Photo by Jordan Rowland on Unsplash

When I was a child

As young as could be

I was wild

I was wild as a hot roiling sea.

I got scarred up and stitched up

For in sins I partook

If ever I fucked up

I never showed I was shook.

No Opium or Morphia

But I took them later as well

They cooled all my fear

But that’s another story to tell.

As I leaped like a daemon

At the edge of the flames

I dreamed about semen

My children, their names.

But whenever I was bleeding

After falling from grace

A band-aid stopped the feeling

Of saving arse before face.

Photo by Jair Lázaro on Unsplash

Some people call it their “Works’. Others, their “Kit’. “Spike.” “Pin”. “Gun”.

Gun seems somehow appropriate, for what I speak of is also a machined piece of death. Sure, it can be used for good, but the way I used it death was sometimes sat beside me.

Alan lived below…

My Mother is dying, I guess like we all are,

Stretching to heaven as the earth gets smaller.

She taught me that kneeling starts with standing on two feet

Then take a slow stroll to a sunrise that conveys love in it’s heat.

My Stepmother is dying, I know this…

Photo credit Lauren Alexandra.

I am trying (weep) I am trying (weep)

To understand, whilst I cannot sleep

(Weep) why you would leave this earth

(Howl) and me. (Wail) (Weep).

I know that in my shameful heart

(Weep) there will remain for the longest part

The slow sordid sadness of…

I do not know you Judy McLain
But you know that I know you,
No overblown claim.
You are kind, you are rare
You do not play the game


The savage paradiddle

Beaten upon skin or

The hide of the devil.

Sticks tossed and caught

Like the acrobat in flight.

No fear, even though you

Are lighter than darkness…

No image can be inserted from my tablet, but hey, it’s about the writing right?

I am not proud to have been a burglar, however I am proud of one particular burglary and the consequences that arose from it. Heroin addiction was the singular reason for my criminal behaviour. I…

I am going to suffer. There is an almost onomatopoeic quality to the word, conjuring up notions of unrelenting pain. The 4 pills lying on my bedroom cabinet are both the reason for my suffering and the cure for it. They are innocuous looking grey tablets, each one containing a…

Not quite Steve Fisher

Beating down my demons. Husband. Homelessness and mental health advocate. Drug addict but trying hard not to be. Writer, Poet and Photographer. Pseudonym.

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