A musing about the Boer war whilst tens of thousands were dying of desease and starvation due to lord Kitchener's scorched earth policy he himself was heartbroken about losing his pet starling

thank heavens he's not here sorting out the coronavirus .

A short piece I wrote to celebrate the 50th birthday of Nick Fisher a dear friend of mine, I've narrated it in a thick Yorkshire accent due to his Dewsbury routes.

All Medieval religions outlawed usury as a sin, profit of any kind wasn't allowed it still stands as a judgement against you today the road to PERDITION is going to be litered with alot of the  righteous as well as the devil's detritus .

This is a poem i wrote about the catastrophic creations cause through having too much cosmetic surgery leaving so many a patient in the perpetual state of a reconstructive purgatory the surgeons are called the picasso's of the plastique, well they certainly end up with a foot an mouth or a tongue-in-cheek , they sculpture and scalpel at something that once started out as the face of the fantastic but by the final phase come cut you're left with a gargoyled freak.

A little tune I wrote from a poem using the as an assimilation to getting old with various parts of our anatomy wearing out with the passage of time.

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Old Colonials talk of empire its quite shocking how they used to think of human beings as nothing more than chattels not just the natives but also the white workers and soldiers such as my old father now 95 years of age he told me during his time in India just after the second world War protecting the British Raj who also looked upon him as a SLAVE OF EMPIRE .

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A poem about emperors and kings who believe themselves to be the devine demagoguery even as children they  had whipping boys  to take their punishment and guilt sacred scapegoats for them to stripe and slaughter ; If a devine deity did arrive on planet earth these mobsters and megalomaniacs would see that that quickly murdered .

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Short poem I wrote about the neo omnipresent computer that seems almost all controlling and God like in its invisible power and presence.

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Her swan song is what you hear just before your love boat runs aground and the scent of sulphur be the final pheromone you smell as you slowly begin to drowned .

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Similar to an Eskimo fishing through a hole in the ice one could easily imagine a soul catcher waiting patiently at the edge of a black hole in order to capture our very essence , then freeze drying us in the absolute zero of infinity giving him our plasma concentrate life , we'd be ready for a re-nucleation or reconstitution, and what better freeze drying facility than the perfectly vacuumed packaging plant of space .

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