A Brief History of Britain

Faded, forlorn

the banners of our memories

once held high now cast aside,

cast down,

trodden into the dust

by legions of those

who came after in ignorance;

Even the ghosts have departed

this empty husk

of a once was Power

this paralysed parody

of those Sceptered Isles,

that seat of Mars crumbled

overwhelmed by the deluge

that took from our hearts

those Heroes whose deeds

validated all that we stood for;

All that we ever believed in

is now counted as the small-change

amongst market traders

whom we let barter our very souls

for a mess of pottage ;

Whilst entombed in our sonorous sloth ,

they took from us all that had once been

vouchedsafe by Viking ,Saxon ,Norman

for so long so very long an Age;

In our belated awakening

we find ourselves naked,

caught in the glare of a history

which no longer recognises

nor has need of us

in this our unkempt beggarly state,

of which those who once fought for us

would be ashamed

that all their sacrifice

all their pain

had yielded such a paltry gain.

( author’s footnote :- this work was originally posted under the same title on this site on June 14 2014. This re-boot has minor grammatical changes, the lay out is radically different and there is now a picture!)

Posted in Allegory, Contemporary Society, Culture, Dystopia, Ennui, Existential, Identity, Philosophy | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Throwaway Existential Poem

I succeeded in failing

I hastily slowed down

I was first to finish last;

I added up the sums the wrong way

I answered all questions incorrectly;

I stood noisily in silence

I remembered to forget;

I recognised myself when

I saw your reflection

in the mirror that wasn’t there.


Posted in Allegory, Contemporary Society, Culture, Ennui, Existential, Identity | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

When Summer Returns

When Summer returns,

the last of the bones

will have been buried,

the endless lists of names

will have been erased,

even the memories of those names

will be forgotten;

When Summer returns,

meadows again will bloom

hiding their terrible scars,

under the green and growing

nourished by the dust

buried beneath;

When Summer came,

the gates swung open,

they poured in,

one vast tide of flesh.


Posted in 20th.Century History, Allegory, Dystopia, Ennui, Existential, Horror, Identity, memories, Poetry Noir, Russian History | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


In the beginning

when all has ended,

after the last vicissitudes

I encounter are rendered

null and void,

I’ll realise that the

journey is the destination

and mornings were never

my time of day,

much preferring the

early evenings of drinks before dinner

and a reverential contemplation

of sunsets in faraway places

I’d never been nor

would ever get to

in the time allowed,

when there was never enough

time allowed;

and so,

after much ado about nothing

with nothing more to say,

I find myself

at the end,

where everything begins.


Posted in Allegory, Contemporary Society, Dystopia, Ennui, Existential, Identity, Philosophy | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment


Hollow eyes

see the snow drift

slowly drifting;

their vacant stare

no longer dares

read a history etched

on withered parchment

as the snow drifts

slowly over them;

hollow and bleak

the day’s remains

remain abandoned

till Winter comes to

take them away;

watched by hollow eyes

watching the snow drift

drifting slowly;

our existential cries


in the suffocating




where Winter has buried them



Posted in Allegory, Contemporary Society, Dystopia, Ennui, Existential, Horror, Identity, Poetry Noir | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Death of Stalin

Sergei Ivanovich was once “tovarich”

and hummed along to the “Internationale”,

he once was nearly bloodied at

at the barricades,mentioned in official

despatches he became a Party “hero”;

Sergei Ivanovich grew accustomed

to snap-heeled salutes in the

Kolyma Peninsula,1936 or thereabouts,

supervising prisoners’slashed-vein evenings

and their bowls of tepid soup

and the twenty kilo boulders being

passed along hand to hand:

and then,

They came for him;

the official ZIL saloon arrived

bringing with it The Silver Braid,

who lit their cigarettes tracing

scarlet arabesques in the gloomy dusk,

Sergei Ivanovich didn’t keep them waiting,

bowl-spasmed funk robbed him of

his steadfast demeanour as he opened

the door and the ZIL saloon

with its incense of iodine and

brown leather slinked back to

the wolverine forest where in

the night memories lose themselves,

and in the morning are found,

covered in quicklime..


Author’s footnote:-

I originally posted  this as “Stalin Calls” on this site on 1 July 2014.Only the title and featured image have been “re-booted”.

Posted in 20th.Century History, Dystopia, Horror, Identity, Imperialism, Poetry Noir, Politics, Revolution, Russian History, Stalin | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Poem of Uncertainty

to begin writing without

the assurance that you will

finish what now two lines

ago you started,

leaves this writer in an ever

deepening philosophical quandry;

what if the words don’t

make it to the end

of the poem?

what if I run out of them

just as I’m beginning to

put this together in some

kind of coherent poetic fashion?

perhaps Heisenberg’s dictum

might help explain matters:

but i doubt it

and you should too;

for poems are meant

to be as they are

and always have been;



Posted in Allegory, Destiny Poets, Ekphrasic Poetry, Existential, Identity, Magic Realism, Philosophy, Writing | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment