The Goblin Queen

Note: Sometimes I randomly write sonnets. Usually they are rude, lewd and dangerous to know, but somehow this one came out as an homage to Christina Rossetti’s 1862 children’s poem, Goblin Market. Which oddly enough is rude, lewd and dangerous to know. Just in a Victorian kinda way…

The Goblin Queen surveyed the country lane,

The two shaken young girls, one quite enthralled,

That sister’s loss, the goblin kingdom’s gain;

The Queen, she rose and to her minions called.

They tempted innocence with sweetest fruit,

They sang a song of pleasure without end.

They danced and played upon a magic flute,

And promised maidens fair their flowers to tend.

But girls should never trust a goblin’s song:

Their cheerful voices hide darkness within.

And by your heart, they would have you do wrong,

And drench your chaste spirit in lustful sin.

Can sister’s soul be rescued ‘ere she fall,

By sister’s love, the tend’rest of them all?

Viscosity (Subspace #7)

Defying Newton’s law

We collide.


We, shockwave




We earthquake,

Birthing continents

New and untainted.


And we try to destroy one another.

And come close.


But sweat-slicked and with kisses barely tremors

The slap of our fuck


And we are blended


And sinking


Down to where our bones will rest

After we are consumed by the slow wave

Of our love.

Bully Boys

Note: I wrote this poem in response to a third-year university assignment where we were tasked with adapting Romeo & Juliet, to be read out in class. My fellow students on the whole opted to perform a retelling of the story from a peripheral character’s perspective, or similar, but I went for this instead, using the language of Shakespeare’s tragedy to convey a somewhat different message. It was shortly after David Cameron had been elected as Prime Minister for the first time.

For context, I feel it is important to add that, while I still consider myself to be left-wing, the current preponderance of far-left, neo-Marxist voices spouting ideological identity politics across culture, have by default pushed my politics somewhat toward the centre. So I suppose I would now consider myself more of a classical liberal, if one must label these things.

One old-boys’ club, unmatch’d in villainy
(In fair Westminster, where we lay our scene),
Takes power once more in ill-veiled enmity,
Impoverished blood to spill and wealth to glean.
And from its fascist zeal, our common foe
Compels humanity to take its life―
Whose misadventured, piteous death-throe
Plunges this “sceptr’d isle” into class-war strife.
Their imitation of welfare and social health,
Which once they swore they never would remove,
Lie dying, victims of five years of stealth,
And now, they’re really getting in their groove;
So if you hope the next five years to pass,
Bend over and hold on to your arse…

But soft! I hear the shattering of shop windows as they break,
The fire of riots, glowing in the East.
Didn’t we do well to quell a nation’s hope? The scope of our achievement is full worthy of an austere champagne feast!
Old chums, it’s time to release *nudge-nudge wink-wink* the full and creeping misery of our unrelenting Capitalist beast:
Hi-Ho! We’ll shaft them while they work
And we won’t stop until they’re fleeced,
Our pockets lined,
Our pals’ palms greased,
And all semblance of solidarity is

In the post-mortem we will say,
“Well, they did invite us in. It’s just our nature to bleed them dry, We can’t help it if everything they have and are is a proposition just too tempting.
Yes, your Honour, we fucked them.
We fucked them, but we swear upon our desiccated souls they were consenting.”

They may bite their thumbs at us, but we’ll just stick them in a screw.
Oh yes, we’ll claim we stand together, but we within these walls all know that all we really stand for is me and all of you and of course that privileged few who line our coffers with their gains made at the proles’ expense;
And we’ll dispense with the dissenters, but we’ll fear no consequence.
We’ll chide them and deride them, all because we can’t abide them–
We’ll let Murdoch and his minions misinform them and divide them.

What’s in a name?
That which we call a Pole by any other name would smell as garlicky.
Oh yes, of course we’ll take their taxes,
But our pocket-press should still disseminate the hate against the rest:
We really ought not be picky.

When there’s no strength in infrastructure I’ll cast a plague on all their houses!
Welfare? NHS? I hate the words as I hate benefits and all Trade Unions!
Oh! If you have a fortune, I’m your multi-tool–
I can chop and slice and dice;
I’ll hammer home all our reforms and put the squeeze on like a vice.
But comrades, let’s not forget that it behoves us to *act* nice.

Take it in what sense thou wilt, wherefore art thou surprised?
All the sponging, lazy shirkers had to do was dig a little deeper and they just might have surmised that all my words are a smoke, made with the fume of lies.

Yes, our corruption is as boundless as the sea,
For never was a story of more depravity than this of Tory rule and the strangulation of our country.

Fingerprints (Subspace #6)

The rules we set are ours

A pas de deux stretched out

For hours spent in breathless syncope

Weightless as a whispered kiss

Heavy as the voice that promises thunder

A living sculpture made in parity

Press in your thumbs and shape a soul

A heart

A cunt

And leave your fingerprints behind there

Where your touch creates Pandora

Glory (Subspace #5)

Squeeze out my breath and steal it

Stop my blood

My light

And in them bathe

In Infinity’s womb

To be



My gift to you

Claim your power and weld it to my own.

Rend my seams

Restitch them in a pattern of our choosing

That I may be beautifully scarred

At your hand

And my seams run through yours

Shot with silver and gold

And all things precious.

Pull me apart with your rough strong hands

And I will gift you my










And I make you.


The person within me (a.k.a Yin Yang)

The person within me is often without:

Lame with certainty sometimes, sometimes crippled with doubt.

Sometimes kicking and hitting and scratching and biting,

Forging out from within, she will come out fighting.

She is fractal, atomic, galactic, ecstatic;

Expansive, whilst infinitesimally small.

She can be fractious, acidic, chaotic, quixotic,

She endures for the squall that will signal the fall.

She endures for destruction, the chaos of growing;

The patterns pervasive, the sowing of knowing.

You can’t squash her, she is the root of a tree,

The drip-drip in a cave, the slow surge of the sea

That wears at the shoreline, languid, unhurried,

High-tidal-low-tide, she will worry, unworried.

She will rip off your hand while she gives you a heart;

She is maths, she is music, she is science and art.

She is everything you are, in fact, she is you:

She thinks just as you think, she does as you do.

She’s down with the in-crowd, she’s out on a limb;

She is cavernous, empty, and full to the brim.

Undeniably, she is more tortoise than hare…

Which seems fair.

A sky burial / Elements

Note: This little ditty is the beginning of what I thought might eventually turn into a book. I suppose it still might, but the initial idea has changed and evolved so much over the last couple of years as to be virtually unrecognisable. I am currently in the ‘research and note-taking’ phase (read: ‘procrastination and noodling about’) of the book it will now become. That said, it began as a story about balance, and it will end as one.

A sky burial

The circling shadows ripple across the sparse scrub of the mountain top. The air is thin here, and cool. The five figures stand loosely gathered, each looking out in a different direction across the bluff, where the light paints a late afternoon, bordering on dusk. It is fitting, given their purpose.

As the sun dips and grows, and dips and grows, the five stretch upturned hands in the direction they each are facing before lowering their arms and reaching out to the sides. Rather than joining hands, as you might be expecting, each person takes a light hold of their neighbour’s left wrist, until a circle is made. If you are listening, you will have begun to imagine the drone of a low hum as it undulates in the space – swelling, intoxicating. If you are observant, you will have spotted the not-quite-discernible bundle, wrapped in a blanket that fades through elemental colours, interrupting the ground within the ring of five.

The stillness of the scene is sharply highlighted by the flick and wave of the gusted grass, the thrum and roll of the low, low tone that seems to come up through the ground and collect in the throats of the five. If you find you have been there a lifetime, it is because the sound of the receding day has had a way of stopping thoughts in their tracks; make of that what you will.

When the sun kisses the distant summit the sound abruptly stops and hands once again fall to sides. Wordlessly, the five drop into a crouch and begin to shuck the blanket from what it shrouds.

And there you are. And me; except it isn’t really you or me but it might have been you and one day it will be me – we are all connected.

The body may have been man, or woman, or neither, but it doesn’t really matter as it all comes from the same place it will go back to: a memory that morphs over time.

The five stand back from their charge and once again turn to face outwards. Each one of them with gaze relaxed to encompass all in their periphery. You see them solemn, but clear-eyed and open. They stand still a long moment more, and before they disband each one touches fingertips to the forehead of every companion. Then they break into broad smiles and depart, each stepping lightly in a different direction. One waves the blanket-shroud jauntily in time with every step. By the time they are twenty yards away, the first vulture has landed amid a great beating of wings.



Days and nights pass in stillness on the mountain top, weaving in and around the tempestuous grass and the carrion birds that circle and hop. There is nothing to be done now but wait for life to creep forward in that inevitable way it has; we might call it la via vita. Laviavita, rolling inexorably on.

After a few days exposed to the elements, our disconnected sibling reconnects; only this time the signal is clearer, stronger, faster. No data is sidelined, or siphoned off to become tangled in a web of our own making. There is no different perspective now.

Its hair flows in quiet symphony with the grass; it is naked, and unashamed when the birds begin to tease meat from bone in strips that stretch and snap as they are plucked. A simultaneous exchange goes on unnoticed below. Something – memory, experience, perspective – reaches down and noses its way between stone and root and earth, the one enriching the other as they pass by, eternally osmotic. It joins with the sweat of the earth to become religiously one with it.

Religion, from religare; to bind together. Take a moment to wonder what happened.