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Poems and Short Stories

Originally I compiled this writing of mine 15th & 16th December 1988 for Freda Bell and wrote the dedication "Dear Freda, Well Fred Here it is your Tom poem book filled with crap and glory, but you did ask for it so here is the unabridged version with lots of love and affection, I dedicate this pamphlet to you. (Cuddle to be sent on later!)"

The original introduction and excuses still apply in 2012 only 24 years later, and of course I have added more crap and glory since. Anyway perhaps one day I will separate out the crap from the glory or alternatively I will let you do it if you can be bothered.

Introduction and excuses

By presenting these poems as a pamphlet I do not mean to make any statements about my view of there worthiness for publication, some of them are crap and some are good. Some manage to mingle these two qualities with a subtlety that I cannot quite explain. However I have restrained myself from editing them in any major way but have allowed myself the privilege of correcting some spelling mistakes and adding the odd comma here and there. Basically I have put together every poem or word grouping that I could lay my hands on, I have also added prefaces to many of them to explain there origins and how they came about. Frequently the prefaces are six times as long as the poem, but what the hell. I would suggest that you read the poem first and then read the preface so as not to gain any preconception.


In 1978-79 I was freed from school and all the obligations to learn what was of little interest to me, I felt now that wisdom was to be mine and now the journey was to begin for real. This feeling was expressed in a dream. I was on a beach being taunted by my school chums but then I took a canoe and began to paddle out on the calm warm sea, there voices faded. Eventually I arrived at some huts on stilts, and it was there that I was given a small snake, about the size of a grass snake, that coiled its self about the upper part of my left arm. This snake was the serpent of wisdom and it was to inject knowledge into my vanes; it still does! This is a poem that doesn't follow the dream but it expresses the feeling of a
journey in another way:-


I took the long oar from out the boat,
And dipped it into the moonlit waters.
It seemed so silent as my boat sped forward,
Forward toward the feeling of wisdom.
The swishing sound of the silvery paddle,
The singing sound of the bright full moon,
The looking sound of the silent searcher,
Looking for me;---------------
In the watery ripples of the bright full moon:
So looked on the silent searcher,
So I sped on through the silvery water,
And so it was that I found my wisdom,
Lurking in love in a light lit corner of the silver sea.


Could be from 1978 to 1981:-
The forest, ever green, looked dark in the moonlight. I could feel my bare feet on the soft earthy floor of the forest, the scent of sweet pine in the cool night air.

I walked forward in the forest. As I walked I saw in the distance between the tree trunks that an area of the forest floor seemed to be lit, there was a clearing of some kind ahead. In the middle of the clearing there was a stone that stood erect in the earth. I walked to the edge of the clearing and looked. It had a grassy floor kept short by the dear of the forest. I walked to the stone and touched it, it was cold and solid in the earth. As I walked back to the edge of the glade I heard the stone. I stood on the edge of the glade and looked back to the stone, it was quite as ever, but just as I was about to go I saw the shadow that should have been of the stone was not of the stone, it was changing. When I looked back at the stone it had also changed its form. In it's rough surface a stone face was forming, the nose the eyes slowly molded themselves into the surface. Different parts of the stone were growing and shrinking; changing. The form was that of a woman the lower half of her legs were still underground, but it seemed as though she sat astride something. As I watched the grass broke open in front of her and a perfect stone horses head rose out. The stone horse put its fore limbs forward and pulled its self, its back and hind limbs, out of the earth and stood on the grass of the glade. There was no hole left from where the stone horse had arisen.

There it stood, in the middle of the glade, the stone horse and a stone woman rider. I stepped forward. She turned, gently looked at me and from her stone lips came the words "Don't come forward yet." She turned back to face forward as if it took great effort. As I watched, the stone surface of her face started to look more like flesh, the horses great flanks turned black and her robes turned into shimmering white. Around her waist was a blue belt from which hung an empty blue scabbard, decorated with small stones that took the moonlight into them. Around her neck was a collar of blue, it was circular about her neck and over her shoulders. In the centre of the collar was one moonstone that shone out above all the others. Her hair fell down her back long straight and black as the horse she rode. The horse had no reign about its head. I could see its eyes white against its head. "Come" she said; I walked toward her, she reached down to me and I was lifted onto her horse behind her. "Hold about my waist," she said. I wrapped my arms about her waist and put my body close to hers my head upon her back. She raised her left arm, pointed and looked to the sky. The horse pointed its head up to the sky, and as I looked the ground fell away beneath us.

Impending Doom

In the academic year 1979 I was finishing my 'A' levels. I was very conscious of the nuclear threat at that time, and also the banality of human behaviour, it seemed that no one thought for themselves. At this time I also had other quandaries. My love of knowledge was a passion as it always has and will be, and for some reason I had got it into my head that this knowledge was centered at Cambridge University. I had been promised help from staff with my CCE the Cambridge Colleges Entrance examination but was badly let down and discouraged. This change in direction of the staff, over this issue became a personal battle and due to stress from this I lost most of my skills and could no longer think properly. Needless to say I failed the CCE, but luckily enough was able to restore myself for the 'A' levels enough to get decent grades, but I was far from on form. Anyway it was under the ax of my first major failure and the political talk of limited nuclear wars in Europe that I wrote this:-

Impending Doom

The feeling of impending doom slowly drifts in and out of the silent houses and streets, like a fine mist. It drifts over surfaces, through empty doorways, along roads. It goes every where. No creature can escape the poisoned fog of silent emotion. That slips into all minds. Its in your mind now but you may not find it.

You are human, but you are not human unless you can find the poison that is in your head. You do not think for yourself you are one piece of an animal who has command over you and it is called society. It rules you. I am this thought, I do not rule you, but I implore you to rule yourself, can you?

Sleeping Ones

A silver sliver slipping silently through vastness
Far off stars reflected on the silver surface of the craft.
On board the silence is completed, no stir, no movement.
The pale faces, of just living humans, lying still.
For ten thousand long lived years the humans have lain
Asleep on board our Hermese.
They go to sow the seed of life, the seed
that grew upon the green planet.
The green planet that is now black.


In the first year of college 1980-81 I was questioning the obligations and expectations that are laid on males to a very great extent. Indeed I wondered weather I had been given the worst lot of the sexes and I wished greatly that I had been born female so that I could be as close as they seemed to there children and so that I would not be banished from them from nine to five each day. Also it seemed to me that males were undesirable and that females were desired. I wanted to be of value and desired and to be able to bear children. It was only by opening my eyes to what I was as a male and not what I was expected to be as a male that I was able to accept my masculinity and be beautiful in it. I became a person.

It has always been the case that there is a trust or obligation that young men should go to fight in wars while women were left behind. Perhaps this is about two solders lying on the banks of the river of death, and watching, there own death immanent.


Fifteen dead men swam past, as we lay
And the moon shone down on us.
We knew the blue of the sea and the shadows
Would not forget the plight of our widows.
"Don't go Johny don't go." But go he knew he must.
For some how he knew that his life and his manhood,
was all in this unseen trust.

The root of all

In September of 1980 I was a fresher at Queen Mary College University of London, I was very unhappy there and only stayed for four weeks before I transferred to Bedford College U of L. In those four weeks I had taken to walking down onto the football field at the back of the halls of residence of QMC in south Woodford, and I would sit on the wall at the end of the field and watch the tube trains passing by.

On one such day the sky was still blue but the moon was high and very beautiful. At this point I decided that I could no longer tolerate belief in what was imperceptible and I ceased just to be a doubter and became "one without God", an atheist. Why at this point? Because it was now that I had to find a solid foundation of beliefs upon which to build an idiology, to build my way out of the strange experiences I had had, and to form the foundations of the future. It seemed to me that I could not build upon an idea of a loving caring god who saw even a sparrow fall from the air and yet stood by as the flesh of a thousand peasants was burned in Heroshima, or who could watch as the living flesh of a human was smashed and torn to pieces at the hands of some mediaeval enquisitor. Further to the abandonment of god was also abandoned the idea of any mind soul or spirit that existed separate from my body and had lived before or would live after it.

This seemed a tragedy that I should not be immortal. All these changes of belief happened within the space of half a minute and so it was that I was humbled in the vastness of the universe, and my mind was washed clean for what was to come. I have never regretted that decision in eight years  (at the time of writing), for I am now truly wealthy of mind and become more so each day.

My love of the universe has always been a romantic one and that romance is what fuels my quest to understand something of that which I love, through the methodologies of science. And perhaps the she, that I have spoken of before, is really my minglings of my love of the universe with my desire to love a person, I don't know. But during the time that I was hearing voices in my waking dreams I was spoken to by someone who was her and she said "I know who I am and I know what I do. Some times it makes a strange feeling to be the root of all." After she said these words she joined me or at least left part of her in me and I invited that as I wanted her so much. Those first words were the essential Is (read as: eyes) that I needed to regain my determination. The root of all part, I was not sure about and refrained from mentioning it to others less they should think I thought I was god. But far from it, it is an expression of my love for my children to be, for my world, and for the children that form humanity as a whole, the children that we all are in this vast universe. It was a love she felt and that I feel, for as I said a part of her is me. I expressed the feeling in terms of the following words in at some time perhaps in the first years of 1980.

The root of all or perhaps Eve

Standing on the warm sands, beneath the stars am I:
Not far away the village lights soft glow,
Breaks the shadow,
On the warm sands surface:
Inside each house the soul of life it glow,
Forgot my womb from which it all did grow,
On this same planet
        time ago.

Over Dose

Early 1981: It Queen Mary Collage I volunteered for the night line. This meant being rung up late at night by people who were suicidal or depressed and one such person was Debbie who I actually met and was friends with for some time. She had a past legacy which it is perhaps wrong for me to put down. But her past and her religion caused her to have guilt and it is by overdosing that she would try to escape that guilt. I wrote this poem for her and gave her a copy which she liked and I believe has kept. Though I have lost contact with her now.

Over Dose

On a lost island she is sitting,
Guilty of nothing.
Drifting away
Drifting far away into the darkness.
No no! Wait wait, please don't go
Its not to late, your guilty of nothing.
Guilty of nothing, Oh how terrible it is
To be guilty of nothing, the pain -
The strife. Hold on for gods sake
Its not to late, Your guilty of nothing
Flowers on the stone, mix with the leaves
She is alone now, alone
No more feels the pain,
She's buried; her guilt underground
That's what she wanted
No longer bound.
The bones of a body of an unknown owner,
Lie here
Time weathers the stone


1983 part of a letter to a friend who usually wrote boring letters back and never commented on any stories I sent her.


Stanly bent over her cup of tea and looked into the merky brown liquid. "Was it true?" She thought, "had Benson really meant it!". The tea was as strong as a lumberjack and stanly knew that. But even so Benson's unexplained outburst was not due to the tea alone. "There was something else there had to be, but what". Stanly watched through the cafe window, people walked past some fast some slow some happy some sad. The tea was still revolving in the cup when stanly looked down at it again. "Funny!" She thought, "I don't remember stirring it."

Suddenly! Slam, Bam ,Wallop. Gabinsky laughed and pulled out a hand gun. His Russian accent was unmistakably russian and so were his boots. Stanly gazed at the big russian not quite sure where she sat. Gabinsky was not the nicest of men, but he could play a good game of tennis and Stanly knew that. The real problem now was to get the gun from Gabinsky. Stanly had a plane that might just work, but one wrong move and Stan could be a dead woman. Plucking up her courage in one hand, she looked at her tea and said, "Anyone for tennis?" Their was a moments silence and Gabinsky looked at her. "So you wish to play tennis do you?" He grinned and shot himself with the hand gun! It worked, the plan had worked. The people in the cafe were grateful to Stan, she had saved their lives. But she just smiled a little and stirred her tea.

N.B. Apparently Benson's Great Aunt Edeth had Died!

The Sands Of Time

Probably written in 1984. I was attending a lecture for microprocessors at Bedford college and near the end I started writing this, half way through the lecture ended but I continued to write for a further ten minutes which somewhat perplexed the lecturer. This poem expressed a sense that I had that I had lost the love of my life a long time ago; and this was a feeling that started with a dream I had when I was 13 about a girl in a church, but that's another story. This sense of looking for a lost love has faded over the subsequent years. But what she represented has not.

The Sands Of Time

Standing on the desert sands I saw you,
And ran towards you.
The soft breeze blew on my face
and the sea air filled my lungs,
as I ran like a being from a far off world,
towards you.
Nobody saw us that day.
All we did was talk and run along the sands,
holding hands.
What a dream it was.
Then as the sun set you faded with it.
And as its last rays dipped behind the horizon so did you.
Now I'm alone again.
I have been lonely since you've gone.
since you died I sing alone.
Your foot prints have been washed away by tide.
I hang my head and walk along the sand,
which blows around my feet.
The short sad imprints tail away behind.
And I, I walk on and on.
Far further then the moon and back I walk.
But nothing will, ever bring back our talk,
of life and knowledge and the world we saw.
You and I were walking with the gods.
Seeing clearly, beautifully was strange.
But now, I am struck down to human size.
And as I walk my feet get old and tired
Until one day I'll fall onto the sand.
And wash away in water of the sea.
Just as the dream of you that was in me.
Was washed away by sunlight and the night.
The tide goes in and out on empty beach.
The sun grows red and hot, then white and dense and dies.
No one knows what our eyes, saw.
So then; All must reach oblivion.

The Husband

In the period of living with Freda from November 1981 I was passed a number of feminist texts and started to find out about the women's movement which was quite strong at the time. Though I agreed with many of the causes of the movement there were certain more radical elements you regarded any man as guilty, without trial, of all the crimes that any man could possibly commit against women. When I pointed out that this might be I little unreasonable it was stated that "reason" was the domain of men and they wanted nothing to do with men or men's reason. Of course you were not in this category Freda but you know the type. The following poems are not in order. THey are some expressions concerning societies, men's, and women's guilt for the problems of sexual stereotyping.

The Husband

A graven image on his face
The stone man fits into his place
Like peg in whole
Or set concrete
He never moves a single inch
His features show no sign of life
Frozen in his rocking chair
His woman shows the signs of wear
It seems as though he doesn't care
Or maybe he is unaware
Or maybe he is stone.
Message To A Man Hater
Hay you girl that blame me for the world,
Just don't forget you were my mother,
When I was small you talked to my sister,
While I was hurt by my elder brother,
Did you help me then, no you did not.
When I went to school big boys picked on me,
They took me and teased me and they were cruel,
What did teachers do when they could see
They gave severe words to the boys that were cruel
And the women, they did nothing at all.
'boys will be boys' so suffer and stay cool.
So bullied we stand and beaten we be
Taught to be tough by our family
How ever we try and however we fight
The more that we fight the tougher we get
And should we grow weak then upon we are set
By all you of women who would blame men
For troubles caused and supported by
Both of the sexes, as both are thwarted
By mother and father and T.V. and film.
Continuation of sexism poems. 
Forced To Feel
Old mans love, lost in a maze, all out of phase
He knows that he's nearing the end of his days.
He'd like to go home but his wife never loved him
His love is contorted just like all the rest
And his feelings to hold are now to molest.
He's an old man
Can't tell you his name ;
But he's grown to fame,
Stands by the high shelf...
Looking for his lover
under the cover.
Old man when he was twenty, thought in love plenty
Married a girl who was happy and scenty.
He found out soon enough but not what he expected
Loving was not what the boys said at school
And she found the same, just another poor fool.
He's an old man
Can't tell you
his name ;
But he's grown to fame,
Stands by the high shelf...
Looking for his lover
under the cover.
Old man promised to take her, not to forsake her,
And with her he stays to the end of his days
For worse or for better bound in the fetter.
Its the curse of the church of love
on love...

Shooting Stars

In approximately April of 1985 I split up with Freda who I had been with since around November 1981. Inevitably perhaps, this spurned a number of poems over the next year or two, the exact dates I don't know, but where possible I have tried to put them in chronological order.

Shooting Stars

Half a ray of scattered light
Has fallen on my pillow.
And it illuminates the teardrop from my eye.
I sigh and turn over knowing its all over,
In the knowledge that our dreams are going to die.
Dark against the moonlight is your silhouette.
Your figure I've created in my mind.
But then the darkness, fades back into moonlight
And I see that you and I are far behind.
Rustling my bed's cloth I turn over,
Feel the pillow wet beneath my head.
Standing by the window is my silhouette
And it looked up to the moon and it said:
Far far away is the dream that I live for
And far far away are the dead.
But further then that is an alien being
Who understands me and sees what I see
'tis for her that my feet must tread.
So saying it stepped onto a moonray
And walking along it, it said:
When I cry when I lie when I dream when I die,
Not all this can be in my head.
Half way to the moon walked my silhouette.
Then form a star came a ray
Falling onto my silhouette that shattered,
It shattered like china clay.
The pieces fall down and down to the ground,
Glinting like stars as they fell.
On a dark summer night you can see them,
For some pieces are tumbling still.

Continuation of Freda poems.

Dear Fred

Dear Freda how we used to play
Loving on a hot summers day
Sink my fingers in your soft flesh
You'd hold me tight and press your breast
Against me.
I'd see your face with silly eyes
Put my hands upon your thighs
And feel your waist as it goes in
From that bum where it begin.
Your damn right this poems naughty
So stick it with my photograph
To give your self a little laugh.

Cherries For Freda

Today I bought cherries for Freda
Even though she's far away
Today I thought about Freda
Even though she's far away
To day I thought of her saying
"Oh! Cherries, ooo cherries for me!"
And I thought of her grinning face
As she scoffed them down with tea.
Today I bought cherries for Freda
But I ate them just with me;
And I thought of her as I ate them
And maybe she thought of me. 

On the grass

Green leaves on a summers day
Shadow the grass where we once lay
And even with you far away
I'll think of you as I lie
On the green grass where we once lay

Remember me

If we ever meet again will you remember me
Though we were torn in twain
Will you remember me


Summer 1985 I was assaulted at a night club, hit on the head from behind, and of course there were no witnesses despite the presence of a thousand people of so in this old theatre. I was on the stage at the time!


A shattered dreams pieces lie on the ground
A thousand people standing around
Not one sees the pieces not one heard the sound
Of the broken dream as it fell to the ground.

Written on the same paper as the above piece moods can change so quickly! This was probably written on a night when I was feeling decidedly randy, in a nice sort of way as opposed to a lonely way. 

Next Generation

Much more than just the touch of gentle hands
Much more than just the chatter
Some where far away she stands
And she and me we both loose the fetter
Warm hot bodies on a summers night
Fill the air with screams of passion and delight
And so warm white liquid is passed from one to other
Turning her and him from human into mother
With shouts they gasp and clasp onto each other
And from those fat warm thighs eminates another
She looks into his eyes and him to hers
He holds the child and it, it slowly stirs.
So life is formed from the magic of the flesh.
From lust, friendship and from gentleness
We hold hands and smile with our eyes
Our child is born but lust is not satisfied
We hold hands and sit down to cry
It seems nature is our true commander
Wanting more than both of us may render
We must have love, warm, fat yet slender
Gently the night roles on and day begins
Oh hold me, hold me, more against your body
And sing to me more of that sweet melody
Make my body shake and my flesh quiver
Make me scream and shout with delight and pleasure
And take for yourself the same of my cup
Hold me for I'm yours to fuck
Drive me, see me, touch me, feel me, hold me.
Squeeze me dry for every last drop
Fill me fuller far fuller than the top
Drive me wild we can never stop
GO, go, go, go on squeeze it hot
We love us and I'm sure we'll never stop
Our child, our love, the waters of the sea
All will go on to eternity.

Gas Oven

At a wild guess 1985:-
The private thoughts of a dumbfounded woman with her head in the gas oven, where empty as the oven its self. She has no purpose to go on. It is not that life is bad for her but that life has no good. Her head flunks onto the floor of the oven, it lies amongst spilt dripping as the gas wafts innocently into the room.

The lakes daughter

July 1985:-
Oh how I long to stand by the still waters,
of a cool lake with trees all around.
Oh how I long to see you in the water,
the cool lakes daughter surrounded by water.
Your more than a face to me;
I've waited for you, so long its not true,
Perhaps you'll come tomorrow
Please come save my sorrow.


Of unknown date but I think these stories were written straight onto word processor and that dates them after summer 1982 but they could be as late as 85. They were both exercises in that the first was an attempt at writing corn and the second was an attempt to embellish with descriptions, however the corn went wrong as I think it is actually rather beautiful.


Martha looked down at the battered copy of The Concise Oxford Dictionary, that she held in her hand. A tear trickled down onto the book, ran down the cover and accumulated into a large drop at the books corner. Simon was not interested and she new it. Pulling out her zero gravity ink splosh pen she ideally filled in the letters of the word Oxford in electric blue. After filling the letters 'D', 'I', 'C' and half of 'T' she raised the pen to her mouth and still looking at the book she sucked it, thoughtfully. "It's time I left this planet" she thought to herself, "I need to be able to unleash my full potential; and Simon isn't helping things." She put down the book put the pen in her pocket and walked to the window of the space station. Through the window she saw the whole universe stretched out before her. Leaning on the window she squashed her nose flat against the glass. "Oh! The infinite voids, the black holes, the mireads of exploding suns...." And she was bored by it all.

In the voids of time I'm set
Not knowing where I'm going
Wondering if I'll ever get
To the end I'm trying to reach
Like a dragon without fire
Like a bird without air
Like a fish without water
I'm a human without knowing.

The barman lent over the bar and for the second time, "Wakey wakey, what'll you be after then?"
Martha looked up and smiled, "Oh! thanks George. Tea please."


The old inventor sat in his chair and looked out of his little window onto his small garden. The garden was fenced off from the woods behind by a wooden fence made from planks cut in the wood. It was an old garden and was over grown by long grass and prickly blackberry bushes, but it was very beautiful. The inventor had a grey beard and grey hair, he wore a shabby robe that kept him warm and an old pair of slippers. Some shabby socks were collected about his ankles.

He raised himself from the rocking chair where he sat, shuffled across the creaky boards to the staircase of the forest house, in which he lived. He descended the stare case and put the cup, that he had held in his hand, into the sink and filled it with water.

An old grandfather clock stood at one side of the ground floor room, methodically marking the time, it chimed ten. On the other side of the room a settle stood as if waiting for a knock on the door, for a friend to sit on its smooth timber surface. But no friend had come and the settle was empty. The man washed his cup from a brass tap over a sink. The cup he placed on the wooden draining board upside down. Water ran down a grove in the board and back into the sink. He idly stopped its flow with a finger and then let it continue. He listened, but all he could hear was the pitter patter of constant raindrops as they splashed from one leaf to the next, a liquid magic from the sky. In the wall against which the settle stood was a door that was the door to the larder. In the larder was a loaf of dark brown bread, course and baked in the inventors stove. It was a quarter gone. It stood on a wooden bread board and resting on the board a knife lay still, in the cool larder. There were cheeses, flour, apples and all kinds of food filling the shelves from top to bottom. The man took an apple and climbed the weary stairs again.

The old inventor was as gentle as a lamb. And he sat in his rocking chair looking out of the window onto the overgrown garden, taking bites from the apple he held in his hand.

Although the inventor was old. The leaves in his garden were as green as they had always been. The rain continued to patter on the leaves and on the roof of the inventors house. The birds sang in the woods as the drops fell on to their ruffled feathers. They shook them selves, twittering with delight as one drop after another would splash into smaller drops on their backs.

The old inventor was asleep...Dreaming of worlds beyond worlds and dreams beyond dreams. Down stares a mouse dashed along by the skirting board, stopping stock still to sample the air then dashing again. It would cautiously creep from the skirting to pick up a crumb of toast or a morsel of meat that had fallen from the inventors plate. The mouse had a hole behind the clock and it dashed down it.

Pussy stretched herself and came out from her box just under the settle. She was elegant and black. She had not noticed the presents of the mouse. She strolled slowly across the floor with an air of aristocracy. Stopped to sniff at the ground and then continued her journey to the base of the stares. She paused, then in a series of bounds she hop, hop, hopped all the way to the top. Looking at the inventor, who was facing away from her she strolled across the floor, hesitated and then with a bound jumped onto his lap.

"Oh! you surprised me" he exclaimed. The black cat stood on his lap, pressing herself against him she purred as she looked up at his face with her green eyes. She seemed to know more then a cat should know.

The Dandelion and a Leprechaun

1986 I think: When Helen T.... a dangley bespangled bangled niopunk walked into the BBC my imagination was carried away be a set of intelligent looking glasses to visualise something which was not the Helen I later knew. Indeed as I later found she was a drip, be it one of the loveliest drips ever to have dropped and a drip whom I loved in a very romantic way for some years subsequently, never having to question if it would work as she was unavailable. I wrote this in the early years:-

Once upon a time there lived a dandelion and a leprechaun. And the leprechaun loved the dandelion very much but he didn't know why.

She was the funniest dandelion he had ever seen and she was very scruffy, but he loved her all the same. When she was sad he always tried to make her happy and give her support. And she was always kind to the lepracorn and she loved him to. But they could not grow together as she was a dandelion and he was a leprechaun. This often saddened the leprechaun and he would cry. Dandelions don't cry so she wept due drops each morning.


My cat named "Pudda" was the last cat of a family of cats that dated back to quite early in my childhood I was maybe 8 or 9 when the we rescued the cat from which she descended. When she died I came back from the vets and wrote this:-

Today I took my cat to the vet's,,
its dead now.
Today I took my cat to the vet's,
all's said now.
My cat was a tabby from Gloucester,
Born in the roof of a shed,
with pert tail and oversized head.
It stumbled through long grass
a kitten with big eyes and oversized head,
looking for mother and mewing.
And I took a photograph to remember her by
I was eleven or ten I'm not sure.
She grew up cocky and clean, tall and supreme.
She grew up with me,we were friends together,
then she grew old, quite and sereen, cautious, careful cat.
Four days ago she went to her basket her basket and slept
Two days ago she got up and stumbled,
then she couldn't walk at all hardly.
She looked at me, "your my friend stay with me."
She said and smiled "Why can't I walk any more?"
She was getting worse.
I slept with her last night and cried and hugged her.
She purred but could't stand up.
This morning I washed her bowls and we went to the vet.
The vet said "14 years, gosh that's a lot, she's an old cat, had a good
life I guess. Well really I,m afraid it's the best thing for her."
And I said "I know that, let's do it. Anyone want a dead cat!"
We took her basket to a special room where they cut of some fur on a fore
leg and stuck in a needle that's full of a drug, and in three seconds she
lay on the bench, round furry not breathing.
I reached out frightened to touch her and "she" became "it". I flopped her
over to see she was dead and they stood about and nothing was said. She
was all funny and she never looked at me at all. Floppy, asking "why?"
some how she didn't understand about how things die. No one could tell her
about it.
The last I saw was fat and floppy, dead on a table with a puzzled
expression. The first I had seen was a smelly kitten with maybe four
others, looking for milk from there mother. What came in between I'm not
A Dick Whitington with no cat. I took home an empty basket, the end of an era, a time in my life.

A Child

In 1987 I met a Newzealander called Sarndra and despite only knowing her for four weeks we seemed to get on well and I felt quite strongly about her and would have rather liked to go and have babies with her. The feeling was nearly mutual but not quite, and in my return to reality I wrote this at the end of a letter to her dated 30/8/87:-

I shall sink once again into the waters of solitude, there are 
many beautiful things there but they are cold, and they cannot 
give new life. Sadness and tears are the most beautiful 
things, but they must be allowed to settle. Once again I shall 
create, through words and through actions. But I shall always 
long to satisfy my desire to create that ultimate thing, a 

The poem that follows was written one day before the above was sent. Which
inspired which I don't know:-

If it should come to pass that I am alone,
Then I shall be alone.
And I shall sink into the still waters of my solitude,
And they will close above my head.
Maybe in those waters I will see much
before I reach the bottom and the silt settles over me.
I am quietly drowning, but there is no one to see.
I reach out of the water, but there is no one to grasp.


June 1988: I was at speakers corner when I set eyes upon a girl you made me turn over inside, I got to talk to her but only for half an hour, I wrote this:-


I saw you with your plats above your head, and smiling like a princess,
and smiling with a smile that reached across to grab me;
I saw you and you went;
I followed but only half and lost you;
But I saw you more and reached you, touched you, to ask a question but not
because I cared much about the answer, I just had to reach the mind;
It was a warrior's mind and rich it seemed, But I hadn't time to open the
vaults of precious thoughts before you had to go. With you went my love,
but not that of a lover but that love which is the desire to find more
when one first tastes what is good. That love that is felt the first time
that a library is entered and the books are waiting to be taken from the
shelves. My enrapturing tiger queen let me, if I may, enter the temple of
they mind and feast upon what riches I may find therin. 

* * * *
Of course when I wrote to her I didn't sent that but I sent another piece of writing that was perhaps as bold, as a part in a letter:-

"Life is a battle", I smiled as she said this and 
wondered what sort of warrior queen I spoke to. What 
tigeress was within, if as such she was. Did she speak 
as one who was in triumph or as one stained in her blood 
from the blows of others, now turned upon her aggressor 
with determination to conquer. I knew not but her wry 
smile seemed to speak of a past that held overcome 
turmoil and so perhaps both were true. (What fiction is 
We wandered on to the bridge and to monogamy and I 
wondered who, or should I say, what I spoke with. As who 
is easy, the answer is just a name, but what? That is a 
deep question, a seeking question a question I have yet 
to answer - Probably will never answer only come nearer 
to answering each time I speak, write or see her.
And although we remain mostly ignorant, what we knew we 
kissed, that was nice.

This piece did not have the desired effect of making her fall for me. In fact I think it probably gave her the willies. I ended the letter with another, what you might call observation of myself:-

He finished the letter and then he slept, but the 
thoughts were in his dreams, beautiful thoughts, clear 
thoughts. The stars shone and all was tranquillity.


May 1988: Sitting in a sculpture class and watching us, including myself, turning lumps of clay into human or human like forms, I was taken to think of the vast complexity of the human and the beauty of that complexity and the millions of of events that lead to the creation of the human. And I remembered that as a child I had seen the paradise plays and god had breathed life into clay to create Adam, when I got home I asked god if I might do the same and he didn't seem to mind so I got some clay, roughly formed it and breathed on it. Unfortunately my clay figure remained just that and I concluded that breath and clay were not the ingredient of life. But now I found myself forming the clay again, into forms that resembled
life, and I laughed and scribbled this:-


What mockery is this?
That here in clay and plaster
We try to make, what took nature
A billion years to form.

Some 1988 Poems

A selection of late 1988 poems or night time ramblings:-


Huge ship in the emptiness of space,
listen; can you find a place,
between your battered walls.

She took me

She looked at me, her eyes still shining irridecent blue.
Then like a hawk she swooped upon me screaming hard,
her power was so great as to lift me into her arms,
she was gentle again and it was a game.


Possibly 1988:-


Afternoon: and the dream changes to the silver drops of liquid, splashing down onto strange white flowers that sadly hang their heads among the rich grass. Tiny creatures hover about the flowers like humming bees.

A birthday poem for Mary Jane's birthday card 5/12/88

Time passes by us all
and each day some return to the earth
and others are made of the earth,
and of the light of the sun.
And so the order of life
is passed between the generations,
and so our children are born
into the vastness of the universe.

A portrait of a friend

About February 1988 I met Susanna at speakers corner and wrote this in a
letter to Lucy.

A portrait of a friend

Susanna is long and skinny, she moves like a giraffe, smoothly conveyed by a fragile frame that seems impossible. She speaks with a german accent but understands english well, she understands the refined meanings of the words, she sees the subtlety. She speaks some chinese and is learning more, she is a secretary in a hotel. When she works she wears glasses, otherwise she wears contact lenses, her glasses have frames that are from the fifties with silly wings on them. It amuses her to laugh at her work clothes that are so typical of the work in the hotel, such is the actress in her. She is clever and some times this makes me want to kiss her. I wonder if I could touch such a structure as she is and not hurt it in some way, perhaps I would rather just look at the structure and enjoy the company that the mind extends towards me; what is the magic that made this thing that is such that my pleasure is drawn from its mechanics its art and its intelligence. Susanna, you are beautifully odd. And that would make a lovely end but it isn't the end, she drinks and smokes I wonder why.

Atheist or one without god.

Beauty is a strange thing, and there is some beauty in achievement, though I'm not sure what; also in understanding, but also in being able to sit and see something as a whole. That is beauty to, and that beauty comes only from the contentment of knowing that what had to be done has been done. That is the beauty, in death, that only those who have finished there work can know. However it is for most of us to wander looking for that work, that contribution, if it exists, and maybe never find it. Perhaps it is our invention...

The sun is setting, and my thoughts are carried of by the breeze that feels so good. The grass is starting to dampen with the dew. This place is so solitary, that I could cry with joy and loneliness combined. The vision of nature, whose rich variety of constructs from crystals to living things I am privileged to be a part of. This living process that is nature, is surely the most beautiful process of all.

Yellow daisies blow from side to side in the wind that is getting colder, the sky darker. Some where, some one is putting a pot onto a wood-burning stove, putting slippers on and getting cosy for the night. Some where else a child leaps out of bed and runs to a window, to greet the sun that has just left me behind.

Venus has risen, the evening star, a wanderer shines in a borrowed light, and so does the moon. Some stars are visible now and I get up and start to walk home. Rabbits run away as they see me approaching from far off. I'm walking North toward the church of an old God and all I can hear is my feet moving in the grass and the wind blowing over the plain and in the spire. I arrive in the yard of the church and look up, the tall stone work is a relic to a forgotten time and a miss belief in some thing that we all wanted to be true. Still the spirits in the grave yard, the gargoyles, the troles say to me "Please please believe in us, please". Some threaten "Believe or you'll see what will happen", they all hiss and shout and try to take forms in the shadows. Or is it the leaves rustling and taking forms in my mind. There is only me.

Me, I, a part in a pattern, indeed a pattern an ordering of the atoms of which I am made. What is I, is nothing less, and nothing more. And those atoms of which I am made were born in the stars long ago, so long ago. Why we are but children of the stars.

A crow flies down from the tower above me, its wings beat the air and it flies of into the darkness squawking. What mechanism is it that can make such things as the crow, the grass, nature? These are the questions which fill my mind, what part should I play in all this.

The graves are old, "Ashes to Ashes". And so the story of each reaches its end. Matter (Mass/Energy) is immortal but ordering is not. The unforgiving nature decrees this, or does it. Is not the matter that forms our children ordered on the basis of ourselves and one other of the other sex. We must combine our ordering with another to make new.

The wind grows colder and I wrap my cloak about my body, I will go home now. I turn in that direction and I see the stars and I know they are further then I can ever reach. But perhaps my children will go some day outward to those places so far away. Perhaps they will devastate them or perhaps they will respect them and know that to be a god is to be a guardian and not a wild beast.

The future is coming fast and I am growing older day by day, I have seen new things and I shall make new things, I only hope that this magic called science will be worked well. It is the most powerful magic we have ever had.

The path narrows here and thorn bushes make me tread carefully, the moon is helpful now. Walking home I think of the satisfaction that I have got from my thoughts, my wanderings in the mind and I struggle for a way to express them so that others might obtain joy from them and perhaps wander a little further down the path that is here and brings clarity into my existence. Now I can only speak for myself in regard to what I observe, and I shall do so. If for some reason what I write has more application then to me and my personal world, let it be so. 

In the quest for knowledge I reach forward,
out like a child unsure, 
trying to grasp what may not be in reach.

In those first days of my life when the world was undivided and there were no words for it and I saw only what I saw and no further, then I was open and my mind was without form. But now I have grown and my mind is formed with a great picture, a great map of my experience and this picture I apply to my experience and it gives me some control over it, some understanding of it.

I came into the world blind and I learned to see
I came into the world deaf but I learned to hear
I came into the world void and I learned to think

When a child is born it sees a world in which little is recognised, but it learns fast, we all learned fast, to relate our memories to the present, to conceive of the future, to divide experience into pieces and recognize those pieces, to build concepts of them and to give them words, and more. But I have been led to question how my world picture is built and by this questioning I have found new orders and simplicities that I didn't see before. I now relay these ideas in writing so that they may perhaps live longer then my short lifetime.

In the darkest hidden side of the ancient city
is the darkest place, 
the place that isn't empty
but it seemed empty.

I, A dreamer wanders along a path, I know not where or for how long. But each step I take is one nearer to the place I seek and each step brings me a little higher, a little nearer; and each step is good to take. I shall never go back, ever. The path is wider now and the moon is higher in the distance the light of a house shines out and that light is my house, perhaps. I am alone on this path and a warm fire a gentle friend and small children are seen ahead, but I know not when. For nature shall decide that perhaps. This path is rarely trod by human feet. But I am not tired and shall not stop now, it is to good. Dreams are to become reality and this magic shall make it happen.

LIFE Part of writing from 1987

On the path in front of my I see a snowdrop, a flower. There are many similar copies of the same plant as it is one of natures tricks, to copy things many times over. Nature doesn't only copy snow drops, as we are all aware.

If one took the constituent parts of a snowdrop one wouldn't necessarily have a snowdrop. This implies that there is more to the plant then the matter it is made up of. This something extra is the order or arrangement of the matter. A pile of bricks, windows and doors is not necessarily a house. But given these items in there correct places they become a house.

The miracle of the snowdrop, and life in general, is that implicit within each living thing is that ability, given the right materials, to build copies.

A loin eats other animals to turn them into lions. The lion takes from the environment the materials to make lions from, and it turns those materials into lion by a complex process starting with ingestion and ending in the birth of the cubs. What has the lion done? It has re-arranged the materials it took. It has quite simply changed some of the environment. The lion cub is the product of the process and it in turn will take part in the attempt to turn things into lions.

The magic in the process is that lions are not made by some special lion ingredient, but they are made of just the same materials as the animals that they consume. Similarly all life is made of what it consumes. There is no unique grass ingredient or human ingredient for that matter. All of life is built of precisely the same ingredients, the same chemical elements. It is the architecture of those elements that determines whether they form a lion or a snowdrop, a human or a crystal. The last of these architectures is not called life perhaps because it cannot reproduce, or can it.

I remember my fascination as a child to find out that you could grow crystals of copper sulphate from solution. The crystals will form spontaneously from solution, but copper sulphate would far rather deposit itself on crystals that have already formed then start new crystals. Thus crystals held in the solution, will grow in size and if you split them in two, the new crystals can be grown, and split and so on. This requires a lot of intervention in order to get what could loosely be called reproduction. Also the shape of the crystal is inflexible it can never change, it is a consequence of the structure of the copper sulphate molecule.

The secret of the living structure is not just that it can make copies of its self; but also that the copies can vary to some extent from the original. It is this variation that holds the secret of progress; this trying out of new combinations, of new formulations. The lioness mates with a lion in order to have cubs. The cubs will take their characteristics from either the father or the mother, there is no preference. The combination of characteristics a cub receives is random, but some lucky combinations may allow a cub to surpass its parents in survival ability. Some less fortunate off spring will receive less of these good genes and may lag behind the parents.

Those animals with characteristics (or genes) more suited to surviving will, by definition survive better then those not so suited. Thus genes are shuffled from generation to generation.

It is not just the single characteristics or genes, as they are called, that effect the success of an animal, it is also the combination. A creature with a very large head and a small body may trip over its head as it tries to run. A creature with a small head and large body may have problems trying to munch through enough food to sustain its body. But a large headed large bodied creature may survive well due to its strength, and a small headed small bodied creature may survive due to its speed and nimbleness. Imagine an animal with the rear of a mouse and the front of a fox, it could never survive. Each animal is a complete system for survival and nature reshapes its creatures slowly over generations, not over night.

What I have talked about so far is mixing the characteristics or genes of the parents in order to form new children, new genetic combinations. There is another way that change takes place and it is by mutation. This is when the very chemical substance that holds the plan for a living organism is altered by some fluke of nature. This is the way that new genes are made. Most such mutations are not useful but some offer benefits. Remember once again that these mutations are not drastic, they are only small. An animal doesn't loose a limb in a single generation, it can take millions of years, in which a limb gradually shrinks to insignificance.

133 Narbonne Avenue

When I was small and the world was big we would drive in the beatle from Gloucester to London, to see Nan and Grandad; in a London house , that had the smell of a London house and too many telephone directories on a shelf that I could just reach.

It had a door with tiles and stained glass pains that formed flowers, in rich colours only otherwise seen in churches. It had a street light that shone all night through the window of the room where the zed bed was, it warmed the room like mothers presence, watching over us and and I knew that we would be safe that night...

Sun was up and so was I , to enter the great bed chamber where the king and queen, with beds to right and left of place where a fire had been but now a glorious electric silver idol of pinicals and towers and red heat stood, would smile and greet me. And the king, my grandad, would allow his pillows to be propped as he saw fit, in preperation for a gurgling teasmaid that is if by majic would spout its contents into pot.

What great words or play, would pass I do not know but the king would with accord displace, his teeth to hang beyond his jaw and I would laugh as the queen did say `Oh Cirel,' and he would put his teeth away, but we still laughed because we knew it was our play.

Hot porridge with demerara sugar in bowls gold edged, white innered and black outered, reflecting windows in their surface; was breakfast.

And then to play, the tiny garden with ordered grass and stone work emaculate and and clean, a step up to cover where the Andarson had been, the window that had been shattered by the bomb and deck chairs in which to complain about a neighbours dog as I would push the mower over the grass in never ending paths because to mow the lawn was just one other game to play.

Nan would take me down to the little shop and buy some plastic toy, whose cheap plastic fascination was somehow brighter than the quality at home, and it would join the London toys that stayed waiting for my visit; resting between my visits to be fresher and be pulled upon the floor once more.

`Tell me about when you were little.' `Well,' she'd say. Nan would tell me stories now, of brothers on a farm and cart horse whose gentility was such as to feel great grandad's Hunter watch beneath its hoof, and of steam harvests and stone pickers and stone pickers and pranks of her brothers changing peoples gates from house to house at darkest night like criminals or thieves. But she would smile a little smile. `Tell me another,' I would shout `Tell me another.'

Buckingham Palace - Solders in black hats with chains about their chins and red jackets, seemed ideal; so content with life that movement was unnecessary, the ultimate stability and I was sure that they were grown up and that they must always have their mummies near to feel so safe as they did appear.

Clapham common children's park with grandad mummy and with nan, had metel horses green and red with seats for numbers on their backs, of course they were never horses, but bright coloured rocking things whose motion was to me another way.

And so it was all round and round, and up and down, that I would toddle home, tired to supper which I have forgot, to sleep beneith the light of mother, that shone through the window's pain.

* * * *

Inside a long box in the new house he lay with purple marks upon his face, I reached out to touch and see his teeth for one last time. My grandad lay all still, the actor he had gone away like daddy had when I was two; and I forgot to ask him to contact from the other side to give me proof that it was there, Oh curses, what a waist of death.

Two years passes - Inside a long box she lay ice pail Evelin Malam. I touched her cold face like dead chickens flesh or meat; with eyes closed it was the same. A thousand stories gone and missed, `Oh tell me another Nan tell me another.'

1988 I step off Clapham way to look again down some old street in which my mother used to play, while German friend's fathers risked flack, ack ack to drop a killing load on other friends mothers and mine who lived in fear, her mother’s lamp blacked out.

Down this old street a tiny dolls house stands at one three three and it forgot the little child now solid as a man, it never even greeted me.
For every house looked just the same,
and every street looked just the same,
and every town looked just the same.

They were special? I know they were?

In Regents Park

In Regents Park A fountain of desire,
spurts water to a greater hight.
To fall, into a pool, of lilies white.
Mer-people, green, are oxidised by waters splashes fly.
I sit and see, with passion in my eye,
And look to grasp a green madusas thigh.
Or swim among the water lilies lie,
And wish, that I could hear, your sigh.


He started to think of parks, streets, people walking to places were other people were. How they would talk to each other but never quite trust each other, of how they would betray each other, of how they would trade of one against another, of profits, of lust, of love both pure and impure.

He remembered competition in the face of love he remembered the first time that she saw his house, how beautiful she said it was how much she loved him, how quickly she turned away from her most loving male friend to enter the world that he had built from the sweat of his brow. But she didn't love her friend she loved Vitec she had said. Now he knew what she loved, she loved beauty, thus she loved herself most of all and put much of her efforts into cultivating her perfect manners, looks and smiles. But she loved Vitec because she loved the beauty with which he surrounded himself; his possessions. She didn't regard Vitec as beautiful, she felt proud to be seen with him and her thrill was to have become the object of his desire. He, in turn had desired her because she was beautiful.
How, like the chameleon, she had changed to fit perfectly into his world that he had created and how she expected him to maintain it for her at all costs. And she in return would be his perfect sweet heart. He remembered the pain when he first realised that she was an actress playing a part for him and he in return was a battling Knight seeking conquest and gold. She knew that she wasn't free, but she didn't see that she was the one who was such that her desire to be what others wanted over ruled all else. All else, now wanted expression and so for it to have its expression she had to get others out of her life so that she didn,t live for them. She needed to be on her own she said, but soon her lack of conquest led to the acquiring of another house and knight and her colours changed again poor woman. She had never intended to deceive him, indeed she had never deceived him, but the results were as if she had, she had become what he wanted so as to suck his blood. She had never attempted conquest herself but always thought that for her a good man was her conquest. Vitec on his part was young enough to have not seen what was happening and like a fool he had not seen or chosen not to see upon what foolishness there love was based on. Indeed he had fallen in love with her because she was beautiful.

Neither of them had understood the exchange that had taken place between them. They had not recognised that their marriage was a deal, just a badly defined ill conceived deal made in a state of heady joy without thought.

What had seemed like a beautiful thing was really a deception for both of them.

When Androids Cry 12th March 1990

A lake lapped her banks
upon which an android stood,
to mourn her dead.
The gentle wind that made the waves,
blew the android's hair and dried her tiers.
She looked down at a simple wooden cross of sticks
planted into the sand of a shallow grave,
and her love went out toward it as an android's love does,
total in its being.
Her tattered clothes blew about her and the sand about her feet,
and grief about her thoughts.
"Oh gentle wind take me,
take me in your arms and carry me away from here."
Her arms stretched skywards to implore heaven. Heaven answered not,
her beggar's dream, it just continued while she looked and looked.
* * * * *
When morning came she was sitting by the shallow grave
shifting sand with her hands,
watching each pile she made,
eyes glazed or seeming empty over her silent dead.
She was cold but she stayed and stayed, she was a perfect replica.
She was too perfect.
She turned a weep stained face toward the water's edge
and stepped a perfect gate;
Feet reach the waters edge and tiny splashes fly
while forward ripples mount to cross surface.
Her perfect head knows more than we can know.
Her perfect hand can crush a solid stone.
And her perfect heart can drown in greater tragedy.
Oh android, misfortune is with thee.
Listen - listen to the swallows fly,
or sit and watch to see the machines cry,
to mourn their dead with tears in their eye.
Little by little the water rose, she walked deeper.
Then she tripped and fell face down she floated there.
And drownded she was proper like dead leaf in autumn's tide
she drifted out, out of reach and out of mind.
A swallow saw her from up high,
a fairy of the lake
embalmed in its transparency.
She even died, completely, perfectly.

A Writer

20th April 1991
And if you think that it is in any sense easy, to describe a feeling, to get over a pure emotion; in these words, then you are mistaken. For it is nothing but hard work and sweat, to write as one feels, and if that doesn't drown what one wished to put over, then one is a writer.

I have a feeling that I cant quite put down, a sense of deep emptiness as one who is not doing what they wanted and is not free in there actions. I feel locked in and there is no jail to break out of I am fenced off in a corner by the habits and customs of the society in which I am so tragically placed. There is seemingly no escape from it, no relief from the burdons that it invents and bestows upon you as if they were favours and you should be greateful for them because "it is better here than anywhere else". I'm sure it is but it could be better.

And then I find myself looking at what is denied me and by whom and from that I start to seperate out the reasonable and the unreasonable, the people from the populus, my friends and my enemies. It is them that are the shapers.

And then I have to look at the choices I have, the shaping that I do and how much I am responsible for myself or my situation and much more to the point how I can change it and how much work that will take and what I am working against.

Angry but why?

May 1995
Fuck this Fuck that
your wonderful ability to act,
in ways that cause pain or irritate
you never can see anything straight.
Your cheerful disposition
covers your true position,
your underhand moves
trample with your hooves
all feelings of joy
of love or of play,
you cannot play,
lovingly, gently.
Your retaliation
they blame on your menstruation
any openings I leave
you insert a knife and cleave
until I cannot see,
any thing, any more;
and all hope is lost.
Then! you start to sing!
like some pritty young thing,
because your joy
is based on your sting.
You cannot hear advice
because of your inferiority
and when you give advice
it has to be rudely
because you cannot suggest;
and I detest
all these things about you
If I write poetry
you turn on the TV
If I kiss you
you hit me
If I dream of you
You break the fantasy
If I talk to you
you say nothing to me.
What a bitch you can be.

Poor Mrs Kinsley or War Games

9th July 1995

And sailing as one does in ones mind
I watched the carpet of my room
and on it came out some fairy kind.

Weapons of old and weapons of new
toy solders campaigned, for no reason they knew
as legendary planes flew low over head
spitfire pilots and gunners and people long dead
resurrected today to fight in my play.

Poor corporal Johnson has no longer a face
for its part of his arse that makes that grimace
and poor private kindsley has nothing at all
that one in the height of the battle did fall
the warden said sorry to those that remain
"Don't worry my dear, he was never in pain"
Mrs Kindsley knows, it was not all in vain.

All those people that died in mud to their necks
and those that died in water, on battle ships decks
and those that died flying up high in the sky
and those that dropped bombs on people who cry;
are now on my carpet; in my living room;

but supper is ready it must all end soon.
"Oh thank god its supper" I hear the troops say
and sailors look forward to home coming day
and planes land, on carpet, all over the room
the war it is over, and never to soon.
Limps, wounds, blood and dead, stain my carpet
a dark shade of red.

Flies In Your Head

11th July 1995

Dear darling Lilly I'm sorry for what you said
but its something to do with the flies in your head
creeping about and buzzing around
I'm not quite sure how you live with that sound
I suppose the flies, come to hear what you say
because shit to them, is just part of the day
in fact a day without shit, I have not seen
in two weeks of hell you have been supreme
"Its disgusting and fowl" you say to my food
and to all else I do you are wonderfully rude
I wonder perhaps when all has been said
if all this is because of the flies in your head!

I wonder why?

11th September 1995

I'll never stop wondering how cold you can be
and still say you feel inside,
I'll never stop wondering how much you can take
but never join in the ride,
I'll never stop wondering why it is
that you bury your love in your pride,
that you refuse water while dieing of thirst
that you pull back your hand
while your in quick sand
I'll never stop wondering why.
But my eyes have dried up
my tiers are all gone
I can no longer cry.

Dead Lover


When you get the feeling someones doing you a favour,
when you start to get the taste of a bitter flavour,
when the rain is cold and wet, not full of life,
when the cage is locked, all leads to strife,
when she comes in the door, but your still alone,
when your afraid of the bed, because its not home,
when all becomes empty because you need a lover,
when your alone with your partner, under the cover,
it takes longer to end than it does to begin,
I think I'll go out a little to sin.

Swim with me


Will you swim with me, in Summer, at night in the park fountain,
And climb up, to the top of the highest mountain,
Make love in the flowers every day,
And watch as people go by, and hear them say,
things, because they cannot play, the games we play.
Will you look at the night sky with me,
And in your minds eye fly with me,
And sometimes in your heart cry with me,
And also sigh with me,
And maby die with me?

Lost In Space


Hay spaceman looking for a space lady
do you think that when you find her you can be really free
do you want to hug and caress her and talk philosophy
do you want to hold her in your arms and make a space baby
Hay spaceman will she take you to the stars
or will it all end up, on the red planet mars
Hay spaceman wipe away those tears
and get on with the job in hand
and try to calm your fears
put out the stars and forget the silver moon
your life ends right here, at the boundaries of your room
Hay spaceman, do you think its really true
is their someone out there who could perhaps know you.

To A Long Legged Blond

If I was dreaming of a blond princess,
then I would look at you.
If I was wishing for the mark of success,
then I would take on you.
But I have found a wonderful cove
by the edge of a sandy shore.
And the waves splash back and fourth at my feet,
and I'm sure that it is here, that I will meet
the one I'm looking for.
So if you feel inclined,
to stroll down to the sand
and meet me by the shore.
Then perhaps I can know
with a little less show
that its you that I'm looking for.
I'm not too concerned with the length of your leg
or the colour of eyes you have.
I'm not to concerned with the air you breath
or look of the hair you have.
But I want to go behind all the show
that you and I do so well
when your dealing with me
I want you to see
That you don't realy need to sell.


Freud has a cat
that wasn't much good at
getting old with grace.
and, that cat
it hist and spat
when it saw a wrinkle on its face.
Afraid that God the rotton sod
had put it in its place.

A wintered heart

After the winters wind has blown
over iron, over stone
and the ice queen sits on throne
and I am freezing cold, alone.

A little sparkle I do feel
A little hope, a lttle zeal
a little flame of warmth doth glow
And the winter, starts to go

The ice begins to water flow
the flowers they again do show
and first hope, I start to know
that something in my heart can grow.

I’ll watch the riples on the stream
and see the fishes dance and swim
I’ll feel the green grass under foot
and you beside me, gentle limb
a hand outstreached
a smiling face
a happy vioce
so full of peace
I know you like myself, its true;
gentle woman
I love you.

Washed Up


If I were washed up by the sea
On some old beach washed by the waves
I wonder would you pass by me
Or would you stop, reach down to save
this battered lamp Alladin left
this tattered flag again to fly
this broken heart layn here to die.

But still a dream inside is left
and still the forge is burning hot
to make that dream from out of nought
to make the dream that she did thwart
to live in poverty or wealth
but rich inside
but rich inside
for there it is, the perfect goal
to get us out, out of the jail
and then to win what we can win
together, and if it is that we do fail
we're rich inside
we're rich inside
there's treaser in this magic lamp
although its dull and dark and damp
lying here beside the sea
the sun has set
the lamp is me.

Super Hero Girls

I always lusted after those super hero girls in the comic books on the shelves of the news agents, you know the busty strong long haired beauties that somehow managed to fit saving the world into a busy schedule, and now I found myself sitting opposit just such a girl in a dark coffee shop in a New York basement. I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you that I don’t recall if she was a great brain or not, though she had a voice that was sympathetic and kind and somehow touched a part of me that had been untouched for so long. I was hooked and lost all track of the conversation until she finally put her elbow on the table supporting her chin in her hand and said “Well?” Her hair fell onto the table and ran around a cup that stood there, “Well?” she repeated. “Sorry,... I was dreaming”, I answered but did’t really move. At this she smiled “You are the end, sometimes I think you are more interested in my body than my mind.” “Yes,” I replied, ”I think you are right about that though of course I would never admit it.” I smiled at her and I could see that she was really quite flattered by the thought. “Perhaps its time we left here.” she said. “OK” I replied, “perhaps it is.”

We stepped out into a dark street that had not changed much since the time that a horse traversed its brick road. Battered trash cans stood on the sidewalks and a cat ran for cover. She was a cat in the dull light of the street lamps and I was unsure of myself. First I felt like nobody, like someone she would not spit on or give the time of day to, but she was giving the time of day to me and I had started to feel that perhaps I was worth something after all, though what, I was not sure of because nothing I had she needed.

“Look” she said “do you see that, there!” A cat had a mouse firmly in its mouth and was slinking of into the shadows for a feast on its half dead victim. Suddenly I felt fear and the street that had seemed very normal to me a second ago became a scene of hidden attrocoties, of demons and horror. “Are you OK,” she asked. “Yes fine, it was just a momentery thing, I’m fine” 


I find myself wondering again what is it I seek a body, a mind, too much perhaps and yet I wonder if I have found too little with each woman I turn. What do I have to give, is it enough for them is it enough for them to give? I was never the best but I seek the best. Is this a gross contradiction? Where do I look? How will I know her? How can I find her?


One of the wonderful things about the net, I thought, is that our perception
in meeting people is not clouded by how they look. However I have twice now
fallen in love by words alone only to fall out of love on seeing the person.
The trouble with nightclubs is that your minds cannot meet because of noise
etc. only your bodies meet. The net is the reverse, your minds meet but not
your bodies. You fall in love and then find that the person you admired so
much dresses in a way that is so far from you. I mean this in both ways if
the man you liked wore a synthetic tracksuit every day it might put you off.
If he filled his house with artifacts you detested. So what I am saying is
that if you think as I thought that words are enough, they are not. Mind and
body matter to all of us. Some of us focus on mind some on body.

Love itself is the result of our judgment of someone. Some value great minds
some value money or ability to provide, some value big bottoms, some value
pleasent conversation and most of us mix all these things in varying
proportions. We fall in love when we think we have found enough of them in
one person. However when we fall in love often our desire to be in love
means we miss out on some of the important factors filling them in with our
own fantasies. Part of me wants to be a sex object for someone else but I
would also like to be admired for my mind and various other things.

Of course we really all want the best of everything. Good looks, good mind,
gentle personality etc. but we don't always have all of these
qualities to offer in return. You have seen my picture. I am not a beauty
that womens heads turn as I walk down the street, but I am not the most ugly
person either. I have intelligence and various other qualities to offer. For
a woman seeking a beautiful beach boy, I am not he perhaps (Though I think I
look better with my clothes off!)

To some extent we can change how we look, our personalities etc. but there are of course limitations. It is very hard to replace a missing leg or in some cases a missing brain perhaps. So we have to look for people for whom our deficiencies don't matter and who may have deficiencies in other areas.

Some people will exchange beauty for brians others will only accept equally brainy or beautiful people. It is a trade to some extent, dispite the fact that I don't always like to admit it. Of course there are some qualities that are viewed differently by different people. We may not always agree as to what represents intelligence or what represents beauty. However there is general agreement that having one eye an inch higher than the other is not beautiful or that Niomi Cambell is not ugly. Some people disagree but they are in a minority.

In this respect life is unfair and we have to make the best of it. What we do is offer what we have and hope that someone will accept it that can satisfy what we are asking for. If we are not too ambitious we may find a match and if we do we can fall in love. Love I believe is fair, we can all have it, ugly, stupid people can be in love just as clever beautiful people can.

The only question then is, is your love a sustainable love, will it last? In this respect you have to look back at the reasons for your love. Will those reasons last or will they be replaced by other reasons that will sustain your love. For example loving someone for there young looks will not last, but perhaps as they get older you will love them for their experience or their kindness or their sexual passion or familiarity. Some of these things are pridictable but unfortunately once you are in love objectivity about these things goes to the wind.
Perhaps that is how it should be.

In Search Of You


I looked for you on the train,
But you were not there.
I saw a girl with a face so fair,
It had to be you.
But it was not.
I cried in the vallay of dispare,
I longed for you to give me care,
I longed for your smile in the air.

For Blanked love


For blanked love I search,
seeking to anull the void
that trappeth me from deep inside.
I saw you, and lost you again,
A sorded glimpse of heavens reign,
but never shall expressed it be
this blanked love that is in me.

A Bowl of Water

A million water molicules shall meet
the laws of probability defeat,
never before and not again,
shall these same parts in one domain.

And similar these genes, am I.
One moment in infinity,
before dispersed,
after dispersed,
but now, right now, they maketh me.

All other women are her shadow

She's always there in my mind,
All other woman are her shadow,
She is of some unique kind,
that all other woman just remind
me of her;
As does her shadow.



Dreamers dream of princesses and princes
Lovers make love in flowers of gold
Angels are watching and giving them children
Who in time their petals will surly unfold.



I dream of you with a wreath around your head, of fresh flowers, and you lead me to a dream of happiness, I was dead.

I'll dream of a future with logs on the fire,
warm flames licking with toungs of desire,
warm bodies lit by the flickering light,
dreams of the future being alright,
the simple comfort of being with you,
the simple feeling, that we are both true.

All battles I fight are to save you from cold,
all dreams that I dream are with you to, grow old,
I'll do my best to be worthy of these,
Lady, queen of my heart it is you, I will please,
do not despare, I am coming again.
I will see you soon.

To my Angel

Let warm hands, reach out to caress,
my body, in the evening air,
let magic eyes, reach to undress,
my image, in its presents there.

If I were standing by the sea,
if I were swimming in warm water
I would inside belong to thee
angel of the flower’s daughter

your pure and special rarity
is all I need to set me free.

I was Born

It was the first grief I ever felt. My mother looked down at me and said “Daddy has gone to the stars.” We cried there together, me on her lap. She was twenty four I was two and he was dead. She was pregnant with my sister and we lived on a thirty acre estate in Redhill, Surrey. We had a field of daffodils, a wood and a huge swimming pool I had played in when it was empty. My father used to take me to the pump house for the pool and he would climb up in the roof for some reason. He used to walk with me in the wood or along the stone paths where stone lions sat internally by the stone steps for me to play on their backs. There were many times I wished I was back there, many times. But I had to learn to look forwards and not back.

Methadies and Chocho were Spanish and they came to work for us because in Spain they were poor I remember Chocho cutting the grass. I often wonder what happened to them. They were kind warm people. But after my father died we left that place, it became a memory, not of luxury but of home, my home, and no other home ever seemed like it again.

From then we moved to a big white house and my mother wanted to turn it into an art gallery, she had the sign made and it stayed on the front of the house until we left it nine years later. We grew up together there for a while. Playing in the garden and what used to be stables, but it was not a romantic place. There was no dream there for me, there were huge stairs separating the three floors and in the cellar was the boiler, a dragon who’s fire you could see through  a round window and whom would burst into life without warning and then roar steadily. When the dragon slept all you could hear if you dared to visit was the sound of the timer quietly clicking and whirring in the darkness.

During the night the car lights would throw an images of the window onto one wall. Slowly the images would accelerate to dash over the other wall and vanish, accompanied by the zoom of each car as it passed. Once each year there would be a bang and my mother would tell us in the morning who had happened. Once a whole family was killed and our garden wall was knocked right down. Then they changed the road on that corner and it happened less.

Poets on the job

Some people write poems when they feel it and some write poems for cash.

Two women visit Medway,
on the same day;
for a -
“what shall I write about,

Wander about down this way,
looking hard for something to say;
for a -
“what shall I write about,

One angular nosed,
pretty and gold.
One from the herb rack,
homely and old.
For a -
“what shall I write about
walk about.”
Archaeologists digging for words,
through litter and birds.

You know when you look,
at something that asks to be written.
And you know when you look,
at something that really does not.
You know when you look,
and it leads all your inner emotion.
And you know when you look
and your inner emotion is left.

There once was a poet who sold;
a well written poem for gold;
but what ever it said,
came straight from her head,
so not much of a story it told.

Take a picture of me

(or a commissioned poem)23/2/2001

But they ask, write me this
write me that,
I want poems on ice cream,
and fat.
Poems on cars or people in bars
or poems about the ship’s cat.
The subject is mine,
I’ve seen it before,
not to controversial
its me I adore,
I think I’ll have more!



I've seen the green leaves falling
and I've seen the blood they can bring
I've watched as the people struggle for bread
and Iv'e heard the sirens sing.
And seen many faces hungry for hope
and I wanted to give everything.
But I saw myself turn back to my world
and not do a simple thing.

The Tempest


A windswept tempest blows about my head,
A defining silence somewhat like the dead,
I see her move from room to room in pain,
She cannot speak the language of my dreams,
She has no time to share the things that I can see,
She does not comprehend the mission or the road,
And yet again no matter what she followed.

The Telly tells


To bad, the rain drops splash against the window pane,
The telly tells of other peoples pain,
To bad the sunsets redded clouds that fill the sky,
The telly tells the politicians lie,
To bad, the smell of evening here as night descend,
The telly tells of people in our east end,
To bad, the love I could and used to feel,
The telly tells us everything that’s real.


June 2002

I can only describe, that I saw her from behind, at the end of the station platform, looking down the tracks as if she expected I would be walking on them. As if I was destined to walk out of a sunrise or sunset or appear as an apparition in the distance. As I approached she turned and smiled radiantly and every suspicion, every fear fell away. Her long nose her wide eyes invited me, welcomed me, almost like home, at last after all, after all.   

I'll tie you gently to the bed,
kiss you from head to toe.
And when the last word has been said,
I'll slide my fingers slow.
On each and every form of you,
my gentle hand will go.
And when at last each curve is done,
each surface I do know.
Then I shall hardly kiss your lips,
before you let me low.
And in the dream we'll both take flight
in water we will row.
until the sun is setting there,
with dark red light it glow.
And in the dark I'll here you smile,
before a child you grow.

Take your hand from my pillow,
take your passion from my bed,
take your person from my homland,
enough has been said.

If I were you I'd look around
before you say goodby.
Look care fully at what you found
and look into my eye.
When your done you'll know for sure,
that we could never fly.

I stole the ribbon by the bed
and took it far away
It has a special magic here
of what I cannot say.

In the Meadow

In the meadow, walking by a stream, pebbles seen, through ripples. Maybe a fish or maybe not, maybe a love or maybe not. Green grass stretches on to the blue sky. White lines high go to far away places. Imagination in wide open spaces.

It never rains under the sea

When rain falls in waves each drop is lost and forgotton.
It never rains under the sea.
Wrecks like monuments do stand
remembering forgotton land,
and sailors bones long since cleaned white,
forgotton now that evil fight,
that laid them there on this great bed,
so long to rest.  

Black shadow across the sun 


The sun shines...
then a cloud cuts it in half,
piercing it through its middle and you cease to smile.
I see pain in your face and the storm clouds gather.
Only waiting for a word, a simple event to to release them.
I see you are haunted by what stands behind you,
what hangs over your head
and I know your tormentor has returned again to haunt us.

The word comes and it comes into you, watering your fury lovingly,
nurturing your hate, feeding your obsessions steeling your rational mind.
It laughs at you and you think it is the world laughing at you.
You disappear under the surface of the black waters and only it remains fueling your anger.
You are gone. You hurt everyone you love as deeply as you can in your sweet anger.

You search through everything, paper, phones machines for a clue,
to what is going on and it laughs at you,
yet you think he is your brother, your helper,
while he brings you torment then despair.

You search desperately for a clue, for evidence for what he tells you and you find none.
You write hate into to machines and send messages of hate.
You see all you cannot reach and it is your torment.
You try to reach with violence of words but for each inch you reach
you are two further.

Others lives around you seem like paradise and you feel uninvited and alone.

Then the storm ends and the darkness is broken by the moons soft rays
Shining softly on your tearful pillow,
And it leaves you with me, my arms to caress you
and for a moment you see the truth of what has happened
before you harden yourself again to forget and the butterfly is gone.

The sun shines but with a redder light.

No patent ever complained that a doctor scored points against them for curing them.
I'm a soul doctor and you have a tormented soul.
I am trying to help you but we must look at everything.
It isn't about dirty shoes in the house,
Its about letting demons in through the door.

Like the sun


There is no unity no solidarity no joining that I don't want with her
She appears like the sun appears through a storm ridden sky
for moments in a day of rain, in a day of pain.

The storm of fear the storm of neglect the storm of get away from here

I am afraid of nothing,
that it will engulf me in its mantle,
suck out the spark inside me
chastise me
rebuke me.

I am afraid that every kind word
may be taken away.
That every flower will die
that my wings won't work
I will fail to fly.

I am afraid  that joy
is an illusion of the blind
that music is not heard
by the deaf,
that every spring hope
will fall in autumn

I am afraid of nothing,
that joy is in every attempt
That on every dead thing
flowers will grow.

A poets quest


A poets quest,
for what is best,
in arts,
but for an old farts,
such as I,
I find a beautiful ass,
more pleasing to the eye.

Withered Roses


You know I watched as the roses withered
I watched as the serpent slithered
and hissed in your ear
there is more dear

then you reached out a hand
and when it came back it was withered
just like those old roses


A chatter box 

6/10/10 (Not correct date)

I'm looking for a chatter box,
who wears odd socks,
but not a rattle box,
or a prattle box,
but outside the box.
I'm sure of that.

Not too fat, not too slim,
not mental or dental,
or medical but definitely radical.

Not violent or rude,
likes good healthy good food,
doesn't brood.

Not moody, but perhaps broody.

Not stinky but thinky,
thinks every day, as a form of play,
probably has a lot to say.
Might mention the periodic table, if she is able,
and stable.

Might like the polymerase chain reaction,
or the art in a good caption.
Knows that writing even talking even meeting even eating,
isn't love, doesn't have to be love.

Just a nice pleasant chat,
just that in an intellectual hat.
After that well a tiny maybe, or maybe not,
like a mouse in a hole, in a whole big house,
looks about, like a scout coming out,
not a tout or a crook,
but a look in a book,
in idea in my ear,
a talk on a walk,
a seer, a peer,
right here.

Lost in the Snow or White Wedding

28/10/10 (Not correct date)

We lost your virginity in the snow,
like a white wedding,
in the winds blow.

I didn't want to leave,
you alone that day,
and no train would take me,
no bus would take me,
away on that day.

We lay hand in hand,
warm in the cold,
of our white wedding day.
But the summer came,
the snow melted
and we are gone.

Oh Happy Screens


Oh happy screens,
That take our minds away,
From our incapability,
And what we have not made today.

Oh happy screens,
The joy and sadness of others you bring,
And we are numb watchers,
We do not do a thing.

Oh happy screens,
When energy runs out,
The screen goes blank,
And then we have but nout.



This is humanity and where we go now is up to us.
Many of us are nieve,
many of us are innocent,
many of us are foolish,
many of us are poor,
many of us are criminal.

How we deal with us,
here, earth,
where we live,
will lead us to failure or to success.
Failure is not, being subordinate to others,
nor is success the subordination of others.
Failure is the bohemian grove,
is when leaders watch the cremation of care and do nothing.
Leaders who do not care are failures.
Leadership is care.

© Tom de Havas 2011. The information under this section is my own work it may be reproduced without modification but must include this notice.