Dystopia Rising – a poem

Follow the cues, roll with it all,

Those notes to say ‘we are here’

Guide us onwards, the rails switch,

Trick and track to stay on course.


Societal patterns and games sold

To the highest bidders prosper under

New plans and billboards outlining

Those hopes for a dystopic route.


Hopes and fears, yet did we plan

For the future powering down

Upon our bewildered, individual

Heads? Lined up like dry stalks

For a casual catch-all ending.



Casual Drama – a poem

Casual dramas characterise gentrification

In the heat of development, taken for

Granted like the price of berries heard

As bartering pieces between dead friends.


Necrosis of the spirit accompanies

This advance of capital gains for

People wanting more, more in the taste

Of convenience and commercialism.



Bathsheba – a poetry preview



Today I am bringing to you a piece which some of the readers from my previous blog may recall. It is only a little piece of the first part, edited slightly for grammar and presentation. The work is 23 parts long so far, written in August of 2013, telling the story of a lone warrioress in the desert. It is called Bathsheba – Queen of the Desert.

It is a strange style, kind of alternate rhyming couplets, nothing formal, little of my work ever is, but it remains an interesting record of a narrative poem series from myself as a different man to who I am now, who I have become. I have changed much in the past 7 months and I turn to Bathsheba with a different mind, a new perspective. I am planning to edit the whole of this narrative poem series and publish it as an ebook

I hope that you enjoy this small preview.



Goldset in late summer

As the desert guitar calls over

The dunes woven by winds

Caressing baked sands.


A masked wanderer makes tread

With rough shod feet,

Crests a dune without dread,

Though not as others before her felt.


Sunshine coming down,

Falling all around

And its weight is a tome unbound.


Weary with the long trek directionless,

The wanderer saw the board,

A long while ago in time fathomless

And has set out with at her back a sword.


Her hips bear a revolver each,

Solid grips of dark crystal rock,

Weapons of her far reach

While the blade is her close lock.


If she finds the one she would beseech

Before the desert clock

Ticks night-time over the breach

Then she is sure that no others do there flock.


Face a masked thing,

Hair all silver under a hood

Atop the cream colour robes bringing

A lighter top to the light flood.


Heat, heat, heat all around,

And nary a less inviting sight

Is there to be found

Than the crows in flight.