Sunday, 7 December 2008

Novels etc.

"Write a book", they say. "It's a doddle", they say. "You'll enjoy it", they say. "Screw you", I say.

But then in hindsight I think I was a bit hasty. I like writing, I like novels. Two important factors when writing a book.

Most importantly, I hate it when books end. I hate to say goodbye to people I have spent so much time and emotion on, letting them go off alone when I close the book on the last page. It's like saying goodbye to a dying relative: you know they are alive now, but they might as well die as soon as you leave the room, you will never see them again.

So, we shall remedy that. I shall create a book and I shall have the option of just writing another one when I start to miss them. I will put that relative on life-support and pay a doctor to get out the defibrillator every time I want a chat.

So... writing... hrm...

Wednesday, 3 December 2008

More inter-loot

The Etched City

We are the music makers
They say:
A million cities have fallen to dust
Grind, mill, grind
And join Mu and Lemur as corpses in the sand

I have not forgotten!
You’ve done nothing until you project it
Never! Never! Never!
would my totem give me a sign

While the gods laugh
I turn and walk into my home, the city, a man
We have all become legends, I think

The song had been young then and they had all been charmed by it
Where do you go now?
To the dragonheaded door, to the gateway of the moon

Dawn shelter us from the dark
Work with words cannot save us
Another threat is lurking in the night

Vain and tasteless praise they recite;
To a bloodless victory
Of a dead man
The Etched City

Is this web woven and wound of entrails?
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
The axis of the world
The red-robed man
Here all things ceased to be;

“The fool has come. Bind him fast”
What would become of you?
He could not get rid of his kind heart
“My father is dead” he had answered. “He was eaten by owls”
The stars shiver in sympathy

Isn’t living enough?
You see what you have done?
Wounded by stars and leaking shadow
They mean to grind us down, no matter the cost
A broken heart in the breast of the world
A bit of brain in a broken basket
The world is a fire of sacrifice

He has forgotten how much faster it is to travel alone
Brother, have we lost the trail?
You would lose yourself in the labyrinth

What do we mean?
Is there a pattern?
Teach me to make myself
To punish us

I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost,
we sheep must go where we are led
Death is the only sincerity
And he died for me

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

I told me so!


I can write pretty country scenes if I want too, it's not all love poems and sampled gabble.

It occurs to me that I should try that more. No matter how much sampling things amuses me, I should try and actually write something someday.


Our land

Smells like dust
Catches my throat

Lonely as two
Lost in novelty

Runs out, in
Rolls in dirt

Dry, hard ground
Fake foreign land

Strange movie scene
Sermonising with me

Dog as director
It amuses me

Directing the soy
Dancing their dance

In this place
This, our land

Dog and me
Alone in fields

Nowhere to go
Nowhere to be

Time ignores us
A bubble moment

Dogs don’t believe
Time doesn’t exist

We just stand
In soy fields

We die soon

We die soon.

With mankind in general if we could.
Effects enchanted me vastly.

Depth of any considerable amount of mere glaciation,
Insistence on a westward prospecting trip before our radical shift
East Longitude 175o.

Seemed to be a greater task than had been expected,
Of two sorts
One or two cases of cleanly severed bone.
No wonder he ran back to the camp shouting.

We die soon.

Weed was seen.
Earthquake tremor the night before, the most considerable felt for some years

Do not often reproduce
it, track down the cult to its fountain-head,
excited and disturbed

Out of the earth, the black spirits of earth
or subtlety could elicit more in this direction.
No longer alive, they would never really die.

We die soon,

wholly into the charge
echoed above even the hill noises and the dogs barking on the night.

Devil’s hop yard
Is sacrificed at the proper time to certain heathen gods.
Element of furtiveness in the clouded brain which subtly transformed him from an object to a subject of fear

Slept poorly.
On he felt dimly that something ought to be done.
Others were ahead of him,
not of tri-dimensional earth.

We die soon

How to make plum jam

I heave neat
helms. Put
earthen wit,
hebetic ox,
and winch
up the bleary brew.

Nova yogis
barter oaks
as they cheerily die off.

Two wusses,
so cold…

They don’t notice as it breaks, and pours out the sticky jam all about them.

Monday, 10 November 2008


I didn't make it and I don't know who did, but I found it in the bowels of my laptop and remembered how much I liked it. Now you too may enjoy it. Hurray for MS Paint! (Click it to see it in a reasonable size)

Sunday, 9 November 2008


(L)un-Dun; it’s travelling away
(L)un-Dun is unravelling at a rate of knots like a ball falling down the stairs
(L)un-Dun is making you pay

But who cares

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllittle buildings

When they fly by, in their free scene

(Laugh and point children,
this is education)

(L)un-Dun is un-done is fun
fun for all the family
(bring the kids)

Tickets please

Berserker makes a friend

Squish krak krak KRAK

it smells salt
salt of the human core
core of salt sat deep come high

consider your wet core
your core of earth

white seeds break
upon ready land

seeds blossom shackles

Berserker makes a stand

Berserker stands
flesh against rain

eyes open
rain mixes
with tears

he is in but not of

he is an ash shoot

he is a fox pup

he is an old bear

he is a smooth rock

he is all these things and less

Berserker stands

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Oh yes, and may I add they are entirely un-edited stories, as was necessary for the particular purpose they served.

I may edit them one day, who knows.

(Very) Short stories

I'm not dead, I've been busy.

As is the way of things, being things and all, they do stuff. Stuff that things do, such as get in the way, demand attention and general thing related activities.

Anyway, below is a selection of short stories I was partially forced to write by way of commission. Said commission being food and shelter, a good a reason as any.

The Winds of War

"More come every day" in and out, in and out the nimble fingers of Black-Rat went. In and out with his needle and thread.

"We are few and they are many" the wound around Mountain-King's eye was deep, but the heat of the blast sealed off most of the bleeding. Now was the simple matter of sewing the remnants of the eye-lids together.

"Our spirit is strong, but we need aid. We will not have the spirit of the Great Hive defiled by these outsiders, these thieves" it was done, and according to the traditions of their tribe those that suffer and speak not will heal, for to suffer is to be alone and to be alone is to commune with Sleepy Mound. This sacrament could not be ignored.

"It is time to wake Sleepy-Mound..."

There is Sunshine in my heart

Imagine a planet, floating around a white sun. You see it as a pale brown marble spinning through space, a thick atmosphere holding in what little moisture it has.

As you approach closer you can see beneath the clouds, the stinking, dark clouds of pollution. The wind-swept ash wastes expand below you forever in all directions, an infinity broken only by the massive forms of the Hives, Hive Primus and Hive Secundus.

You turn towards the massive, sky-tearing pinnacle of Hive Primus, the massive monstrosity of man and metal that it is, and descend.

Descend, through the decadent heights of the upper hive, through the belching smoke stacks of the hive city itself, into the dripping depths of the underhive.

Flow now, as the human sludge you will become, to the lowest point. Flow to the forgotten extremes of the hive below the earth. Find, almost forgotten behind mountains of refuse, seas of toxic waste and miles of disused tunnels, a settlement perched on a precipice of darkness.

This town, if you could call it that, looks much like the refuse surrounding it; a pile of wood and metal arranged so that those within can keep those without as such.

Enter the hole. This is the forgotten mines, once the source of a thriving ore industry now nothing more than a cursed hole. And yet people still come, following rumours of treasures, technologies that ask great prices, prices that would save one from this hole, this hell. A price that keeps this small settlement, this Runners Watch, alive.

But then there are those who want nothing to do with this trade. They come for another reason. They hear whispers from the vents, carried on a cold wind with an unknown source deep beneath the hive, it speaks of loneliness and it speaks of surrender; it speaks of a way to free yourself from the pain of existence.

These people come and they enter the mines. Some fall foul of the natives, some get lost, some come running and screaming out of the tunnels, careening through the settlement as those more sane watch on at the towns name-sake.

There are some, however, that stay...

They are with the Emperor now

Bul sat in tranquil contemplation upon the marble floor of the temple. Before him stood the partially destroyed and entirely vandalised statue of a forgotten saint, no doubt a great comfort for the long gone miners. Today he served to keep the leader of the Resplendent Hand of His Most Divine Emperor company in his solitude.

The floor was, as usual, painfully cold. He enjoyed the numb feeling, the gradual creeping ache. It reminded him that he had survived another day, dodged another slug. In these times, in this place, it was no mean feat.

Today he felt especially grateful. For today he had been simultaneously blown up and shot. True, he had lost three fingers, but he trusted that the Emperor would guide his sword to his enemies. It was quite apparent that he was meant for great things; an un-fated man would have died many times over in his shoes. If not skinned by the degenerate scum that live in these wind-swept mines, then shot by the degenerate scum that call Runners Watch home. Two paths to an identical destination.

Surrounded by blasphemy and filth, he would stand against all that would halt his mission. He had made his presence known and shown he could not fall. The Emperor would not allow it.

Recovering from his reverie he looked at his mauled hand, it's missing fingers, with dark intent.

"My purpose will manifest. After all, I have many more where these came from"

Get Out of My Tunnels!

The Wakener stood with his eyes closed, his hands spread to his sides, gently feeling the air rush through them "The wind is calm. We will claim no aid from the great hive this day"

"Then we shall take this victory alone" Mountain King stared off into the darkness, seemingly transfixed by some distant sound, "They return, as they always do. The painted men... they do not learn"

As his eyes opened, the Wakener looked at Mountain King, looked at him not seeing what everyone else saw. He did not see the large man, his raven hair flecked with the signs of age, he saw something else, something that none without the gifts of Sleepy Mound can see, "The wind speaks low... it will not aid us, but it will not impede us. Ambush them. Cut of the head and the whole diseased snake will die. Kill their leader"

"As the Great Hive wills it" he whispered.


"He's dead!"

"What do you mean "He's dead"? He ain't dead. Is he?"

Bungle stared slack-jawed at Mr. Giggles.

"He looks pretty damn dead to me" with this Bungle crouched to their late leaders side and prodded him. Mr. Chuckles did not move. He lay there on his side, face badly cut and make-up smeared from being dragged through the tunnels away from the depot.

Mr. Giggles gestured towards the singed chest wound "Those natives really did a number on 'im"

"They did no such thing. He isn't dead, he's sulking" Mr. Giggle turned to the source of this voice. Mr Bojangles stood, towering over him, his great, red painted head sported an oozing bandage. He stared right past them at Mr. Chuckles. Mr. Giggles followed his gaze back to the body, however the body now had one hand around Bungle's neck, which most unfortunately was still attached to his head, which was, if possible, turning even whiter under the already white face paint.

"I hate shotguns" said the now very much alive Mr. Chuckles, fingering his wounds, absently staring at his feet.

"We all do sir. We all do. Please release Bungle, it's his turn to go down the spore tunnels."

"Oh. Yes" He looked rather confusedly at the wriggling juve in his massive hand. After some time he remembered what he was looking at and released his fingers, allowing Bungle to crawl away clawing at his throat.

"Did we win?"

Mr. Giggles looked towards Mr. Bojangles and tried to crawl away as quietly as possible. Mr.Chuckles hands were faster than they looked.

"No" came the answer from Mr.Bojangles' bloodied mouth.

"Did we lose?"


"That just won't do. Just won't do at all..."

Saturday, 28 June 2008

Ahah!* An excuse comes to mind!

The reason for the lack of work is that it is my Research Month. A Research Month is something that happens to me three of four times a year, wherein I discover a topic that amuses/intrigues/titillates me and go and read about it for a month or two. Come to think about it, Research Month is rather misleading, maybe it should be re-named Research Month(s).

This Research Month is on Norse mythology. This was an unfortunate choice, however, as to understand the mythology of the Norse, I found I had to understand the Anglo-Saxons, and to understand the Anglo-Saxons I have to understand the Celts. Ok, so that explained May. Then we go on to find out that to understand the myths we need to understand the way they lived, the effects of conquest, the god-damned Romans and so on and so on. Phew.

Anyway, on the up side I did learn how to write Skaldic poetry from a good translation of the Poetic Edda. Huzzah!

(*Firefox spell check wanted to put Ahab instead of "Ahah!". This makes me smile. Here you are Firefox: Ahab. I'm smiling already)
Ok... One post a month, I promise.

Anyway, enough placations! These aren't new, they are old bits of course work but I felt like jamming them in there.

An explanation: (I always feel the need to justify these poems, I don't know why. Maybe it is because I spent so much time on them, maybe it is because my degree relies on them being at least tolerable, maybe it's because I want everyone to know just how clever I really am, deep down, who knows.) This is really one poem in three parts, as we can see from the handy-dandy numbering system I have employed, three parts signifying the progression of a lost love through a gentleman's life. Part one is quite obviously emotional and obsessive, very teenage. Part two is more adult and traditional, still a bit self pitying. Part three, however, is all very "Aaw, wasn't that sweet. So, what's for dinner?" about the whole thing.

Oh, and they also, they progress through style (1. Spencarian Sonnet 2. Romantic 3. Free verse).

There you go. There is in fact thought behind my work. Who'd have thunk it?

III. artifacts

back on


They look

and pleas-

cold mem-


Still quite

to keep
you warm

to chew

But they
are all
ly use-

II. beauty is conflagration

Flower, Flower, burning bright

In the shadow of my night

The heat had beauty

Made radiant by the cold

But you burnt too hot

There is no fuel to feed

I am ashes

I. i cut myself to the sound of your voice

There’s a girl somewhere sitting in front of a cheap, slow

public library computer

noiseless snow

through the radiator

I realize there’s still a rose perched in my passenger


That I would see her

That I would meet

That I would greet

Her unprepared

There is silence when I speak

i forget i am more than a hummingbird

hovering above a rare plant

i try to remember, but i can’t

Monday, 19 May 2008

It's just so much compost

Heart bunches
tied up
left out in the rain

Mistaken for a lump of

It will be mulch
before long

Sunday, 18 May 2008









s w i i i i r l i n g

Fighting to


a sight on a stable


How can you


how fast you are


if you have no


Sin Eater

That last poem counts, dammit.

Five days on, and I have another entry. So much for my "I'll write every day" promise. Well screw me, I don't have to listen to that guy, I'll post when I damn well please.

However, I shall amend my promise. I shall submit four (FOUR/4/2+2) things every week. Good or bad. I can't get better if I don't write something, after all.

So, here it is, Sin Eaters (for lack of a better tittle, I've never been good at tittles). I keep looking at it, and keep thinking it's not finished, but I can't bring myself to write anything more. Every time I write something, it is crap. The mojo of this piece ended where it ended, I'm afraid.


Twenty types of sin
Follow me around

Stare at me with their mirror eyes
They hide behind busy corners
and plot with busy minds

Their bodies are glutted with ages
Dedicated to their unasked worship

Given or taken

Every time you look upon them
Their skin of roughshod feathers
Beckons and mocks
With equal enthusiasm

Saturday, 10 May 2008


Have you ever seen the inside of a rainbow?
It's like the outside, yet different

Keep running and you'll find it

Or you won't

If you find it, you will

thank me

If you don't, then

wasn't the



Friday, 9 May 2008

Love Bludgeon

Great fun, people

Little love puppet plays the part
But a puppet is not a real boy

It's made of wood

But in the absence of love it does the job

Empty calories
Makes you fat
What you need is a

It seems everyone has a blog these days. It also seems everyone starts a blog with those words. And these. Damnit. Clichéd from the start.

Anyway, to the core of the matter: I shall strive to post something here every day. Something, damnit, anything! I shall write, I shall force myself to do what I command!

It's a lie and we all know it.

On the up side I can use my previously written tosh to fill in the gaps. Huzzah!