The Day I Killed my Wife

The Morning

Somehow you hauled yourself out of the bed we shared.

I stalled trying to help you overcome the dread.

Somehow you wanted to enjoy the day.

I stalled thinking I could show you the way.


The Afternoon

We walked through the park

Did I hold your hand?

As the sun shone and songs were sung,

Kids and mums,

Laughing, with dads with friends,

Everyone belonged.


You didn’t notice as I looked at your face,

And saw the pain;

I froze not offering you grace.

You drifted along,

And I tried to sing a song,

Feeling entirely out of place.

Why did I not hold your hand?


I offered a smile,

But felt so distraught,

As you walked a thousand miles

Through the quicksand

My quixotic refusal to offer you my hand.

You wanted to go

And I felt so low

Because still I didn’t hold your hand.


The Evening

Swaddled in clothes, numb;

Shattered gaze, stunned by his laziness;

A heartless response.


Broken down,

Struck by his refusal to share,

His abnormal gaze

Gives away his heartless response.


Slumped alone

Her heart broken, down to the bone, cut

His heartless response.


Sat alone,

Bile rising,

My heartless response.


Unable to move,

Upstairs she lies alone;

How am I a man, a man?

So heartless in my response.


Still sitting alone,

Paralyzed by his heartless response,

He picks up the phone

To plead to an end

To his heartless response.



If you have addiction issues and an unhealthy negative view of yourself, for god sake go and get help and don’t do what I did and throw away something so precious. Talk openly and honestly about how afraid you feel. Do it now before it’s too late. Call the GP, talk to the Samaritans, Mind, anyone.





Family Sting

A pin punctures the sole

My god, thank you it’s not me today

as I stand on the cold floor

forgetting I’m already dead.


My memory sharpens

and my toes curl

as the needle sinks in too far

to forget what you said all those days ago.

Cold bitterness scrapes my cheeks

and I huddle

I’m a muddle HA HA HA

Now it’s the same Krapp scenario as the tape bleeds.


A girl stares

Again I’m punctured

Oh the banality of hopeful forgetfulness.

Punctured again

My soul

Punctured, ruptured, again.

My forgetfulness reminds me of you

Punctured again, my soul remains

Punctured, my soul remains



On the cold floor I stand






Automatic Capitalist Transmissions during Rush Hour












































































World War I – Coward

I heard the news.

Like most people I felt sick with worry.

How could this be happening? I mean, really happening? Is everyone mad?

Like most people I wondered what it meant.

Like most people I felt regret.


Wait, one second. Does this mean…

I’m not sure about this,

I’m not sure I want to say how I think and feel about this.

I’m not sure,

This is a good idea,

A good decision, a good solution, and a good way of resolving things I can’t, maybe, control.

Or can I?


Maybe: I don’t want to face the guns. Maybe: I don’t feel “brave”. Maybe: I’m surviving. Maybe: I’m thinking of my children, or those I may father. Maybe: I think this wrong and I don’t want a part of it. Maybe: I don’t want to contribute…to this.

Some newspapers publicly hounded us. Those who dared to think different; questioning the meaning of what was printed and the purpose of willing sacrifice. We were publicly ridiculed as “cowards”.

Of course, there was always a journalist available to write about such cowardice.

Sadly some of my closest friends turned against me. They thought exactly what they felt based on a sensational view of the world written by someone who would never experience their position. They were provided for and “safe”.

They also died.

I wore a White Feather with pride because I asked questions that could not reasonably be answered with any logic suitable for humanity to progress.

Apparently, I was a coward.


Culture – A clarification

Culture – A clarification

A clarification is required.

I enjoy culture: fine art, music, literature, theatre, and film.

Beethoven, Caravaggio, Debussy, Shakespeare, Kubrick, Beckett…many, many, more.

A delicate tune guiding one along a most subtle, gentle, breeze…

I adore the challenge of trying to understand and make sense of difficult theories. I make no apologies for believing in increasing one’s intellectual capacity; for knowledge brings understanding and compassion for our fellow humans.

Culture…often considered a luxury to those special elite.

As a 36 year old fellow engaged with creating fine art, I must present some facts:

I enjoy the music of many musicians (far too many to list) such as: Slayer, Mastodon, Strapping Young Lad, Black Sabbath, Queens of the Stone Age, Tool, etc. I enjoy, on occasion, football. I can watch without complaint a televised golf tournament.

The reason why I present this to you is for a simple reason. I cannot abide popular culture and the vacuous sentimentality associated with it. Culture is not the exclusive pursuit of the wealthy. Popular culture is not the exclusive pursuit for those with less wealth than the aristocracy.

Culture is not affordable only to millionaires and those ambling along the corridors of power. Culture is for everyone. No artist, composer, writer, poet, director, or actor, worth their salt would deny anyone the opportunity to enjoy their work.

No-one needs, necessarily, to understand a work. Any opinion is valid whether it is favourable or not. One of the most abhorrent things about culture is the sniffy-nosed attitude many have towards “undesirable” people making it or enjoying it. How many times, I’ve seen someone frown at me with contempt, only to turn round and remark “My goodness!” about my work!

A question often asked of an artist is “Who is your audience?” I would say mine is those who, for perhaps the reasons mentioned above, consider themselves “not the type” to enjoy art. My art is not made for an exclusive audience. I have to make art. If it is shown in public then it is shown for the public, and that includes everyone. If you take anything from this rambling nonsense, take this: I am not wealthy (I am awaiting a decision regarding Employment and Support Allowance), I am not clever, but I am just like you, and that is the only connection we need to begin enjoying all the things that were made because they had to be made.


Unknown Happenings

“Yes, it does, young man.”

He felt how he looked. Even he had to admit that to himself.

Voices from below and within confirmed her answer. The rattling of plastic wheels on cobbles went away, and returned.

Outside thin glass a glow glowed as only it could at this time of night. Thoughts became words as only they did at this time of night. If he could he would and, maybe, he would.

The rain muttered as it lay upon the pavement. Footsteps discussed solid reasons, and the wind sighed apathetically, knowingly, amongst the leaves. A breeze, a word, a cycle wises by. This time it will happen, this time o’ time wanting.

Gathering clothes around bony hips, making apologies silently wept, she looked, longingly, lovingly as only a mother can, as only a father dare.

“Yes. It really does.”

A thousand inconsistent ideas grazed on mind and nothing absolute, except a greeting, could be mimed. He wondered if he had too hastily been another, ill-judged, deliverer of the sublime.


For want of a better word you are what I assume you no longer wish. She said, fastening her belt, something else unheard of since…he could not recall. In parliament and court a useful retort.

“How do you feel?”

Anything, but empathy? No. Not that. Everything, but empathy. Heels clicked on cobbles, and males laughed yet followed, down below on the damp murky street. Evening fun, and drinks for cheap. Burnt plastic filled his nostrils. Sensational yet weak, I wonder why the people seek…frivolity cheap.

“A poet?”

No. Just confused. I’m unable to deliver…not this, not rhyme.

“You must think about what you want to say. You should wonder, forever, if this is the right way.” Foundation hid purple eyes yet nothing at all could hide the lies. Laughing from the belly up the innocent, vagrant, searchers crept loudly, clattering, staggering, boldly.

Not this. Not the rhyme. He cried upon realising he’d damaged her life.

Along the street, behind closed doors, another lady wept. And another next door.



The Liar (An Introduction)

The Liar


At his desk writing,

Nothing of interest,

Of course I will: he replied

It’s already done!

She smiled.


He retired late and drank anything he found; gin, beer, wine…what else is so refined I appear with incredible taste? ‘A gentleman; afforded intellect and wit, “sod these plebs”, the incredible bores.

Oscar died but lives on through Wilde times that maybe these are…

I forgot,

I’m sorry.

I don’t know,

Where I put it; this thing I need to prove my identity as in fiction as in reality.


What I desire more than anything else, my child:

I will dedicate myself to you,

Nothing is as safe as my love,

Dangerous ambitions may be just,

Forever in you goes my smile

Forever and ever we live together a madness so reviled,

Yet again a smile,

Yet again a promise,

Yet again a declaration,

Yet again,

A dream,

Yet again,


Yet again,

Automatic behaviour

Yet again,


Yet again,

How he loathes so,

Yet again,

We’ll be told,

Yet again,

Until we’re very old,

Yet again and yet again,

Under earth piled these bones,

The truth never comes out,

Yet again

And forever

A damned liar.