An unfinished and by no means polished, chapter-excerpt from the short story I am trying to write which is set in the Culture universe of Iain M. Banks. I wrote hopefully about this back in 2019 when after a period of inactivity, I had seemed to have regained my muse. Then 2020 happened and I … Continue reading A chapter with no gravitas.
Teenage poetry. This one has a date, 13th August 1977 which, the internet reliably informs me was a Saturday. The original title that I'd written down was 'The Ad,itive' but I thought that it looked a bit too, um… you know. I'd obviously been overdosing on telly adverts and thinking about Carol who I'd met … Continue reading The Additive
Soldiers stare in poets' guise, shout bloody words at careless skies. Faces bowed are steeped in grief, and turn away from warrior and thief. Art ensnared in martial rule, followed by bloodlust thirsty fools. Teachers caught are sold and bought, preach manifestoes to the worth of naught. Mourning not another day, these people force my … Continue reading Out of the Ecliptic
With apologies to Joni Mitchell… Woke up, it was a Chesham morning, and the first thing that I heard, was that noisy prick on a moped, and I mouthed a few choice words, and he came tearing up the road, at well over 30 miles an hour. Won't you go away, you've ruined my day, … Continue reading Chesham Morning.
Paper Flag Can you believe them? Sing their songs then. Understand them? Come to terms then. How can you say, that they know how to please you, can't you see that you are cheated? Every turn you are defeated. They pave your way so narrowly, and strip you of identity. I see a child in … Continue reading Paper Flag.
Some time later, when the street vendors had packed away their plastic crosses and crown of thorn hats, a small group of young people gathered under His cross and began to sing. It was a sad song, but no one looked as if they were sad at all. This continued for some time, then they … Continue reading He is alive.
Sing to me no more. Talk not of love, save me the trouble, of trying again. Just leave me, to my books, my pictures, and my sad, lost lonely looks. No! Please no more. Not your anguish, spare me your trouble, your crying and pain. … Continue reading An escape.
I wrote Cosmic Generation as a song; I didn't have any music for it, but I felt that it had a certain rhythm, maybe a certain beat...
I wrote "Statue" back in nineteen seventy something, it's one of the few pieces that I don't have a date for. I was an angst-ridden teenager trying to come up with a theory, no, a working model of the universe; how it worked, where I fitted in, why I must fit in, why girls didn’t … Continue reading Statue.
This came unbidden to me the other morning, I have no idea how or why, I was sitting on a bench at Chesham Station waiting for a train into central London when all of a sudden, there it was. The first line, then the second and third lines and then the rest. Perhaps it was … Continue reading Impromptu, inappropriateness?