this regard – poetry may offer some salvation. So here I gift you my latest – and possibly my last – poem.

At work my colleagues say I smell
That I chuck up a lot
That my odour is repulsive
And worsens when it’s hot

My boyfriend he threw up on me
Just the other day
Said I stunk like a cesspit
Or a brothel in Bombay

They’ve banned me from my local church
For the parishioner’s they urge
The choir master he passed out
Whilst conducting some holy dirge

At the shop that sells the fresh fish
The owner he did say
You do distress my patrons
So, ‘fuck off; go away’

I really cannot continue
Living my life like this
When even small boys at the bus stop
Laugh and take the piss

I think I will find a tree
And hug it quite a bit
Then throw a rope across a branch
And hang myself from it

As ever my dilemma persists and I feel another suicidal moment coming about me. It’ll be my 49th attempt and this time I am minded to try a combination of Ex-Lax and Vindaloo as I once heard of a pilgrim on the road to Basildon who ended it all with this concoction – although rumour has it the pilgrim had also drunk copious quantities of lager (sadly not to my taste so I may have to substitute this with a fermented herbal concoction). This may then be my last blog. However, before implementing this latest plan to end it all I know of a Goat Willow just up the road simply gagging for a hug.



Ring ring…….ring ring……..ring

“Hello is there anyone there…hello……….”

“Frederick Perkins.”

“Is that the actual Frederick Perkins, Velcro Consultant to the Stars?”

“Yes, that is I – how can I help you?”

“Phew that’s a result – thought I might have got the wrong number.  Anyway, Jonathan Crumbly here. I am most interested in conspiracy theories and urban myths and have heard a little something on the grapevine that has whetted my appetite in terms of verification.”

“What’s that then Jonathan?”

“Well given that you are I understand the world’s foremost expert on the history, manufacture and usage of Velcro that more often than not you pass onto to the stars and celebrities via a myriad of social networking sites, can you confirm (or otherwise) the authenticity of this little gem I wonder?  You see there’s a bloke down the pub who swears that Jimi Hendrix suffered from a Velcro phobia (as yet unnamed by medical science) brought on after an unfortunate incident when bending over to fix the Velcro buckles on his trainers. It seems that his somewhat wayward haircut in the Afro style caused, when he leaned forward to affix said buckle, to become entwined with his frizzy locks and reluctant to cut his hair off to effect the removal of the trainer he had to take the decision to wear a Westerner hat from then on until the day he passed away.”

“Well Jonathan I am of the considered opinion that that story constitutes an urban myth no less.  Certainly it cannot be true. You see poor Jimi choked on his own vomit and died back in 1970. Whilst Velcro was invented by George de Mestral in 1948 its commercial uses in terms of shoe closures on footwear did not commence until well into the 1980’s no less.”

“Really, how very interesting.”

“Yes it is. Also there is another red herring doing the rounds you might want to make a mental note of, namely that the curly mopped child film star from the 1930’s Shirley Temple suffered the same fate whilst on the film set for the movie ‘Curly Top’ in 1935 – almost 20 years prior to its invention!  There are some cheeky rascals out there making up stories I can tell you.”

“How shocking.”

“True!  However what I can tell you by way of a little snippet is a funny tale from a few years ago when manufacturers of ladies knickers were blighted by a worldwide shortage of knicker elastic no less! 

“Tell me more.”

“I will do if you stop butting in.”

“Whatever, it was thus that some idiot designed such panties to include a Velcro gusset as an alternative…substitute if you like…to an elastic waistband with the intention of preventing them from falling down.  There was, it turns out uproar in the Northern Territory of Australia causing the Velcro gusset to be banned after several native Australian ladies found, road testing the knickers with said gussets got stuck to how shall I put it?  Well may as well go the Aussie route, their ‘bush’ which meant when popping to the loo the panties were stuck fast.  A number of them, as you can imagine had embarrassing little ‘accidents.’  Furthermore, I think you’ll also find said gussets play havoc with Brazilians yet as to if they have been banned there as well I’ll have to check and get back to you – let us just say there was many a ‘close shave’ in the wake of the furore.”

“Well that’s a stonker of a tale – I can’t wait to go down the pub and tell the boys that one! Thank you so much.”

“Only too pleased to be of assistance Jonathan.”


chandelier 2

Sometimes I am a ghost, sometimes an embalmer with but a dream
yet do believe me when I say I am worth not tuppence nor the contents of
a feckless tramps skimmer yet I know self-evident things the eyeless narcissistic miss

In the wake of any Great War
young men of exponential alias only
decompose in oozing trenches and
yarn dressed ‘old maid’s’ are dreamed-up
in ivory towers here, there and everywhere

Not her though, for she would never allow trepidation to trump mettle
Not for her to miss out on those symbolic treasured little scars and bruises along the way
Not for her a life without having swung stark naked and fit for a king from a Strass crystal chandelier in the company of a true lover or indeed on occasions an impasse of booted and suited rakes

For she never was The Tree of Life’s wasted blossom the busy bees would overlook
never the non-participant spending a lifetime scrutinizing a jobless letterbox and
missing the boat antecedent to a poignant deathbed last hurrah with no worthwhile
tale to offer the ferryman by way of reparation, her restiveness too well engrained
for her to suffer any of that old flannel

“I had a bore of an aunt who lived to 101 and died with quite the cleanest lungs and who had never drunk anything stronger than freshly squeezed summer fruits on the rocks” an abstract, no doubt idle throwaway flung in my direction at the roulette table in the Grand Casino, Deauville

Of her faults?
But the one!
She had no conception that
prime flesh is ephemeral
that virtue is all
Pooped-out too soon in my book

I bedded her of course yet
it irks her memory persists
in nostalgic jolts, for
I couldn’t stand the woman!

As I eluded to at the outset
sometimes I am a ghost
sometimes an embalmer with but a dream