Currently taking a break from the blog. I have a few things up at Medium atm, including this: I Crave


The Cult of Sylvia


She haunts us still,

the tall, blonde, Diana of poetry,

who hunted for words

in the grey-lit hours,

and when her world fell apart,

everything frayed,

none of it mended,

from despair’s bleak arc,

she plucked the firebird’s

tail feather,

and through it’s fronded

peacock’s eye,

she saw how her god-like

husband frolicked with those nymphs,

in the orchard,

tossing each a rosy apple–

so she calmly took aim

at the face of the handsome beast,

flexing her bowstring,

to bury a golden arrowhead

in his cheek,

marking him for centuries to come.



The Cult of Sylvia

Lyric Drought

for #NationalPoetryDay


Not a poem to be had 

anywhere in the house–

I’ve checked the oven twice,

but whatever is in there

is way too gooey and half-baked,

and might decide to evaporate,

if I open the door again.

I’ve also rummaged in vain

at the back of the cerebral larder,

disturbed the dust bunnies under the bed,

gone through all my husband’s pockets,

and found only fluff,

put an exploratory hand between

the sofa cushions,

and extracted the same stuff–

even checked the zipped compartment

of my vintage handbag bought on eBay–

nada–and the deliveroo guy

has just called to say 

his front wheel has a puncture,

after my order of sonnet noodles

with haiku sides came to grief,

tumbling from its astronaut capsule,

when he turned the corner

at the traffic lights,

and now the damn seagulls

are getting a treat on my tab,

stuffing any chance

of a decent rhyme.


Lyric Drought


Just heard via an Austrian news outlet that one of our favourite cafes in Vienna is about to close 😦

me-in-greinsteidl-cafe - Edited

Oh Griensteidl, you oasis

of pale stone,

dual chambers furnished in plush

and wood the shade of black forest cherry,

your heart robust,

with diplomatic waiters all hush

and bustle,

blood vessels leading

to the cool marbled counter top

to pour the Grüner Veltliner, 

whipping off the reserved

sign on one treasured occasion,

bowing in plain sight of a

a miscalculated tip–

Oh Griensteidl,

your dark mahogany cabinet

of mouth-watering schnittes an old master’s

altarpiece to Esterhazy–a history so finely

layered it rivals Sisi’s crinoline petticoats.

On my last visit, there I was, 


with my starry empress

hair clips as prettily faux

as those overblown Klimts

gracing your walls–

now all of that is just a faded echo

in an empty hall of

stacked chairs and orphaned tables,

no more majestic doors

laden with epaulets of polished brass

to push against and sigh inwards–

closed forever by Do & Co–

making devoted patrons fear

Americans might invade like

another Red Army and ruin Michaelerplatz

with throwaway cups–

that dignified quarter where fiakers queue

to shake up tourists over cobbles,

and Adolf Loos will weep tears

from every window box

while the old palace colossi

groan and quake,

for in that very special corner,

there will no longer be cake.



Unpatriotic Tribute to the Leader of the Commons


She is telling us off,

her replicant head

overblown on the screen–

about to spark and implode

like faulty white goods

midway through a Red Planet dystopia,

her delivery as robotic as Bad Maria’s,

spinning into profit of doom,

tongue printing nothing of value

but eternal parking tickets,

mouse-skin brows

tracing their own arch imperial 

above those swivelling eyes

set in a mummy’s skin

papyrus thin–

and how she caves in

when we are mean to her,

tears of a bankrupt

decanted from a municipal drinking

fountain rusted at core,

selfish ducts,

that soon spring into action,

running down a costly fascia,

devoid of empathy,

mean fuschia mouth,

a candy machine

twisting out platitudes

with the conviction politics of a Goebbels wife,

while deep down inside,

all she can think is how jolly brave of her

to keep the flag waving.







Unpatriotic Tribute to the Leader of the Commons

As Dead As

dodo-picture - EditedWrote this last month for Rattle’s ekphrastic challenge, but I’ve just found out it didn’t win, so I get to post it here, yay!


Yet not quite–note my spritely pose,

facing the same direction

as the blunderbuss of yore

that brutally de-feathered me,

and although this place

makes me look a little cagey,

I’m doing my very best

to locate the fire escape

in this labyrinth

of smouldering ash–a last hoorah

for an end of line demise

more poignant than Cock Robin’s

or the Norwegian Blue,

but please don’t call me cuckoo,

or rate me antediluvian,

because that would only raise

my non-existent ruff

and make me less inclined to share

any racey Victorian secrets–

although my deserted nest

is full of bric-a-brac,

my bird brain is still wired to

a wake-up call courtesy

of Edgar Allan Poe,

the code word being ‘extinct’–

and despite everything,

I can show you how to rock

a unique hollow-eyed

look by adopting the sort of livery

any nihilistic boulevardier might envy,

(no awkward flab to ruin the

silhouette) and also provide

consultations after hours,

while tapping at my reflection

in the kinky smoke and mirrors

of this bijou boîte,      

so everyone can admire

my punk-flamingo armature

instagram’d for eternity.


As Dead As

A Dance Around the May Poll


She wants to take hold of

our human rights,

and squeeze them in her 

lacquered fist–but really

this tourniquet of spite

from a resentful headmistress

dishing out the daily blame

in school assembly,

is nothing but a despot’s

distraction technique to

cover up her own past failings,

now returning to haunt,

like a fox finding its way back

to a pungent den.

And as her devoted husband,

in his role as Accessory-in-Chief,

sources a necklace to

match her latest statement,

his hand is hovering

over a death’s head pendant,

nestling in the pit 

of a casket lined with lead.


A Dance Around the May Poll