Friday 31 October 2014


Inspired by Christopher Lee - the greatest vampire of all.

Seductive his eyes,
compelling dark eyes
rimmed in red.
So it begins...

A suffocating airless night.
Upon my throat the lightest kiss,
Alone in my soft bed,
while all around the dense ether
is filling with a lover's presence.
Wishful thinking -
or senses' deception?
Yet the airborne stench of moldering earth
grows ever stronger.
As my body craves him more and more,
the starless night grows darker
and a wild excitement
such as I've never known before
grips my pounding heart.
Terrified - yet craving.
Desperate to escape - yet transfixed.
My pupils dilate.
But I see nothing
except the blackest of black.

Oh please
come to me now!
Make me immortal like you.
Dance with me down the centuries.
Here is a willing victim. I beg you...
kidnap me...take me to Castle Dracula...
make me your Queen of the Night?
My window's wide open.
The outside flows in.
On the floor lies a crucifix torn from my neck,
it's broken chain symbolic
of the ultimate self-sacrifice:
the deadliest of ambitions.

Now, finally, he comes.
Sharp fangs pierce my jugular - oh the agony
of such ecstasy!
Living and undead blood cells mingle in my veins
and I feel my Soul darken.
My dying lips eagerly seek his
in blood.
I am changed.

And so it ends as it began:
I am ravenous...


Saturday 25 October 2014


Blood on our highways.
London pavements exploding.
Another terrorist bombing.
Destruction for destruction's sake.

Another racist inciting hatred.
A hostage brutally beheaded.
Another suicide from the thirteenth floor.
The complacent belief that He is myth
is the greatest error of all.

Our Groves are eerily deserted since
we invited Him inside.
Now His is the only voice we hear -
possession, it seems, is rife.
Do we assume these atrocities ours alone?
Then it's time to open our eyes.

For we're nothing more than dispensable pawns
in His chess game with the Beings of Light,
and for millennia He's been advancing through us,
bringing darkness and eternal night.

False priests are on his payroll -
their sermons lead straight to Him.
They're convinced they're buying a stairway to Heaven
through the sacrifice of innocent Souls.

Dear Merlyn,
We need you more than ever now,
or we're surely going to burn!

Now the time is right to re-ignite
the Divine Spark within
and burn away these corrosive shackles
that bind us to mortal sin.

So we concentrate hard on the Pentacle
inverted upon the wall,
and with willpower alone we loose the nails
until one-by-one they fall.

Now this sacred icon is uprighting itself -
Oh wow...isn't that real cool?
And Clas Myrddin's Guardian is rising again
to free us from Satan's rule.

Friday 17 October 2014


A massive tidal wave devastated Portsmouth.
From an attic window the torrent we watched
in sheer terror as it swamped street after street,
destroying all in it's path.

We cringed as the city was plunged into darkness,
bright lights extinguished in their watery grave,
and wondered would ever again we see
the high street, pier, or Spinnaker Tower.

There were no sirens, no emergency services,
no helicopters airborne - the last hope of salvation.
Neither were there screams of drowning victims,
just an eerie silence as Poseidon surfed in.

His trident held aloft in the dark sky in wrath,
He took His revenge in the sea's fury:
sank all the trawlers that had ravaged His kingdom,
then smashed Nelson's Victory to smithereens.

Friday 10 October 2014


The Grandmother I never met was red-haired
and fiery. They say she was feminine and sexy,
yet could swear like a trooper when sufficiently roused.
It is rumoured she was a Witch
because her outhouses were filled with bunches
of drying medicinal herbs, and she often conversed
with the 'dead' (I suppose that's where I get it from!).
Her house was set into a Surrey hillside,
with a wilderness of a garden that must have been paradise
to the wildlife she called her familiars.
I believe she played up the 'Witch' thing
to discourage trespassers - she was, after all,
an increasingly private person in her twilight years.
She played whist with her brothers - and always beat them,
and drank stout from the bottle, and ran
a laundry for the idle rich who considered
such everyday chores beneath them.
During the Great War she held weekly seances
for those who had lost someone - her vocation,
she claimed, was to bring comfort wherever she could.
She knitted socks and blankets for the Tommies
at the Front, and cursed the "Mass-murdering World Leaders."
Tripe and onions (yuk) and jam roly-poly
were her favourite foods, and she always smelled
of vanilla and lavender water.
She was strict with her four children -
over strict compared to today's standards - she never
spared Grandfather's belt for the slightest misdemeanour.
Well, with a husband in France and the ever-present
possibility that he may never return,
I suppose she considered it her responsibility
to instill self-discipline and respect into her brood
in order to prevent them from roaming the streets like savages
as so many others did.
But still they idolised her - especially the youngest,
my Father.
I know I would have too.
Oh if only she hadn't passed away before I was born.
She was such a brave and spirited woman,
one I could have learnt so much from.
And I am incredibly proud in the knowledge
that her genes live on in me...

Friday 3 October 2014


Often, our love is like a battleground
and when the warring reaches it's peak
and we are mutually wounded, it's like a deep sleep
and when we awaken it burns like fire;
but the flames never quite reach the heart
so although it beats faster there is no
Soul-connection. It's like a light bulb
powered by insufficient current: a dim half-glow...

And yet, my Love, we need each other
in lieu of something more profound.
It's Nature's perpetual lie.
And the lie is being on auto-pilot:
flying high on hormones,
telling ourselves we're OK,
while denying the existence of a gaping hollow
that even pregnancy cannot fill.