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What were they like?

They were the deciding factor

Of a good or bad day

Of whether I was okay

If we were okay


They could change my mood

Stop me in my tracks

Jumble my mind

Blind me from the truth


Like heroin

I was their addict

Ephemeral pleasure

Everlasting poison


By the end

I was weak


Stripped of all identity


And they appeared

In my dreams


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The Snake

The snake

It slithers around me

Putting on a show

As if I'm in control

But little do I know

It's charming me



I give myself over

Allowing the fangs

To pierce my flesh

The venom

Paralyzing me


Smiling proud

At the feat

Begins the retreat

Into the grass


From my vision


I thought this

This was the test

To ...

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On The Slag Heap

entry picture

On The Slag Heap


Quenching the eternal flame,

the furnaces won’t burn again,

the northern dragons will lay still -

the Government has had its fill.


At its heart a molten core

that will implode and beat no more.

The mill will close, the light will die

and in the dark the ghosts will cry.


The workers will go home to bed

not knowing if their family’s fed


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Last Orders

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Last Orders

I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.

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