Blue bloods are quite simply mad , they treat normal reality as some sort of bland banality rules don't exist  and the rest of mortality is merely to keep them in their constant state of joviality.

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A poem I wrote about the suicidal tendencies of snails thay started out as jellyfish swimming free in wide open sea so I can now understand why bonded onto terrafirma they may suffer from depression or suicidal Tendencies throwing themselves to their deaths under our feet on every garden path or rain wet street .

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A musing about an old friend who has now divorced and gone back onto the Mating sites looking for lust not realising that his old sex pistol has long since turned to rust , men of curtain age with faint hearts and feeble flesh really they need to be extremely careful I told one chum that his Bumble dating site might be better if it was called crumble due to the flaking dusty disposition of its clients.

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What was once a stamp for a tramp or cut of the criminal class is now adorning face and physique of aristocrat , royalty and supermodel chic .

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A musing about road rage and how it affects all of us ,  simmer the sapien inside a tin can especially in a stop start traffic jam and it quickly reverts back to primitive man and that includes pacifists and your little old Gran .

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Ruby's a teenage dream queen that's been hand made in heaven to a cat walking cool talking size number seven , she glares an glints guilty as a guillotine , her temper is a mix of gunpowder an nitroglycerin.

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A short poem about lust, that seemingly deadly sin, that if the devil be shamed and the truth told it's an instinctive desire that we all behold .

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Twenty years ago it came as quite a shock when someone we knew  became bisexual especially as they'd been such a lady killer and then became such a man eater, still what then seemed such a big squeal is now an every day done deal.

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A poem written for a sibling son whose quest for frolic and fun wedge hatred in-between his brothers love by what he'd gone and done , it's difficult to understand the parable of the prodigal son especially if you're looking through the eyes of the other hard working one who through restraint and strive hath managed with diligent life toiled and tilled the farm in order to fill empty bellies and winter barn now back without a crumb returns the squandering sibling pun doubtless to take the family fortune for yet another hit an run better remember this of the prodigal son who fritted away everything from dad and mum let him now work to the rise and fall of a burning sun whilst you yourself seek out some frolic an fun

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A poem about the rain cycle's continual celestial cleansing this perpetual purification of precipitation shows no discrimination of skin treating us all to the same asperging sanctification from sin .

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