Alma Step-Mater and Pater


Sorry about the confusing title to this blog. Read on and all if not all then something will be revealed.

‘Twas a strange day with things attached to a certain significance that only could be.

I saw the member of the upper-class before I got home. He was carrying an umbrella and swaggering it like he owned the goddamn road, let alone one of the large houses on it.

I felt his eyes on me, like a fly eyeing up supper and felt so dirty so I straightened myself and walked onwards towards him.

He fingered the area beneath his left eye as we crossed paths and I half imagined him to pull off a monocle I hadn’t seen and shout something at me.

As I got closer to home I reminisced about the past and friendlier times. College days. Warm summers and clean ironed clothes.

When I lost hope in the future I would sometimes go around and visit my Dad and Step-Mother who would spoil me for a couple of hours bringing me tea and even a piece of cake if I was lucky. Anyway one Christmas they brought out a little wooden statue of a guardsman who looked a bit like a Regimental Mascot or Father Christmas. Today I looked out of the window and saw this very same figure on the wall between the house where I live and next door. What was it doing there? I had arranged to see my Dad a few days ago but if he had put it there what on earth did it mean? That I was now under his protection? I went outside with my camera phone and took a picture and then emailed my Dad asking for an explanation if indeed there was one.

Later that day and there was activity outside and I went to my window and saw a lady whom I hadn’t seen beforehand the figure to someone she seemed to be friends with.

No Dad in the protection business after all.

And Do I really need protection? I get nervous sometimes and I do live in a rough neighbourhood but the thought of my dad who is nearly 70 coming to rescue me a 42-year-old male overweight and bearded from 20 something scallies is nonetheless funny, scary and reassuring at the same time.

The following two paragraphs confuse me so you might want to skip them and just read past.

Now I know I said that this day was about a certain significance so let me say this. It (significance) faded like so many other days significant or not slowly like a grease stain, over time.Things used to be significant and magnificent at least in my mind When did this change occur? After the bankruptcy and mental breakdown probably. Just so you know it was a long time ago but some scars take longer to heal. They must or I’d be labrador happy with all the attention I receive.

And just so you know. I prefer cats to labradors as they do not require walking three times a day! Otherwise, dogs are great. I like to end on a cheery note but it feels like someone has removed all the notes above C from my internal infernal keyboard. So here goes. AAA-BBB-CCC-SILENCE-CCC-BBB-AAA-SILENCE-ABC-ABC-ABC-SILENCE-BBB-BAC-BAC-CAB-CCC. I called it infernally because I still don’t have mastery of it or anyone to play to. This is sounding increasingly real and desperate/normal.

Well, thank you for reading and I just thought of an ending.

The significance of something is not always magnificent when you feel it and magnificence of something is not always significant when you feel it.:)

Take care



Hello Cupboard

Hello! Cupboard How Are You?

My Name Is Andrew. Comment Allez Vous?

Ca Va?

Ca va bien merci, Est ce que voudrais un cafe?

C’est in bon idee!

See how we live in the twenty-first century

Talking to my cupboard about the day might seem strange

In fact its as pink as blancmange

to say it strangely you might say as a wavelength of the rainbow

which avoids all unambiguity.

I am feeling blue, smoking my cigar and drinking myself stupid seems

apposite in the circumstances. How I wish I were green again and the sunshine

yellow white and the slush grey and the china white.

Music piped digitally into my abode brings reds, blues and yellows into the shallow swamp

that is my pleasure of murky browns mixed with vegetal greens in a slurry of organic matter.

That I stomp about in my big black boots. Arrrrggghhh! UUUgghhhh! Graaaaaah! Ha Ha!

Purple and blue to you to you purple and blue to you!

The walls of my palace are pale and mild and not yellow or beige but unwhite and warm cream magnolia. There’s a bit of a solipsist wit for you. Not white not right. Christ!

My drink is a straw colour cloudy and in spite of my colour blindness, white and green and something in between like yellow and grey mixed with milk and parsley petals reflecting the harsh sun’s rays of red, orange and yellow.

When it comes to colour…wait for it… I am black and made of all colours although on some days I am washcloth grey or mophead brown despite my drip of gold.

But I am bread white really and I turn a nice brown in the summer. But that’s when I used to go out places. Not these days. Now the seasons drift by like so much traffic and the seasons evidence of my ageing while my mirror silvered tells lies, lies damn lies.

Black is my mind, black are the clouds that stumble on ahead of the weather striking fear into me. The rainbow palette is perhaps the greatest gift to be-stormed residents of weather town. (Where the talk is always brown)

But colours seriously I heard the other day ‘My brown friends’ what did you make of it? You say! Was it neo-fascist talk or shitty coprophagia or some such talk or was it simply earth that is brown and is good. So brown friends or Earth friends! The truth is I do not know and this adds to my sorrow of simpering yellow pus like sores of black blood and red crusty scabs on which my temperament soars like blackbirds from a pie.

But that’s it from me for the time being. Time to say goodbye

Something Soft

I wished for something soft on the harsh windswept streets of my hometown.

What I got was something that squirmed and became hard when I was soft

In my hometown, I went on the search for drugs soft in the head for what laid on my bed.

Another stayed in my head all the while silent but deadly while another screaming banshee stood at the sidelines until I went to her.

Another still- a satellite in orbit of words, symbols, and numbers touched down from time to time.

And another potential banshee stood by helpless as I tore and tore out of her financially.

It’s with hindsight and foreboding that I write these words down because I can feel myself searching for soft again.

But those days are behind me now, along with Garbage and a million songs, lies, and TV.

If I were a snail I could move to pastures new in a few days take in the coast.

Instead, I am stuck here where it hurts the most, removed only by a couple of miles from a revolving videotape of lies, remorse, remission, and divorce.

(In that space, a future did unfold that was bad to the core, the rotten apple in the bunch, eaten by wasps)

Can I be reliable these days? I trapped success in a box and then lost the box containing it. The damage done is always, but time is a healer, wheeler-dealer selling dreams to the poor and life force.

I have a calculator with plus and minus multiply and divide and a memory.

I can pretend it’s all beginning again, or something new, or something old (something borrowed, something new). (426 words…(do something)500 words should do it)

I suck on it sideways till all the color has gone and hope the flavors connect with the words and ideas (already gone).

Silence…Bathrooms..Bedrooms (cupboards) walls.

My bedroom, a cross on the wall showing Jesus dying (making the ultimate sacrifice) which is strange if you consider he is the son of God.

Grey duvet, new from Do-It-All and white furniture in a box room. A hole in the wall where I stashed my hurt money for later.


I like being me(hate being me).

(you’re not funny)

I feel OK (rotten) to the core.

(I could go for miles and miles and miles)


Por flavor (is that right?)

(All the things i have said)

While I wished away on my bed.(now is the future)

Now is the future! Now is the future.

I smile (and think happy thoughts)

(my bed, my room, all worthwhile)

(Rubbish) Bollocks!

(Ah, shite!) Shite!

(start again) Start again.

(what was I doing?)

Putting the world to rights!

(its very difficult to chase your thoughts, catch them, then put them down on paper)

Thought catcher? Dreamcatcher. Chinese thought catcher?

(It might catch on)

(almost there)500 words mmm…(26 to go)

(nothing left to say)Broke! (nineteen to go) (seventeen) (sexteen)Ha ha! (sexteen ha ha) (chortle)

(its funny isn’t it writing sexteen instead of sixteen – sixteen -sex) (isn’t nineteen really old?)

Thats 500 words (over 500) (time to go) Goodbye! (goodbye!)

When I close my eyes…

When I close my eyes…

Why can I see the city lights?

Why does everything I write rhyme with fights?

When I have a hard enough time asserting my rights,

Why do I see a starry sky filled nights?

When I look ahead…

Do I see problems of old recomposed? Ask myself

do I know of a remedy to help it all go?

Am I supposed to be living on the outside

Of a life once found never, never, besides.

When I recall…

I see an image in my head of me when I was young

I know the wrongs I did were written down in indelible ink

I get smoke in my eyes, from the hair on my face

Which is burning like old celluloid as It melts and you shrink

When I dream of the future…

I see the stars glowing brightly against a midnight sky

I hear the tweeting of an owl and I wonder why

The past and present can be so cold as to make you older

than you actually are, forging a new future.

When I look in your eyes…

I feel a connection with the universe in you

And with the universe in me as two

As we entwine ourselves around each other

And sink into our dreams, lovers and haters.

I didn’t have any talent- But I did it anyway…

Heineken Doodle

(Is this the story of my life?)

I used to work in computers and repaired them and fixed them up and also built and maintained servers on a big LAN (Local Area  Network) which was part of a MAN (Metropolitan Area Network) and a WAN (Wide Area Network) which spanned half of the UK. Sounds impressive doesn’t it?

Yes, there were lots of acronyms to learn (MAN, WAN, etc) and a lot of processes, most of them tedious in the extreme by which to move order data from one computer system to another; known as getting them to talk, I believe.

There were also exams to cram for and take at a Prometric Testing Centre for Microsoft Certifications much wanted by my employer.

What can I say? I soon found myself with all the trappings of success except for a girlfriend, but more of that later.

In the end, I found myself moved sideways, backwards, upwards in a seemingly never ending reskilling by my Evil boss Richard. And I was bored – bored with the job, bored with the people, bored with my life.

In the end, I ended up here and its now 12 years later and I don’t  have a girlfriend still but I have gained a whole lot of useless life experiences.

I am wondering now if there is a reason I no longer meet hardly any women at all in my life other than for the reason I hardly ever go out and when I do its usually with my parents or to the doctors.

Life has become very small. And to a degree that suits me just fine. I have my space and drawing material, my laptop and an internet connection and a nice flat to live in – although there’s only enough space for me in it.

I almost died. I’m over forty. Help.

There is a voice that says you’ve had your chances in life, but you didn’t take them or fucked them up.

I just want a happy ending.

Not much to ask for is it?

Juxtapose this…

The only person I have felt something deep for in my adult life was seen a part of the ‘problem’, not the ‘cure’.The same person made me feel loved. The same person made me feel wanted, and amongst other things, useful, intelligent, creative, friendly. But you wouldn’t take him home to meet your mother (although I would have – My mother is quite unflappable)

My family, who, on the whole, have the opposite effect on me are the ‘solution’ hardworking, successful, reliable, trustworthy, god acknowledged folk who are seen to work hard consistently and who you could turn to in a crisis.

In a crisis, when you don’t have the solution, you want to feel secure.

Let’s call this a game, life number one, you can win or lose or both.

How do you do both? I hear you ask…

Both is what I want (I can’t help winning at some things), but one is all I have.

Now the ‘problem’ is gone I have only my ‘sine wave on acid’ emotions as I have named them for the purpose of this piece and my physical family for company.

But a crisis looms (as always) and I feel insecure. So what can I do?

  1. Turn to drink?  Makes me feel better by providing a high and a low at the same time.
  2. Go in search of nighttime pleasures? which provide brief feelings of togetherness.
  3. Write more? which is like a drug.
  4. Search for Mr Right? (who is actually out there-somewhere-of this I am convinced) seemingly impossible – Where Do I begin? Aren’t I better of alone?

Well! What a conundrum!

I should also bring into the picture/equation/conundrum a couple more factors

  1. I am signed off sick from any work due to an enduring mental health condition which on the plus side gives me loads of free time but on the downside makes me feeble – eauuurgghh pass me a hanky!
  2. Time. The moon keeps rising and waxin’ and wanin’ and the seasons come and go like buses. Time waits for no-one, baby.
  3. Loneliness – If you live alone you must get lonely, Right? Or overwhelmed by huge tasks like finding Mr Right, Right? Erm, I think so.(yes)
  4. I am out of the closet to my friends (long time since I saw them) and my family (Who don’t mention it) I forget most days. – I only found out by chance so it’s not like I can just repeat what I did before, right?
  5. It’s probably unwise to ask a general public for help with one’s otherness. I mean I could be asking a mass murderer, right? YDK (You don’t know)

Well, there we have it. So far…

  • I have fulfilled a long forgotten about bucket list item ‘Get one of those personal relationship blogs’ -Unintentional, mais vrai (but true).
  • I did some more writing (which brought a smidgeon of pleasure)
  • I have briefly elucidated a problem (or two) standing between me and Mr (Or Mrs -I am an open minded type of guy) Right.

This is a relationship blog with a difference. I do not have the answers. I honestly do not know what is going to happen…if anything, in the next two weeks. But if you are interested press the follow button and find out what comes next…and I might not be focussed enough…something might happen to me…I will probably forget all about this…

Thanks for reading…see you.

Runs (again)

Here is another Runs piece of writing with some rhymes thrown in it.


Runs from one place to another without moving.

Runs forward and backward without moving.

Runs up your back without moving runs with your legs.

There is a place where reflections catch the light in the glass mirror surface of the pool,

Where a look is taken at first glance and a second, third, fourth, fifth reading is not required.

Where you can go and see yourself naked and afraid.

This place is the Imagine-Tank.

Here you can shift perceptions with a raised eyebrow or make friends with a walrus

and honk at the pool attendant whilst shouting ‘more leaves’ more leaves’

You can dance with strangers with obsidian eyes and witness new rituals.

You can blow off the past in an instant and have it return and envelop you completely.

You can see the future and its an IKEA catalogue of words prices and pictures.

You can see the past, and if you dive in, you can grasp it and drag it to shore in pieces.

Dreams become real as Alice’s. Words become big and heavy like giant sausages stuck in your mouth.

And your family carry on with their lives as if nothing had happened.

And A Protean performance runs the show.

Walls have a quality that is architectural coloured and sublime

You are living in a place where the everyday meets the sublime

In a chemical haze, you blunder from room to room making friends as you go

ten lives in a box, could be a shoe box, could be ants could be bees! You don’t know.

moments last for days under intense scrutiny and seconds and minutes escape like water from your cupped hands. All that remains is the impression of time passing, like paint drying, you know its happening but its very difficult to see and to know when its good to stay or when its time to go.

Here you have a quality of the man as plucked from the eyes you knew and living and breathing the same air as you – oxygen.

He is quick to learn and assimilate the new whilst remaining true to his past which is indicated by possessions blue, and stories told, of how he and she did build an illusion, and how the spectacular became the every day on dreams sold.

You sit with him and it’s as if you are a child seeing things for the first time crisis bold.

You ask silly questions and as time unfolds you realise you feel not up to the task again so to your room you return and contemplate your walls.

If only you had known this peace when stacking boxes and talking cheese. you feel born again in a temple of artistic harmony where anything is possible because you are all so cool and relaxed and able to focus on what is new and important. Well, you were not to know of the bees and the drugs and the new party line and the clothes beer and thugs gathered outside. When the end did come it was without warning and a reversal occurred and you were ejected into space like junk with a punch in the face and no thanks were heard.

As you gathered your senses into a shape they fell out again and through your fingers like the water  that was time and so sublime back then. Now you take stock and see you were used and that no good can come from the abuse you undertake a new beginning in a place of your choosing. But broken and dissolved it’s all you can do to drag yourself onto a bus to a new place.

It’s only years later when the seasons have  passed in a blur and you have the personal secure that you look up gain and see what could pass if you tried a little bit of this and a bit of that. and you sit in your web like a spider content with your larder and what you have in store for the present is good  like whisky.

Runs from one place to another without moving.

Runs forward and backward without moving.

Runs up your back without moving runs with your legs.

And your family carry on with their lives as if nothing had happened.

And A Protean performance runs the show.


If this sounds like a woman’s voice it is complete. I explored the feminine and got my head smashed in. But like a fool, I’d do it again.


House, face, voice, heart, all bigger than a mountain
All is you. cup of tea. slice of cake!
Your family are close. your achievements many.

Promises were always honoured and lies told with the best of intentions to our parents who were stuck with the sticky problem of raising us you came like friendly ice, Dripping glacial water on top of a rocky mountain
over rocks smooth and craggy, into crevices
drunk by birds, animals, insects, the land itself.
By inhabitants local and visiting-
sweet water sustained all.

What will happen when the glacier is gone
To those who inhabit the grass, the hills, the mountain?

Much will live on through the water table so richly endowed -the moss holding on tight as we drink of you living and breathing indefinitely.
(Made of Snow and Ice and teeming with life and word and deed)
I drink the water through a hollowed out reed.
And it nourishes and pleases me.
All is you and you know me from the water flowing on the cool rocks and the wildlife teeming below.
The passage of the sun marks out a less demanding climb so I eschew it favor of something special. So off I go.To the top of the hill where the stream begins I peer at the flow knowing that some secrets will remain hidden. This sad thought is washed away under the crystal clear flow of water of knowledge gained through a life well lived that I can only hope to emulate.

I know what I want to do now. The confusion has passed.

I return to run my fingers into the flow and cup my hands as so and drink, drink and let the rest go.

A nan like you I have never known.

Layers of Ice

Trapped Under Ice Seems Fitting
For a coat of thorny issues
involving my past descendants
whose deeds I see in Colour on the TV  atrocity after atrocity that bury me under sheets of cold, cold ice.

I don’t know for certain what happened
and for this is not knowing if the unspeakable occurred
in my name was not possible, such was the era
three generations ago in a time of war
when three-quarters of my family were on the good side at home or overseas
Only the family of one was at war and whose SS connections I saw in an album of photos after the death of the remaining close relative and many years after the war.

In an age when poets scrambled overseas to the US and UK away from something so terrible, I know where my sympathies lie.

It is funny how images can haunt you for a life lead in peacetime of poverty and mental health with bulges here and there and you wonder why nothing more came to bear fruit.
Do the crimes of my very distant family have something to do with my present? It seems laughable to think so.

But still I feel a spark buried under layers of ice -What if it had been me asked to wear a uniform that shone resplendency. Would I have resisted the rise of fascism? I’d sure like to think so. Would I have sided with the rising tide? No. Layers of ice, upon layers of ice, impossible to decide.

What is this cypher of questions? What if my family was doing well? Married and happy in the swell. Unsure of which way to turn and dazzled by the lights of a monster being born that looked to the weakness in man to build more and more and more.

Would they hark to the word of a  ner do good poet? A poet who has been crushed under layers and layers of ice until all he can say is ‘yes, I liked it’
When ‘No, I hated it’ was screaming inside. Why should I upset my host when something I pride myself upon is my thickest of hides?
Buts it’s dishonest to lie I hear you cry. Even when it is white? Even when telling the truth would be taken as a slight?
The truth might be buried under cold, cold ice.

Men in uniforms looked so impressive and to a young mind the might of blitzkrieg despite its terrors a monster to behold to a peaceful man of letters.

‘Nan your brother was a monster, a war criminal, an imposter’ And on the losing side in case you lost your roster. What if the unthinkable had occurred and Hitler had won and Buckingham palace was his home and we all spoke German?

Would the ice thin and burn and blister? Would a Nazi marry my sister?

And what of the poet who would witness it shall, he see a Hercules instead of a barbaric shell? Not I should think would his predilections lie but bought and vanity might have loosened his professional pride.


Not in my name but descendency doesn’t run that way, backwards through time into hell. My imaginary ancestor the poet Of Germany Circa 1933. Anathema to fascism, Anathema to greed, Anathema to crimes against humanity. Writing free just like me, on a crusade minus the religious entrapments. Writing Free! Like echoes of eternity.