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Keep Running (Don’t Give Up)

24 Apr

Gone all out
demon slayer,
whole self sold;

sprinting surely,
streaming smooth –
 hell bam, 
No siren
or notification,
to re-strike, no time   
or to withold.

On the floor,
fiend fighter,
vision skewing,
limbs spilt
Can’t uprise or self utter,
can’t figure what just passed

or what you should have done –
to have cursed,
or mere blamed,
to have ran
or faced, headlong?

Up jump
fiend conqueror,
  wearied, bloodied one
don’t be fooled.

Keep on your
 wily, never quitting scheme,
no mummy for the mud;

slice, brute strike forward
and lynch this disingenuous intimidation,

shifting sorrow to motivation
and shit to jewels.

Fire sword slayer




13 Oct

You stride across storm tossed fields to greet me,
Face elevated by a thousand bolts of neon and a tangerine black sky;
White lit, lofty eyed, voice strangulated into some sick kind of marvel by heaven knows what,
skewering wind, mud and rain to hasten its assault.

Your string missiles, hardly less lethal;
With this thunderclap;
and again,
lives hurled forward,
I think I’m gone,
Strung out, wrung out, prised well loose.
And the rain barely felt, heated at your refrain, like relieved tears, brushes  away the stresses that have fractured my skin.

Push-go,  hurl-thrust, battle bloody persist,
spew savagely forth heart and guts;

lethal armed, incisor sharp, instrument versus voice,
hot blood, new life, mouth to mouth resuscitation,
imperial liquor through each vein and cell,

never was joy like this –
these sublimely spiteful, sacrosanct songs,
towering and
thrusting to the skies,
annihilating whatever shit once was.

On these last crushing chords,
the fiercest screams, hers and mine,
up, up;

crinkle iced eyes melt,
and I’m myself again.
In this wild aftermath,
with these giant smashclaps I pray
I’ll make damn happy hope with them all,
just like you .



Between Worlds

14 Apr

It’s snowing again,

And I’m trapped

Between the place I’ve left behind

And the new.

We’ve been here  five seconds;

Too many years spent in the old,

Building visions apparently unrealised.

Here is virgin,


Mint raw as the snow layering our back lawn,

Immaculate –

Yet to be stamped upon;

Exciting, perplexing,

We’ve not been this way before.

And the memories of our past burn glacier hot,

Stiletto sharp, trying to prise us both apart

Inevitably pointless,

Like the icicles suspended from the house next door,

Soon to thaw in the fever of long lusted after Spring rays.

Photos: Ru

Seven bad sad, reasons for not blogging…

30 Jun

I haven’t blogged for at least a month. A whole twenty-eight days! But I’ve got good reason – seven in fact. Have had a hell of a time…

1. The mini is officially dead. The garage people uhmed and ahed about giving us a quote for a new shell for several weeks and then came up with the extortionate quote of £13,000.  The insurance people said it would be too expensive to repair, strangely enough. Just look at the state of it. Poor, mini!

Mini crash.

2.Panicking: “How long did I think it would take to finish my book?” asked Mr. F one day.  “Will it be finished by Christmas? If not then, when?” It sent me into a spin: Oh God, when will I finish, if I count up the number of words I’ve done already will I be able to work it out? Why am I taking this long? In a blaze of fury, (at my slow progress) I screwed up chapters sixteen to twenty. For a couple of days, I couldn’t  look at anything I’d written.

3. Mr. F’s job finally ended. He spent a few days at home, (poor dear) fretting about what to do next and whether he was going to be paid or not. I wasn’t ever so patient, I’m sorry to say. (Is it a writerly trait to fly off the handle when someone invades your space? Or am I just anti-social?)

4. I tried to turn into someone else. Did I really harp on about turning into someone else last time? Suddenly, I was desperate to change places with someone. I mysteriously morphed into Matt Bellamy for a week or so on Facebook. If I was him, I wouldn’t be blue for long. I’d just plug into the amp and reel off a riff. Bingo – sorted!

A delicious chocolate biscuit.

5. OFSTED inspection number two.  It included a lovely forty minute interview – just me and two inspectors.

6. Mr. F had another accident. When I arrived home from there he was standing in the garden, wrist in a sling, several stitches in his knee, gassing to our Indian next door neighbour without a care in the world. Or so he wanted us to think. He winced anytime he was touched and was only just about managing to hobble round the house.

7. I nearly broke the scales when I stepped onto them this morning. Cue again the “Can’t I be someone else?”  theme. (Well s’pose if that’s the only side effect from the past couple of months, then I’m not doing too badly.)

Does blogging keep you sane?

13 May

…Poor me, eh? Actually, forget about me, it’s the writing that’s been suffering. For two weeks, I haven’t written a word – I’ve been too knackered to think about posting anything on this blog and as for the novel, I’m stuck where I have been for weeks, mid-way between two chapters, wondering how LJ became famous.

At some point last weekend – in between dashing to the Physiotherapist to straighten out my arm (I trapped a muscle, tumbling down a hill on a Nepalese trek last year, avoiding the leeches), make plain food for my ill friend, a fantastic birthday lunch for Mr. F. and the friend who was still well and plan some lessons for those blasted inspectors before we went out for some posh nosh later on –  a thought popped into my head:

The end of the world was on its way.


It isn’t  a new thought. It’s crossed my mind more than once, over the last eight months. Ever since I’ve returned from a mind-blowing, round the world trip to face the drear of another British winter and the same old routine – had I actually been away? Yes, there I still was, after God knows how many years, still stuck up in the attic, bashing away at “The Novel”, teaching as many hours as I could afford to, in between, to support my addiction.

After a particularly rough patch before Christmas, when I was suffering from the extreme cold, (don’t ever try living in a Victorian house this far North) and isolation, Mr. F. suggested I try blogging.

“It might help,” he said. “You might feel more connected.”

Was it what I’d been looking for? It wouldn’t solve the heat problem but it might stop me from feeling such a weirdo. From thinking I’m the only bloody person in the world foolish enough to keep on with a novel, several years down the line, no agent or publisher in sight.  Might it actually, I wondered, as I took a deep breath – keep me sane?

Hurray, today Tuesday 12th May, I’ve gone and done it. I’ve blogged. Even if it doesn’t work out like I’ve hoped, at least I can say I’ve tried…