Arsonists howl, “Apostate!”, hate from the bowel, “Apostate!” Chasing the tale they have not read, burning, they growl, “Apostate!” The moon bribed into murder, I hear only the vowel. Apostate? Prostrate freedom waves a white flag and we throw in our towel, apostate. From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859 https://alfieshoyger.blogspot.com
» Read moresummer lovin’ for two mad weeks in Mablethorpe, in Jen’s mind, though not in mine, we were nothing more than passing strangers, holiday romancers, summer buddies to flirt with over ices. or people watch sipping tall white wine as plush upholstered hotel evenings melted into night. despite the weather in sunny day beachwear, we arm-in-armed the promenade
» Read morea little version of something I am not sure where it will lead me as a writer, started as sci fi prose poem. anyway here it is. basic idea was microprocessing and microarchitecture.
» Read moreAttempting to help people in the mental sphere is seldom rewarded, for ‘thank you’ usually means ‘unfinished’
» Read moreSlightly edited from earlier this year. Feel free to inpute meaning into this one. It’s yours!!!
» Read more(In carbon consumption, yes, but richer in spirit!) Yet again, step into the breach, dear friends: Cry God for Boris, Independence, Saints: David, Patrick, Andrew, Nigel, and King George!
» Read moreHelp save the mentally healthy! Spare some change for the non-deranged bluffers neatly arranged and suffering under the smothering weight of their strange mediocrity, oblivious to danger in their earplugged hypocrisy and their boring office shoes and shirts, ignoring obviously bruised and hurt hearts because society told them to, because propriety rolled them into blinkered balls of “I’m safe
» Read moreLoving words ‘Till death do us part’. I remember you saying This, holding my hand. I didn’t understand You meant death In the relationship. Fair enough. Else it is always easy To say things, Recite touching quotes, Without meaning anything, Like the one here, ‘Love me the most When I deserve it the least?’
» Read moreNearly six hours east of Greenwich, in a field of rice and spinach, squats a village by the cratered roadside. Mangoes are borne with expertise on heads that yell in Nepalese, “Your cow is standing on my bananas!” A small stone enclave froths with soap. Shri and Patni, each in a robe, wash in a far from
» Read moreOn the anniversary of Mike’s death, one I wrote at the time. His funeral was wonderful – typical of the man himself. And it’s fitting that it should be my last sub for a while.
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