"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Sunday, October 1, 2017


Introducing Melchior, a central character in David Morisset’s dystopian novel, ‘The New Settlement’ … available from most online book retailers including here and here and here

It was almost dusk and the shadows of the two men stretched many metres in front of them.  Their tailored charcoal suits and matching fedora hats seemed out of place in the seaside setting.
Melchior preferred to discuss sensitive matters in the open air away from prying technology and other potential eavesdroppers.  A walk along the beach was perfect on a cool day.  The sea talked and talked with itself as the waves massaged the wet sand.  Squawking birds filled any temporary silences.
Tall and slim, Melchior looked slightly younger than his alleged 70 years.  His face was thin, bordering on emaciated.  He had oversized dark eyes and always appeared to be looking over the prominent bridge of his aquiline nose.  This idiosyncrasy was a byproduct of Melchior’s habit of tilting his head back to find the sweet spots of his black-rimmed multifocal eyeglasses.  His platinum hair was surprisingly thick and he was clean-shaven except for a carefully trimmed dappled grey and white moustache that presented as if it was a series of milky smears across the edge of his thin upper lip.  He seldom if ever smiled and nobody had ever heard him laugh.
“Tell me, is the woman a risk?”  As he spoke, Melchior removed his glasses and studied one lens as if he suspected a flaw.  His eyes twinkled slightly as he peered into the transparency.
“His mother?  Of course not.”
“Not his mother.  The one that he left near the old capital.  Tell me, what was her name?”

Wednesday, May 31, 2017


It was always there
Above the kitchen cupboards
That decked the walls.
It dwarfed silly china
Ducks or swans
That I cannot remember now.

A bottle of Black and White –
Two little Scotchie dogs
That enchanted me,
And they still do.

It was half full,
That’s how it seemed to me.

Half empty my grandmother said.
It was your grandfather’s tipple,
So it’s probably cold tea.
He’d surely have drained it
And disguised his crime.
Anyway, he’s not here to confess.

I was so small.
I could not reach it.
I’m still trying to climb
High enough to enjoy it.

Saturday, May 13, 2017


Up at five,
Barely alive,
Dangerous drive,
If I can park I'll survive
Another day,
Striving for pay.

My skin cancer scars
Often help my mind 
Remember sequences of events -
Like ancient texts
Curated by the blind,
Penned on parchment,
Once pristine,
In past tense.

I am sick of paddling in the shorebreak.
If only I was swimming way out there -
Beyond burbling white crests of wild waves' sets,
Where sea and sky blush in the sunset's glare.

Friday, March 17, 2017


Sometimes I think
I died so long ago
That what I now know
Is nothing but dreams -
Reminders of deep woe,
Authored by black dogs
Barking vicious schemes.
So why should I fear
Bodily decay
When it's my mind
That's mucked up by disease?
And sweet oblivion
Could end my day
With flights beyond
The bounds of life's meek breeze.

Friday, March 10, 2017


I am bound,
Stretched naked on an ant hill,
Tethered so tight,
The insects pity me.
Yet they must torment me.
They have no will,
Unlike corrupt men
Who bite for a fee.
Over lifetimes ill winds blow
Every week,
Poisoned sometimes,
Other times merely foul.
They bring pestilence
And grey skies so bleak
They encourage
Horrid black dogs to howl.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017


When I awake from my nightmarish sleep
I'm reminded of times when truth flowed deep
And all people drank from honesty's wells -
Now they swallow liars' potions and spells.

And what we can sell
Is all and everything,
Yet most are fed well
So few see the scheme -
By which cash cascades from springs
Spoiled beyond extreme.

Now I'm hung on a hook, thumb-tacked by themes
Rumbling through my slumber's thunderstruck dreams.
Before, when darkness seldom survived light,
The great and good were still up for the fight.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Your old picture morphed into multichrome 
And then your voice became a Siren's sound -
A diva singing love's perfect poem,
Backed by summer rain's patter on parched ground.
You were a text on sensuality
Written on my blinded youthful vision;
Bonny and blithe, tempting me to be me,
But I walked away to life in prison.
Now I'm here skewered, wriggling on a pin,
Accused, yet not remotely criminal,
Kafkaesque, lost, and wondering where you've been,
Wishing reality subliminal.
In dreams your face lights up and says 'hello' -
Old knowledge that I wish I did not know.