Medium See

medium sea, all done at sea;
There was a sail but it ripped
There was a seal but it tripped
right into the sea, next to me
we shared a conversation about meeting like-minded individuals who weren’t all at sea which was ironic, being in the Irish sea up to our necks in the salty brine. But that didn’t bother us at all. We were where we wanted to be. After all, done it once at sea and you lose your land legs. Done it at sea, will it done and with the help of David Bowie in it!
Landlubbers are like giant marshmallows that float in the sea until they are gulped by a fish!
It will be done said the seal and with that, he dived back into the waves.
I polished my chin and realised it was getting cold so I put my wetsuit on and dived in after Him.

Andrew Watkins 2019


Conscription starts at home!
Shine that latrine
Polish those socks
Climb that laundry mountain
Conscription starts at home
Muck out that latrine
till your fingernails bleed
Shod that pony
Shim that tackle!
Polish that brass
Haul that ass
All the way to the railway yard!
All before breakfast starts
Clear that table
Mind those crumbs don’t get on the floor
or they’ll be hell to pay
today we start
a nuclear war!
The Soviet Union will fall
(against sugar and dust)
And Stalin will be no more!
MP44, MP44, MP44, MP44
Get behind that door
In your little hidey hole
I see your little nose twitching!
And your big eyes staring
And your poop is a smelling
And your product is amazing!
And you’ll keep on hiding
Until conscription day
When suddenly you’ve got two fine kids!
Close your eyes and wonder
If the nation’s place is over
And if you climb under the parapet
then look over, you will see
a beautiful land of clover.
With one dirty hand and one clean
lead your children there
and see the bright side,


Is the internet making us selfish? Like the high street of old are there places where the Weirdos went but where no respectable person would be seen?

Is it the internet’s fault? And wasn’t the internet supposed to be the place where you can go and be whoever you want?

I am a non-earner in terms of the internet economy. I may be kind and welcoming to new comers as that is one of my internet roles but when it comes to internet banking I want it working I don’t care about the colour scheme. Even the welcome you get from the banks is sincerely delivered. It’s all about what you can get away with -surely?

With this in mind, I hope to become a peddler of clicks and whirrs Whoops! I mean clicks and eyes as I have a blog which has no ulterior motive for people to get suspicious about other than it’s something I created that I would like to share perchance to raise an eyebrow or titillate a vein such is my innocence.

I am at home all day and all of the night which you would think gives me more time to write and draw but we are dealing with daresay voodoo economics when it comes to art and writing. A minute is well…a minute. But it can seem like an hour.

So get behind my new post by clicking follow or watch or favourite or Like in whatever language you are using. And remember …something profound. Or if you can’t invite around that really annoying relative you have and talk with them for three hours. That’ll put things in profound perspective!

Till next time. Ta ta.


Number withheld whenever you call Whenever I call dial zero, one, two, three, four into the earpiece in whatever order you choose. In which directory? OK to call? Beneath details, number 1, 2, 3, 4, beneath details open the door foreword into detail into which detail? You? Which you? Receive a light, puff away in between broken coughs into where detail which whenever light you had taken goes up in soot in what never happened in whatever calls you made in whatever calls you make in whatever dues in whatever break calls you make in whatever hell you bake listen to me I’ll call you OK because in which can details a story make in which breaking news I light for you always.


© 2017 Andrew Watkins

How Not To Write A Good Poem

Barnacles , Testicles, Wallet , Watch

I must be a good Catholic

I know the Pope can only be a man

I know nothing much else.

AM Watkins

Distilling words into poems

is no joke. Neither is it like making whisky.

Through the vacuum of space like a place in your mind where words are weightless, meaningless

to the fertile cress seeds of wilting inspiration via the vigorous growth spurts to the

bodger making a hole in a balloon of despair

most of the time it feels like its never going to happen.

(let alone rhyme or titillate or prevaricate into one)

I have learned that I wouldn’t know a good poem if it came and bit me on the ass. This is a good place to be while you are tearing out metaphorical RAM and installing upgrades like Mestopholes getting under floor heating in hell (you don’t need it – Geddit)

‘It’ being the thing that says ‘don’t slip up on a banana skin or use cliche’ (the preddominant part of my writing brain) also says that the glass lake is pure even simple. How can I enjoin some excitement to that except through trying an amalgam of the two? Get your skates on that glass pool won’t be pure for ever. And don’t forget ‘Don’t fall over’

Turn out the lights and you might get some idea of the confusion of practice. How do I not make a sentence boring? Well I am not one for making and following rules but like any story a sentence might be better with a begining , a middle and an end. Write sentences with only two words and tell me that its impossible. I don’t and won’t care. I don’t even care that I have not yet gone viral thus proving my poetical thruppence in the game of dominoes that is something like 21st century poetry Slam! I am quite happy writing.

Buddha Step aside! I am the Enlightened one MUHAHHAHA! Or something like that.

See If i had been looking for it I might never have found it. Looking for it does not involve reading the dictionary or encyclopedia or even urban Dictionary. No It’s in the inconstant thoughts that like pedestrians all stop for a Pelican Crossing then when the lights turn Red, all start walking again at their own speed and in their own directions and who eventually end up at some destination. Like the happy tourist photographing Street Photography you can only learn so much about people through their photographs. In real life you have to be a stalker – And follow them. (thoughts not people – and not obsessively like The Hamburgler or Kaiser Soze with murder in mind). And remember Every journey starts with single step.I think thats enough advice for one day.

Stay Tuned!


Is believing what they say and taking it to work the next day green?

Break it down. What do you know? Is it truthful, fast or slow?

Did you go there or did a friend? Drive you round the bend?

Well, that’s all for now kids and adults alike. Green?

Wind farms coming in the Hills above town coming soon?

Porpoises in the sewers to keep down rats in the sewers

Wine on tap in Northern Germany, In Northern Germany?




As I wrestle with your feathers
I am cold lonely anticipating all kinds of weathers.
God, give me wings to lift me out of here to a place with infinite beer
That sediment which you give a prof
Can be mine to rof.
whenever I like.
I would like to be literate and well read
so I could answer properly your questions and imicipations
which I gather are as popular as ever. Well done you imicipator.
which pre-dates the calculator by hundreds of decades.
I love you Emily as you cauterise my melancholy like cotton wool and gunpowder in a smelling discharge paper. I have finally come undone like one of your buttons. Dear Emily. I will be hated for mine comments berated like so many old soldiers coming home after war to nothing but approbation for killing. Nothing of good service! All empty cups and harsh cornices empty above a cold stove. Hows that for the road on which your travelled to meet god knows who . God I wish we were alone. We could fly in tethers made from telling each other of Spode and architecture Newbold and Pitt The Younger.. Your words are my hope. You give ’em enough rope to pull themselves along rather than hang themselves as is the fashion nowadays.This is truly a melange. A wedding. A shallow bowl containing whisky. We are soaked in Sponges and squeegees polished and finished at no school like the world has ever known. Every flag sewn and flied is a brass eye through which I can see never ending beauty as the horses neigh in approval. This is it our one life and I am living it via a computer. Cybernetics would have interested you soaring above its letters and words like a soaring bird.You would have been a cybernetic wonder. I would have scoffed at your detractors made them plough for a severance a stony field like littered with unexploded hand grenades. In a little village not often seen is a little lane called memory. Do you recall one gliding down it on a farthing cycle feet pushed out wide smiling and laughing? Well, that’s how your words make me feel. Like I have revisited one of your memories. and we never met. Of you, i would dwell on well-kept matters of fact secretly betrothed at a brothel or a hovel. You would have brought it alive.Never meet your heroes. Only beyond the grave. Did the King take you as some believe or was it only make believe of shitstorms and misunderstanding that in your life your were plagued? Nobody is surer of the truth than I whose distilling was crafted from art, born from fire and practised day after day after day. You are the finest wine I drink while music plays and metaphor, the children’s bore is left to fester in a damp room. Play your gloom over me like a shadow and bring me to life. A million surfaces are not exeunt. To be possible is to be improbable like Scotch Mist. You knew this. Over iron works, over smoking shell holes are ridges of selfless trees their leaves rustling in harmony to the gait of the four legged labor burden that is you on heroin. I am not kin to gladness nor sorrow nor loss but to hope lost and found in words on a page. Your words my craziness. Peace.

The need to write drowned out matters of editing past my own and throwing stones in glasshouses. Enjoy
To Emily Dickinson,

When again

I forget all that I thought

lost to reason like a flight of birds

and cornered in my fancy of this word or that.


I think my posture has written a few

when I’m slunk like a folded pillow

into the creases of my seat, a lonely

heartbeat and a keyboard.


Strike a match in front of my eyes

so that I can see a trembling beauty

and sort through the raptures of

aural symphony available to me.


But hark another sirens call, so much

to see and get lost in antiquity. And books

with their subtle sights and leering looks

I can do without those too.


I thought I had found my best again

like a child I wondered why I was able

to write this poem at last after all that

sinks earthward bound like snow.


Perhaps I will never really know

what makes things move and go

upwards like a bird or float gently

down to earth like snow.


Does it matter to the mad hatter

how his garden grows? As long


there is someone to pour, and talk to

who could want for more?

I Am A Writer

Some fucking people, I DK. Wouldn’t recognise a Spatula if you waved it under their nose! Word mechanic at work. Insert diagram here of man digging for and making a nice pile of words beside him that others could use. Words from out of the very ground. Did you know that? Its a metaphor for what goes on in my head, the bit inside. A little man gets a message ‘some words please’ so our man puts down his newspaper or phone and with a sigh picks up his pick-axe which he puts over his right shoulder while  he ums and arrs and kicks the ground a bit to see just where is best to send the pick head first. A grunt. So, happy with a spot  he takes the pick-axe  in both hands and sends fourteen inches of cold steel into hard unyielding ground. No screams, this is the ground. He sees a letter in the dark soil a ‘G’ so sends in the pick-axe again. Now he sees other word endings. For some reason they are all buried upside down. So he strikes again and again, and again and soon the words are loose enough to pick up and place in a pile. He radios the set. ‘Got them, Jack!. Send in the cleaners.’ and then he sits down again and waits for the next message.