September 2nd, 2014

I’m In Love [ by Charles Bukowski ]

she’s young, she said,
but look at me,
I have pretty ankles,
and look at my wrists, I have pretty
o my god,
I thought it was all working,
and now it’s her again,
every time she phones you go crazy,
you told me it was over
you told me it was finished,
listen, I’ve lived long enough to become a
good woman,
why do you need a bad woman?
you need to be tortured, don’t you?
you think life is rotten if somebody treats you
rotten it all fits,
doesn’t it?
tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a
piece of shit?
and my son, my son was going to meet you.
I told my son
and I dropped all my lovers.
I stood up in a cafe and screamed
and now you’ve made a fool of me…
I’m sorry, I said, I’m really sorry.
hold me, she said, will you please hold me?
I’ve never been in one of these things before, I said,
these triangles…
she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all
over.she paced up and down,wild and crazy.she had
a small body.her arms were thin,very thin and when
she screamed and started beating me I held her
wrists and then I got it through the eyes:hatred,
centuries deep and true.I was wrong and graceless and
sick.all the things I had learned had been wasted.
there was no creature living as foul as I
and all my poems were
- Charles Bukowski

August 6th, 2014

On mountains.

Ten days spent amongst mountains. Half at a not-a-retreat-at-all that somehow felt like a retreat. Off the radar and mostly offline, but not by any conscious choice and with the benefit of inspirational company, friendly hospitality and French food. A week of feeling simultaneously like some kind of odd-ball-would-be-shoulin-monk, a ninja, batman or occasionally just a slightly scared over active kid.

0530 starts and runs before dawn. Climbing through church rafters and bridge beams at midnight, leaping, vaulting, scrambling, stumbling.

Duelling dragons, aching pains, stretching, growing, self-assurance and reassurance.

The discovery that sometimes a small semi hard sports ball can be your best friend and that sometimes mountains are much larger in your mind than when they are under feet.

Down the mountain.

To the lake.

To the city.

“This is water.”

“This is life too.”

Gratitude. Gratitude abounds.

March 17th, 2014

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

I walked along the Strand this morning.
It was me, the runners, the street sweepers and the homeless.

Sat beneath the golden arches of this age’s royalty.
Reluctant to part with even a hal’penny now for their taxed electricity.
Scents of chip oil and salt.
“Never ending salad all day every day” the inscription on the door reads.

I share the street with matted hair, damp dusty jeans, cardboard mattress’ and sleeping bags. Flatcaps still warn with a peacock feather on one side: the wandering Irish.

I pass a black corvine feather, soaked to the cement among the cardboard, rapidly being swept up or blown away on the early morning breeze.

A few doors down tea cups and saucers jingle. Taxi cabs doors swing open and closed loosely. Well tailored suits behind glass windows, which I have sat behind.

Foreign fine bone china in hand - but still always milk first.

Back down through cockney cobbled alleyways to the waterfront.
Under cement tunnels and railway bridges like the iron ribcages of long dead whales or other giants.

Until safely back south of the river.



February 14th, 2014


You should not walk the streets tonight.

Some nights seem possessed with the possibility for things to go wrong. They hold a heavy kind of anxiety. Not helped by low pressure and storm clouds.

But there is more to them than just the threatening winds and pelting rain.

Barometers, superstition and mercury.

They seem to lay a weight on your very chest, with a promise of some veiled dread that will come stalking darkly out of the rain sodden streets. Throwing open doors. Whistling through hallways. Clattering, shaking floors boards and window panes as it moves up into your home.

And it is around you now.

The low sounds of the thunder or the wind.

You recline weak; weary from the pressure that stifles your heart beat and knots your shoulder blades. Making tea to comfort yourself.

Some part of your mind cannot help but think: something is going to happen.

The last of the milk.

As you consider a trip to the 24 hour store for more, you envision yourself as amad king in a tempest.

Fallen branches.

A freak traffic accident.

The sound of the sirens and ominous blue flashing lights

A quite hand in the darkness.

The words: “it could have been anyone”

These are the things that take us from our loved ones in the dark.

In the wind and the rain.

This is what hangs over us like a raven on our front doors.

You should not walk the streets tonight, you have been told since you were a child.

Fear of being washed into the gutters and swept away by sprites where no one will ever find you. The realm of half imagined calls echoed from down dark ally ways. Rain dogs and lost boys.

Wait ‘till morning you tell yourself wrapped beneath your duvet.

It will all feel better in the morning.


December 17th, 2013

20 Cool Abandoned Places in the World - Imgur

September 24th, 2013

#London #BritishMuseum #travel #museums

September 24th, 2013

#London #BritishMuseum #travel #museums

September 24th, 2013

#masks #London #BritishMuseum #museums #travel

Loading tweets...



About your Author.

Topsy turvy spiller of ink, online drifter & vagabond entertainer.

For more about the author click here, or see the links at the top of the page. ☟

And of course, you can always just ask.

✎ ____________________

Currently Reading...