After-Image On Silent TV Screens (Day 4 #GloPoWriMo)


never again can it see

what horrors taint the inner eyes

of those children’s foul minds

is it an addiction or a phase?

displeasure and distaste

how juvenile adults can be


unwilling to hear home truths

in your psychedelic acid rock 60’s

bananas were cigars

and glue was perfume coke

get over it

maybe you only like selfies when

they’re your own

annoying timelines of embarrassed teens

third wave hasn’t got sh*t on us

inbred swine mocking my blackness

the world belongs to your uneducated ass

splodges and greasy flatness

what is worse?

your fragility and insecurity

or your sense of entitlement?

why moan about the 60’s?

racism is still kicking fit

protests are very common

but rarely heard

and your glaringly unrealistic


should be under lock and key

until you finish your sugared

delights and end it

for the time

it takes to switch off

your humanity

with your precious gun collection

and proudly masculine sons

and effeminate daughters

destined to wed and be

cheerful liars ever after

in their rightful places

god forbid they think twice

or rebel

because glocks are freedom

for the free

and certain loss for the unworthy

and again you convert

to the blindness of comfort-

ridden, optional ignorance

while the world presumably self-

implodes taking souls

and leaving ghosts of debris

in the back of your conscious

to be swept away by the snazzy

white-washed excuse of



(Note: So the featured poet was Lawrence Ferlinghetti. The title was taken from his poem The Canticle of Jack Kerouac. As ever, I was attracted to the mere mention of Beat so I was hoping to transfer some of the Beat Gen energy to this piece. I didn’t.

The prompt was one of my favourite composer’s work, Enigma Variations by Edward Elgar. The prompt was to suggest something in the poem without referring to it directly, keeping it a silent question.

I hate this one because I promised I’d avoid politics or socialism but yeah…

Also, a challenge making ‘an accessible poem’ like that which Ferlinghetti describes and writes while also making it an enigma to riddle… Strange balance.)

Between Shipwreck And Burial /NaPoWriMo/ Day-2

There’s a wavering ocean inside of me

Longing to escape its carnage confines

Crashing against the bony cage dunes

Capsizing the ship in a graceless gale

I am drowned from within, flooded

Gallons of seasalt whipping my wounds

A life of metaphor lost to the tsunami

I gasp for air, unable to scream or escape

How can I tear away from my own flesh?

These waves ebb and dash me asunder

The gulls squawk a concert of mockery

Nipping down to peck at my bloody eyes

I’m plunged under the expanse of water

Engulfed with a paramount phobia

Of drowning and fading in a greying

Self-absorbed, ego-soaked hurricane.

Oh the seabed will rise to embrace me

Against her longing, shell-indented bosom

Where I might finally rest in peace

Or perhaps tie me to a scalloped raft

Leaving me to pick the scales from

My permeated crow-black hair

And the crab-meat from between

My crooked, plaque-ridden teeth

The sea does little to offer answers

Instead coughing up useless pearls

And cold, dead scale-painted flesh

The boundless sea prunes my toes

Burns my blue lips and clogs my limbs

It does little to hide my own rotting

Body and suffocating putrescence

The decay of my mind resists charity

Threatening the few flames left

In a soul that was never mine

All that remains of me is the memory

Of the ceaseless tide that was only

Disrupted by the moon-lass’ love

A dozen times a year like the rose bouquet

Which you placed by my eternal bed.

Some Only Open At Moonlight [NaPoWriMo]

Our love is

tortured on

the nightly hour,

unheard and


Barely open

for confrontation

or change

we rise with the

sun and

part separate

ways with the day-

break and avoid

peeking curious


Our love is

like the Cas’blanca

Lily: dazzling,

pure and shy,

fragrant and sacred,

sea-bound and drenched

like the Mediterranean,

dizzying Jasmines.

Our love is as

tender as Moon

Flowers and

as courageous as

the moon’s purloined

silver glow,

sole witness

to our paganistic


Our love is

like midnight


only opening

in the dead

of whispers

and hushed sighs,

thighs spread

like petals

of the Lily,

lips scarcely


for fear

of the ghasts

that haunt

the wretchedly



Your gentle touch

heals like a Brahma

Kamal, purple and

God-like in

the enchanting

mists of night,

blooming in the chill

and cold, fighting

for survival

without a care

but I’m helpless-

ly self-centred

and protective

and vilely sheltered

like a Pipe Cactus

lashing out

sharp needles

at the prying

eyes, trying

to expose our

suffocating secret

to the damning

of daylight.



[Also posted at: ]

Episode 13 of The Portal of Deceit (Flash Fiction)

“Dr. Adler? Dr. Adler, the police are here!” Della’s voice rang from the reception.

Lars frowned. Hadn’t the mobsters said they’d told the police it was fine?

Confused, he rushed out having just thrown the bodies through the wormhole as a quick and temporary disposal. He’d feed them to his favourite flesh-eating purple trees later.

“Hello officers. I’m sorry you had to come out here. Everything seems perfectly fine,” Lars smiled his brilliant white smile.

“You’re Dr. Adler, forty-eight year old physicist?” the first police officer questioned.

“Yes, last I checked,” Lars didn’t know what was coming up but he hoped this wasn’t the ‘string’ Daniel (Lars had checked his wallet), the dead hitman, had pulled.

“I’m sorry, you just don’t look even half that age! What’s your secret?”

The two officers looked astounded.

Lars chuckled, “Good air, exercise, good food and I suppose some medicine that I’m developing. Look out for it.”

They don’t know it was extraterrestrial air, food, and as for exercise… I’m sure running away from killer dog-sized bees counts…

Lars winked.

After taking a statement and checking the premises (Lars managed to convince them that the wormhole room was a high contamination zone), the officers left looking baffled.

The doctor let out the breath he had been holding.

“Strange that someone would break into such a high security building for no apparent reason,” Della said from behind him.

Lars frowned.

“Of course it’s strange. They probably just wanted to show that they could break in to scare me. After all, with every passing day I’m making millions. Who wouldn’t want to make a front page story? One of the officers actually said The New York Times wants a full interview about this. Five minutes fame for the criminals and all that,” Lars kept checking her eyes for any hint of a lie as he spoke, “Don’t worry about it, I’m upping security even more now.”

Della smiled, “You’re probably right. After all, you’d have to be a mad genius to break through state-of-the-art security and leave undetected. They managed to disable the cameras probably from wherever they came from. That’s some impressive hacking skills.”

Lars froze. Hacking skills… He knew exactly who was behind this.

The Portal of Deceit

Dr. Lars Adler walked into his underground lab chuckling, his work and ideas had been scorned yet again. He knew that he had been born before his time, it would take centuries before the world was ready for such an outrage of futuristic inventions. ‘Next time,’ he thought, ‘I’ll be back and I’ll shock them for real.’

Suddenly, he smiled. “It is time to take a step outside this world…”

He walked to his latest discovery and stepped inside, not even glancing over his shoulder for one final time.


At the Institution of Technology and Modern Sciences, Wednesday 15th October.

There was a lot of whispering around the institution that morning, everyone seemed to be on the lookout for a ghost. The man who had left behind him a stream of speculation and had become urban legend after his very sudden disappearance a decade ago, was apparently back.

Of the many rumours which had circulated, the most popular seemed to state that he had been so devastated with his multiple failures that he had moved to a lonely forest in his hometown in Germany, whereas others would say he had indeed made phenomenal discoveries and was using them to help the Russians prepare an unbeatable war against America as retribution for their actions towards him. Others had claimed, with more cruelty than was necessary, that he had taken his own life out of desperation.

“I swear that’s him,” one man whispered to his neighbour.

“I think you’re right, how is it possible? I thought he jumped off a cliff?” the other replied in awe.

The first scoffed and said, “Right, don’t believe everything you hear at the canteen, Rob. But it has been ten years, why is he just returning now?”

Rob shrugged, popping a carrot stick in his mouth still staring at the unusual bloke sitting on the other side of the room. The handsome man didn’t look his forty-eight years; he was tall with a porcelain face and a well-maintained body. He had lost his ‘dorky’ glasses. Probably using contacts, Rob mused feeling a stab of jealousy, I’d like a bit of whatever medicine he’s having.

“Why does he look like he found the elixir of eternal youth? Can’t have been as stressed as they made him out to be, huh?”

“Nay, he looks like he’s spent his better days in a spa drinking herbal tea and getting massaged. I bet he discovered something new in chemistry instead of his physics, he’s pushing the boundaries of skin-care,” Rob scorned in an undertone, “Or it could just be excellent plastic surgery.”

The strange man, object of their disgust and fascination, looked up right at them. With a slight smirk that sent chills down both their spines, he stood and strode out the room.

“No way, he couldn’t have heard us…” Rob stuttered, his eyes like tea-saucers.

“Then why did he look right at us? I think you were right about the breakthrough.”

A/N: Interested in reading more? The rest is uploaded regularly on my Wattpad: ).

Flash Fiction: Dead to the 60’s

The clock hands ticked to four o’clock. The clock chimed.

The three large goldfish in the bulb-shaped bowl swam around aimlessly, nosing for flakes of food.

The green curtains twitched hypnotically in the near-still stifling breeze coming through the shutters.

Cars on the main road could be heard but went unnoticed as white-noise by the residents of Hampton Lane.

Ms. Vogler was still as a glacier. Cold as one. Dead. Sticky blood pooled around her sliced wrists. An expression of fulfillment took over her lifeless face, glassy eyes staring at the book she had been reading.

It lay open a few feet from her being, looking very noticeable on the flashy, lime carpet.

Under the door, in a pool of kaleidoscopic light coming from a stained glass window, was an accumulating pile of letters and newspapers.

The phone rang. It rang some more then went to voicemail.

It took a week for someone to come and hammer at the otherwise quiet door, Ms. Vogler’s body decaying and forgotten.


The Spirit Lord

The Spirit Lord, a dark fantasy tale I first started writing in my early teen years, is now under severe editing and reconstruction. It seemed a good idea at the time. Hopefully it can be redeemed.

The Plot:

A young lad named Loki lives with his mentally unstable mother. One night, he wakes to find the father he never met pleading for his mother to understand that he lives in a magical world and has come for his son.

Put under an enchantment, he is led into this strange, godly realm which is a disturbing mix of ancient and futuristic. Here, he discovers he has siblings. More than he could even recall the names of. There’s Woden who can read thoughts, Ella’s a trickster with a friend who is half unicorn (Mayhorn for technical terms), and Serf can prophesise.

However, it wouldn’t be a tale if there wasn’t a perturbing element thrown in for good measure. A dangerous dark elf, the King of the dark Elves, feels threatened by him. They both share the incredibly rare gift of being able to communicate with all-knowing spirits. The unsettled atmosphere between the dark Elves and the Asguardians could turn into another great war.

Can Loki resist the strong mental manipulation of the king?