THE BEAST OF BODMIN

Cornish folk still relate the tale
of midnight howling and dark shape prowling
through the mist upon Bodmin Moor,
and in the morning dead sheep scattered
drained of every drop of blood.

Full moon, dark moon, the moorland shepherds
they say kept watch over dwindling flocks,
yet failed to see what ripped out gizzards
with razor sharp teeth so blamed a beast
whose eyes flashed bright with ruby fire.

And legend has it the beast still stalks
in the drifting shadows, yet leaves a trail
of gigantic paw prints in rain-soaked soil.
Infamous, universally feared and yet the beast
only ever existed in the darkest recesses
of imagination's most sinister realm.

ENDEAVOUR

Through life's dark times the spirit withstood
denunciation from the harshest of critics,
but resolute as iron defied all heretics
through strength of will and intentions good.

Then as life's purpose became better understood
each day found it's place in Destiny's genetics,
leaving great mind free to formulate theoretics
of how best to to weed out Oxford's dead wood.

So when author Colin Dexter sought a name
to sum up the essence of his greatest creation
and make him relentless, at the top of his game -
he thought of the powerful, triumphant navigation
of Endeavour, Cook's ship of universal acclaim
and endowed his Morse with that illustrious first name.

MODELS

Those stunning models in glossy magazines;
those airbrushed models who in soft focus glow;
those gorgeous models in barely-there dresses
that enhance impossibly perfect curves
and expose such luminous golden skin;
those seductive models who pout at the camera
with highly glossed lips in this season's shades.

Those universally emulated catwalk models
parading in all the very latest creations
by the most iconic designers worldwide
that only the wealthy elitist can afford;
those models with radiant flawless complexions:
huge eyes, high cheekbones and dazzling white teeth;
those models with exotic sounding one-off names...
who inspire in us comparisons that blight our lives.

CONTRACEPTION

Little white pill ingested daily
and I think, "Am I safe?"

And it vouches for the month as if akin to the days.
Professor of barrenness,

it purges my reproductive tract
like a powerful laxative.

The eggs simply disappear
as stars into a black hole,

leaving our passion free
to go unchecked without consequence - yet,

are we not guilty of denying all the bodiless Souls
the corporality they crave?

Frantically they swirl around us
here in the darkness
between duvet and mattress,

for they truly believe we are potential gods
capable of providing new life,
instead of the mere mortal impostors that we are.

Oh how they'd love to penetrate
the rich red velvet warmth

of uterine interior
and burrow deep into it's nurturing wall.

But don't they realise the cataclysm has already occurred,
leaving only a sterile wasteland?

Frustrated, they scream and scream in our ears
and curse all the newborn babes
out of bitterest envy.

We never hear them, though.
We are far too absorbed
in our fleeting moment of bliss

to even consider the grave implications
of our rising Karmic Debt.

Dr. FOSTER

Inspired by the brilliant BBC TV drama.

Incoming text.

Oh sword, sword, how sharp!
Spiteful as a foreign mercenary - and as heartless.
Looking - though trying hard not to. Who from?
It is the gut-wrencher, an implement of torture.
Who is this who would steal my life?

What am I reading? Such sickening words
that pierce the breast like a steely blade.
God! How shall I ever staunch the inner bleeding?
They're draining my entire being, destroying their victim.
Oh why did this happen to me?

Sense of sight becomes dire curse. The screen,
static too long in shock, turns blank.
But the after-image expands in shocked brain. It's malignancy
is his betrayal - and with such a BITCH!
Aah, but beware the woman scorned...