Latest Submissions

Dalriada

For Mac’s sake, drap this balaclava bombs guns pikitweer palaver! Wid ye Picts an Gaels nae rather quit this theatre an ilk o ye become a grafter for auld Dalriada? This desert in the saul that’s brocht fou monie a carle in drouthie flocht, aal shidderin an shammlie-hocht tae his bullet-rived knees, this centuries-lang mental fraucht, maun turn to peace. An Jock, quit mumpin life’s been hell sin ye an wifie clanged the bell, an ...
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/ / Burns stanzas, Poetry / 341 words / NEW! /

All That Was Lost

All That Was LostSVH I'm tired of trying, tired of crying Deep down inside you knew I've been dying Im honest with you, I'm not even lying But my dedication to you was the only thing you're fighting I loved your face, I loved your laugh I adored your eyes, how you would look back Smile, hug, and tell me it's all okay But suddenly you left me at the end of the day A ...
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/ / Poetry / 2 Comments on All That Was Lost / 210 words / NEW! /

Natural shift

I realized I had to get Off my chair; Else re-positioning it, Became an impossible affair; All this while I was one With the wooden seat Agility lost, I succumbed To a rigid defeat. Likewise, when I recognized I was neither my thoughts, Nor my feelings I could detach myself from them I was able to behold them from a distance, I could hold them at once; Like I held my framed identity, My unnatural ...
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/ / Poetry / 1 Comment on Natural shift / 94 words / NEW! /

Fighting My Inner Darkness

Fighting My Inner Darkness SVH To keep my own sanity in check I must make my wits calm as I laid my eyes on the horizon and I am constantly thinking of my inner darkness.  Some say I am crazy, but I say I'm forced to tell myself the truth of it all just because  I need to and learn my own truths and lies.  Where my mind will take me I do not not ...
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/ / Poetry / 2 Comments on Fighting My Inner Darkness / 244 words / NEW! /

waiting in Coventry

(remembering Liz Taylor) as a striking ‘still-a-man’ but ‘would-be-woman,’ tall, elegant, straight-backed, slim, hair corbelled with roller bun and pony-tailed Japanese style serves diners in a Coventry eaterie ‘their’ Cleopatra breasts brush the trays ‘they’ carry. envious, I steal surreptitious glances as ‘she’, as ‘they’ are waiting to be, weaves tables. I’m largely at ease with my genitalia but I’d love to have a chest like ‘theirs.’ ...
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/ / Poetry / 4 Comments on waiting in Coventry / 64 words / NEW! /

9 simple ways to say ‘NO’ to medicines at 50+

If you want to be free from medicines as you are approaching 50, or have crossed 50, please read by clicking on the link here. Please share the link if you think someone will benefit out of it. Thank you ...
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Tae a Bagel

Wee pluffie gustie girdlin bagel, aal lanesome in yer see-throu cradle, whit sall ah sclatch athort yer navel, peynit butter? Some jeelie howked in a stuffie ladle the girst of a putter? Ye’re nae that hale an yet ye fill me fouer than a hottle bill, faur mair than onie perkin will. Upon the table, jeelie sterts tae swipper spill an clag the label. Is ah approach ye wi ma cutter, tongue abizz an thairm ...
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/ / Burns stanzas, Poetry / 106 words / NEW! /

Abandon

Lanturne, again ...
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/ / Poetry / No Comments on Abandon / 3 words / NEW! /

lunchtime Oxford-logic

in a Covered Market sushi bar I sat next to a guy who, sipping green tea, said he was a blogger.   ‘hmm interesting. money good?’ ‘pays the mortgage.’ ‘what do you write about?’ ‘the kindness of strangers.’ ‘thin on the ground that, these days.’ ‘who cares? I make it all up anyway.’ ‘conning people okay by you?’   he stroked his donnish beard,   ‘strictly speaking I don’t mislead;  if I describe a chance ...
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/ / Poetry / 3 Comments on lunchtime Oxford-logic / 112 words / NEW! /

Squirrel Quarrel, North Hackney

A pair of squirrels quarrel in the elms above the garden. Clive and Lenny. At it again hammer and tongs, like George Bush and Osama bin Laden. “Oi, Lenny, where the fuck d’you fink you’re goin’ wi’ that chocolate bar? Pardon my French, but it belongs to yours truly!”           “Shut it, you toerag! I faand it           under the rosebush. This is for me dustbins.” “Under ...
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/ / Poetry / 299 words / NEW! /

Superfattycalorificextrahalitosis

The gooey, bad blood of big Bob Britain moves like meat loaf through a straw, sizey bits of arterial fur break away and head for the pig valves and pace maker, fifty years as a saturate have caught up with him and Bob, not resisting the light this time, realises that life has a viscosity and love, in truth is not back bacon ...
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/ / Poetry / No Comments on Superfattycalorificextrahalitosis / 53 words / NEW! /

New Jerusalem

Intro: up to 50 words (delete this text and enter your own) ...
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/ / climate change, Poetry, seasons / No Comments on New Jerusalem / 163 words / NEW! /

Oxford snapshots

Oxford is not what it was if that is, it ever was   it was ‘town and gown’ in 64 when I slept rough in shop doors and bus shelters nicking breakfast biscuits from ramshackle stalls to dunk in 6d a cup sour tea at the Covered Market  all-night cafe   the Market is now ethnic boutiquerie antique emporia and wifi cafes   and the city? ‘town, gown, selfie sticks, and noodle bars’   touts’ ...
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/ / Poetry / 2 Comments on Oxford snapshots / 367 words / NEW! /