Wednesday, April 16, 2014

A Spot in St. Agnes

Wrote this about a disused mine I came across last summer in Cornwall. Needs a better title though...


An ancient ruin
of stone foundations.
Ritualistic circles, molten troughs and concrete coffins
around us, worn by time.
"Disused Mine" is all the map says.
No signs
to tell the stories, the
Hundreds of lives and livelihoods
carved out here.

Footprints of ghosts invaded by
spray-painted dicks.

But you can still feel it;
the clang of machinery,
the steam and noise
the grey rubble mounds
and the shouting tinmen.
Stephenson's Industrial legacy,
Britain's choking, chugging combustion engine
is lost.

Blake's "dark, satanic mills"
have been exorcised by
The machinery is rusted and abandoned,
rotted by sea water winds,
the steam and fire replaced by
harking gulls and crashing waves.
The great stone structures are nothing
but a rambler's quaint picnic spot now.
The deep dark pits that men descended into and
died in are filled in and covered up,
and the grey rubble Mordor mounds are
green and purple
with heather.

It's a hidden reminder that
nothing ever stays the same.

Men poured their lives and health into these stones.
They lost brothers, exchanged wives,
laughed long and loudly among the flames
before retiring to the pub,
to Mable,
and then the grave.
Now it's just a canvas
for local graffiti artists,
and a pleasant meeting spot for nearby doggers.

Everything changes and time always wins.
One day these walls will be
taken back by nature, reclaimed by the oppressed undergrowth.
And chilldren of the future
will scrawl filthy messages on the remains.
And ramblers will peel tangerines on the rubble,
and historians and writers will sit and gawk
at how quaint and simple
our lives were.

Friday, April 11, 2014

The Mental Tidal Wave

I wrote this last year in a particularly rough patch. Please don't worry or think this is any sort of cry for attention, writing just always helps me and looking back on it, this turned out better than I thought. Enjoy :-)


The thick and murky shadows swallow me whole.
I stare back at the perfect picture of myself
the face, jutting and shifting and curdling before my eyes,
this is who I am,
this is the physical manifestation of me.
And I can hear the screams coming from far off.
They're not loud, even when they're close
but they're worse than any jet engine.

They start small at first. A moan. A complaint.
A small whisper in my head that says something
The words are fussy, I can never hear them, but they're mean
and they're unrelenting whispers, cruel whispers.
After a few minutes the alarms start to go.
Now this is happening. Now you're stuck with me.
The floodgates burst against the unforgiving waves
and within moments I’m absorbed.

Sometimes I’m lucky
and I’ll roll with the wave. Tuck and roll on my Bondi Beach surfboard
and take it as it comes.
Sometimes I'll cry for a while, a sweet personal baptism,
and afterwards I'll feel clean.
Not happy, not sad, but clean.
Those are the lucky times.

Other times my heart stays right where it is, rooted to the floor,
like seaweed rooted to the ocean floor as
the great tidal wave rolls through.
The rowers under my command jump and swim to shore
and suddenly I’m all alone
and it's rising higher now.

There's someone outside the door, waiting for me to hurry up.
There's a beautiful girl outside who's going to ignore my smile.
There's a beautiful guy who'll stare me down like I'm an imbecile.
There's someone asking if I’m alright, because I don't look too good.
There's someone saying I should get more sleep, and would it hurt to smile? It's just funny seeing you around with that look. It doesn't suit you.
It doesn't suit me.
It doesn't suit me.
It doesn't suit me.
You're late now. But you knew you'd be late.
You wanted to be late.
Or at least, you wanted them to wait.
But wait for what?
This won't go by 1125. This won't go by 1400. This won't go by 1600. This won't go by 1830. This won't go by 2000. This won't go by bedtime. Maybe it'll be gone by tomorrow.


P.S. By the way, it did go. It always does. Sometimes it just takes a little while. 

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The Appeal of Animals

An old collie
lying on a wooden deck.
Warm sun, cool sea breeze,
contentment like I've never seen.
He raises his head as someone
else goes in the store,
sniffs for a moment,
then lies back down.
You see some old
people like that.
Content with the world.
The appeal of animals.

We try to fill our lives
with money or family
or pussy or dick
or wine or weed
or drugs or love
or music or art
or food or hobbies.
But animals just live.
Maybe that's why they call it doggy style.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Café Perte

After far too long I've finally decided to get back in to this blogging nonsense. I'll be posting my writing on here as much as possible, and I'd appreciate it if you gave it a read and left me a comment on which parts you hate. The story below is the first writing competition that I've won outside of school and I'm quite proud of it. Enjoy!


It’d been a long time since Susan had heard from Daniel. She tried not to be angry, if she’d been in his position she’d have run away too. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself. She spent hours trawling through Newspapers from across the country, searching Facebook, talking to old friends; just trying, hoping that she might get some news about him. After so long, she just wanted to know. Had he found someone he loved? Did he have a family? Was he happy?

Today’s special is the pan-fried sea bass, stewing in a lemon and butter sauce. It comes with roasted new potatoes, a mixed-leaf salad and steamed artichokes. All sourced locally.

The customers usually asked her to speak up. It just made her feel more embarrassed. She tried to project her voice, like Anthony told her to, but every time she opened her mouth, it came out a whisper. Whenever Anthony reminded her to “project Susan, from down here” (usually as an excuse to touch her stomach) she heard her mother mocking her “Speak up dearie. You’re so pathetic. You think any man would want a girl like you?” She could take speech therapy, but what was the use.

I’m afraid we’ve run out of the decaffeinated coffee sir, perhaps I could ask them to make it not as strong?

Initially, she only got the job to consume time. Something temporary while she got herself back on track, a few weeks at most. But as usual, weeks had turned to months, months had turned to years and now here she was; a waitress, a recovering alcoholic, and a failed mother all rolled into one crumbling package. Getting off drink was hard, but not as hard as staying off. Every time she saw a mother and son together, or a tall teenager with short blonde hair, she felt herself being pulled back to the in-between world that alcohol keeps you in. She’d relapsed more times than she could count. She was coming up on 9 months now. It was also coming up to Dan’s birthday.

Table number 6 asked which farm the lamb comes from. Do we know who it’s from or shall I just make something up?

She was 52 now. 12 years too many. Would anyone miss her anyway? Sure work might call, they were the only people she’d had a call from in years. She’d tried to believe she could stay single, stay strong, but it was too hard. She could feel the loneliness consuming her. It was nearly time.

A gentle bell ringing filled the air as the door to the restaurant swung open. Susan ignored it and carried on serving the table she was at. She felt strange, something familiar passed by. And then her heart skipped a beat, she heard him, a voice masculine yet intensely quiet.

Hi, um, I’m sorry but do you know if Sue Taylor works here?”

It’d been a long time since Susan had heard from Daniel.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Why you suck.

Once again, Charlie Brooker is hilarious and insightful. Enjoy!

Amplify’d from

How TV Ruined Aspiration

Friday, June 24, 2011

Sorry I haven't been posting like, at all recently, but I pinky swear I'll post much more and regularly. Hold up your pinky finger to the screen. Okay? Now shake. There we go.

I'll do a full post on this in a few days but first off a tribute that the man himself would have been proud of:

RIP Random hero