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

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
plus to purchase a breakfast croissant
maybe to have a stab at The Times crossword 

Yet cometh the hour
beneath Waterloo Bridge
she thought of drowning herself
in the Serpentine, given its panache
her unspoken words born of legacy
beneficial to those newly 'borrowed' abroad
all inconsequential when skulduggery was about

“I think they’re on to me”

The skinny English lad 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

“True” his yawning response

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 skiny 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 chirpy vagrant trades new shoes
for something more immediate

Below, my new book in paperback direct fromn Amazan, or on regular Kindle as well as Kindle Unlimited. All the best to one and all, whomsoever and where on this globe you may be.

Copyright © 2023. All rights reserved. Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, and lending, prohibited.



  1. Mike, I have a cupboard load of Doc martens in every colour as well as stilettos, platforms, hill, mountain boots of every kind and 25 year old hikers, my grand daughter is quite intrigued by which is why I loved this post so much.

    1. Madam Shirl has the same thing. Doc Martens galore over the years. I like them, and it’s always handy when i’m stuck for a birthday present! Thanks for the read. Mike

  2. I have seen so many girls like that on the streets of London, and the image chosen is perfect.
    You took it to the dark place that it needed to travel to. Nicely done.
    Best wishes, Pete.

  3. The depth and breadth of this urban ballad is a sweet disturbance.
    You are amazing at creating abstract realities. The oxymorons of life seem to live in the tip of your pen.
    Love this. Thank you, TOF!

  4. Thank you, young Resa. I think the joy of writing fiction is that I can do anything I want; be anything I want, good, bad and loveable. It’s like a whole new world no one has ever been to when I put a pen to paper, ideal for an old fool.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.