Ascending Denial

A whack candle holder in enamelled metal holding a white candle which is burning. Undisturbed I think I try to reflect on the stillness and to find the right words but instead of prose I get a big fat nothing and end up feeling empty. In the bed also made of enamelled metal a dying man or woman whose breaths rattle out of an impaired chest then out of thin dry lips opens Rheumy eyes before again closing to the world. A nurse comes and pulls tight the sheets over the soon to be corpse. This is the humane way I observe wryly as I glance at the headlines of the Daily Herald which gives news of the living I think. Better a quick death in the prime of life than this slow wasting into demise I think gripping the newspaper tightly like my own grip on life depended on it. People should not see that I think.this It’s too.real…I couldn’t find the words and let out a lot of air. I must have been holding it I think glancing down at the print again.


Where Are You?

In the cupboard under the stairs or,

On the roof looking at the stars.

Is it the same or just some mad mad game?

When you get that feeling inside, when the doors open wide

and you invite me in to partake in what is great.

Let me be your lover, your book that you open every night to a new page.

Farenheit 451 is the temperature when books burn, I can bring water to douse the flames or wood to fan them higher, you decide.


In My Lonely Room

I am dreaming of you

I am dreaming of you

And the places we shall go

And all the time I know I am too old

I am too old

and too weak

read too strong

not long for this world

addicted to thrills

scared of the young

scared of my room

scared of my music

scared of the world

and people’s impressions

and hearing voices through the walls

it’s not fun being me

Why did I accumulate all this shit

What does it mean to have zones in my room

It was my dream and now I have it and the scars are still raw

see I know it was folly to built Pierrots tower

but I have it on good authority that you live then you die

so what choice did I have than to make the dream mine

before I get the price of admission back and a ticket to hell.

And I’m scared of what I will say and the hole I will dig

before me that’s like SO big. Its like I can only communicate in code

and that code is ENGLISH. So get with the language cons.

It’s no secret that this world is large and complicated but we can take

it and break it down into money sized pieces if we want money. Its all I know. I am sad. Apart from money I am a con.

So now I feel stupid for not breaking the ties that have bound me to home and family for so long. But it’s not like that. It’s hard to explain. Imagine you are living multiple lives and all the lives end except one. now you have to do everything you want through one person. Hell. And people will not let you be. So you adapt. And overcome.




I Recall

..when poems used to write themselves
…when everybody was healthy
…when death happened to other people.
…When Death did not announce himself to me
When all that mattered was green grass in the park
When the future was a vintage bottle of wine
When the past was something that just was
When the present was resting easy on my handlebars
When smoking was something cool to do
When I could walk down the street
When people would introduce themselves to me.
Now Lemmy is my new best friend
And I am going round the bend with worry and concern
for those dearest to me in mortal harm
But not today anyway. This is a poem, not an obituary.

Death March


Trumpet blares bass drum kicks and the seats at the front allow no hiding.

Polite treats combine with platitudes and sherry and middle England’s Barrow

of Sorrow, brought up from the allotment where beer waters beetroot and wine shallots.

I forget my plate is made of paper and it crumples in my hand showering crumbs to the floor to cover my shoes where I stand.

The crumbs scream emptiness into my withering soul which replies with nary a slurp of the finest dry sherry.

It occurs to me that we’re all like birds then comes a bellow and I am shocked back to reality.

A pterodactyl takes the dais and words spoken enlighten us in this dark narrow passage that transforms into a funeral chamber. The words tumble from his lips and I am transfixed upon the sound that possesses and contracts, squeezes and grips. Then its over and he’s had his chips.

Funny How life goes on when you’re not really connected.

It’s Death: The Waiting

It’s the waiting that’s worst

for me anyway. Not for the poor sod

in hospital dying on a cliff edge.

And those with him knowing but hoping

to tear up on the inside and peace. The great Picard In The Sky says

‘Make it so’ and the life support is turned off and the pod ejected into space

to end up orbiting a small planet or moon. I am thinking in a minor key.

But I think to survive. I cannot stop thinking because of death despite

the convention of reflection and grief wherever that may lead me like a horse down on a carriage to a dirt track country road that has many turns.

Okay. It’s Okay. Life will continue. The beat will go on but our band will be one less lest others join the throng. The past will come to bear.

I will have to meet that face I despise and fuck death aside like a broom that has no bristles.

People will sit down and I will lament A knife unknown a life not trodden yet and wonder is this more than people dealing with it?

The heartless story will go on and with a wounded pride, I will take my place at another death eaters mass.

Nursery Rhymes and Poltergeists

Well with Krampus appearing on DVD and Blu-Ray, HD Download recently there has never been (this week) a better time to indulge in some Hans Christian Anderson, Grimms Fairy Tale and other folk tales of odd folk who come running out of the woods to chase you down the street on their cloven hoof!

Poltergeists also move things around and if you have ever experienced the sensation that the world is being moved around while you remain perfectly still you might have some idea of the idea of a poltergeist of the mind body and soul. Imagine one minute you are the saviour of your friends family and lovers and the next living alone in a cramped bedsit somewhere on the seediest side of the city you just happen to inhabit.

But I’m not all souls shifting here at NR & P. We (I) like to indulge in a little shape shifting too. Imagine the scene . You want to seduce a girl but can’t think of what to wear. Why not go for Michaelangelo’s David’s Torso, The head and neck of Cassanova and the feet and legs of Any virile creature e.g. a footballers legs . Add in Gandalf the Grey’s staff and hey presto. It’s date time!.

This is not a DATING site. This is a fun attempt at writing that happened to spurt out from beneath my fingertips while I was vigorously typing about my new website idea Nursery Rhymes and Poltergeists which I could have for free on WordPress don’t cha know?

Now tune in for a feature piece.

The Grand Old Duke Of York he Had Ten Thousand Men

He Marched Them Up TO the Top Of the Hill

Then He marched them…down again.

(You might know the rest and If you don’t then there are various websites where you can read the full

Such fun. Now for something scary.


It’s death. My death. I drew it.

Perhaps its time I gave you some content.

If you like me are interested in phonemes, that is the music of words and the words of music then , especially , if you like ‘know’ something about the subject as it pertains to Nursery Rhymes and Poltergeists or even if it doesn’t really but you think I and my readers might be interested then please CONTACT ME and I will see about including it as a link or even the full text. I am not bothered about it if you don’t have a degree in Linguistics and Music so please, don’t be a stranger…

So back to it. There are a lot of fairy tales in the media at the moment. Grimms being one. Does anybody have opinions on this? Are we seeing a return to the suspicion and finger pointing of the witch hunter ages before we all became enlightened by science or is it just a fad? CONTACT ME

Well that appears to be the end of my brains activity for now. Until next time. Thank’s for reading. And try not to scare yourself…too much! Muhahahah.

Staring Death In The Face (Adult.Death.Comics)

Do you believe in Comic Death? It’s something I think about whenever I think about comics from Japan or USA. Does the UK even do comics? Yes, they do. But show me Manga and Its bloodletting dog shooting hell dogs and victims losing arms everywhere. But I am a nice man. I don’t like this sort of thing I say turning another blood soaked page…

Staring death in the face or twisted deformed life in the mirror where would you choose to rest your gaze?

Isn’t each one ugly yet poetically pure like butter or crimson red oil and acrylic?

What is it that draws us to blood? How can a comic promise blood?

What is blood except living death?

Bone was broken and splintered.
A silhouette of a tree that looks nothing like a tree except in your darkest dreams.

In this forest run creatures with green hair nose-rings, motorbikes, and Satellite.

Where have you been all my life? Is this the end? Should I open my veins now? or is it to be like success or loss, and not apparent until…you wake up dead?

I know we switch off a part of our brain when reading comics especially when young and people (grownups) say it’s not really like it is in comics Life?
It’s not pride and prejudice for sure.

I think I met someone a bit twisted and they warped my mind.
Graphic Novels. Love stories. Sick. Violence? gore?

What is the youth getting up to? Isn’t the image of a Lolita chopping the head off a schoolmate with a katana just a little unsettling?And a little bit cool?