January 09, 2009

Filth and Lies

You see, you have to actually have done work to do an update. So no new stuff. Ever.

I have been writing some other poetry but it's all too raw and emotional for the bigbadworld so I'll leave it in my head or on the page, but certainly not here.

December 03, 2008

That Posting Thing

I'll be doing 'that posting thing' soon. This is a minor update til then.

I received a 68 for the poetry portfolio and think that merits a small amount of happiness so I'll indulge myself.

I'm loathe to put up Ttouli related stuff, I sort of wanted to keep this poetry related but I guess my dreams will have to come in second again, ah well.

November 11, 2008


An untitled pantoum. I think I put it in my portfolio. I think. Everything from those hours seems like a blur of coffee and hysterical laughter. A disturbing time.


I stumble, diseased and twice distressed

A desperate need to feel

Alone, my voice released, undressed,

I'm fumbling in the black.


A desperate need to feel

Alive, my hands numb and burning

I'm fumbling in the black

Always falling, twisting, yearning.


Alive, my hands numb and burning

Hot through cold with tinny wails

Always falling, twisting, yearning

And all through it my face pales.


Hot through cold with tinny wails

And all through it my face pales

Sallow beneath the traitor's plight

Our star prevails, our shining night.

November 08, 2008

Time to panic

I guess I should have been working the past week or so.

I guess that was the point of reading week.

I guess I should have realised that the poetry is due in two days time.

I didn't realise. Sleepless hours ahead.

October 29, 2008

As it Became

As it Became

As a scored silver bulb

Proud and Pitted

Run through with cracks

All traumas depleted

More chaste than chilled.

Still, and yet somehow smooth –


As a sapling, leaking white

Secreting its alabaster tears.

Sepulchral in its frailty

Damaged and damned.

Weeping, and yet somehow futile –

Willingly abandoned to the blaze

Flaccid and somehow wasted –


As the browning straw

As the wilting grass

As the frothing suffocating river

Flowing fetid,

Stagnant and sluggish.

And yet somehow clear –


As the soot-black plumes

Fraught with filth,

Wings snapped back

Content with contempt

That gloating gaze

Eyes cruel and calid

Set deep, surveying all

Relishing the remains.


Why doesn’t she stop?

Legs buckled beneath her,

Feet splayed out, unnatural

Reaping the repellent

Straining to succeed

Never stopping.

And yet –

Why should she?

October 22, 2008

Damn the Consequences

You know what? It's 5 am. I'm getting up and damn the consequences.

Maybe the lake will provide some sort of inspiration for the dreaded walking poem.

Not happy with my square metre poem either, it's just stupid.

Mine, I mean.

Haiku among the holly

Haiku among the holly

Does it mean anything? Maybe.

If you can't read it -

Life in Limerence

Spiked green, dull within. Without

Waxing Lyrical.

October 21, 2008

A Dash of Pretention

A few poems I've written since coming to Warwick. True, they all tell some kind of story but there isn't much in the way of deeper meaning. I'll work on that. Please tell me what you think.

Winter Ashes

Embers of a fiery passion,

Extinguished by the cold of her eyes,

A look from those orbs leaves him ashen,

Feeding his mind with sweet lies.


A change,

The air seems different; fluid,

A delight to float upon.

A change,

The clouds quiver; nervous,

A roiling tempest swells.

A change,

The heavens darken; waiting,

A torrent bides its time.

One last change,

The storm unleashed; screams,

The world is layed to rest.


There is nothing.

Now I look to my right.

There is nothing.

Onwards then, trudging into the distance.

Night falls,

It makes no difference.

Sun rises,

There is nothing.

I come across a lake.

A body, bloated, afloat.

A full meal. For once.

Bile amidst the mud.

Sour Dust

Sunlight on a forgotten box,

Undisturbed for years.

A man climbs up, afraid, alone.

To put aside his fears.

He breathes in deep,

He tastes the air,

His asthma waits,

Dust in his hair.

A rodent stirs.

The dust-clouds rise.

The man observes,

Says his good-byes.


A blog? You're one of those people? Apparently.


Something I've been surprised by is the shear number of fantasy readers out there on the CW course or just English in general. Strange. I usually find it difficult to find such like-minded people as bringing up fantasy in intelligent company is akin to smashing your head into the table, it kills the conversation and then there is the judging...

I'll be putting up some of my poetry soonish; as in when I build up the confidence to do so, poetry is not my forte. There isn't enough tragedy in my life to make a decent poem, they survive on the beauty of the words themselves and the rhythm, but they don't mean a thing.

Some of my favourite authors: Trudi Canavan, Kelley Armstrong, Philip Pullman, Ian Irvine, Garth Nix, William Nicholson, Cate Tiernan, Kim Harrison, Robert Jordan, Iain M Banks, Philip Reeve.

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