Tag Archives: magic realism


Our workshop at the SPRING! event on the 24th was such a great, exciting day with a staggering array of ideas, inspirations, and acts of poetry swirling around. It was great to meet so many new people in a room with such energy and creativity! I must thank my lovely, awesome superheroes for joining me for my first workshop, and my friend Bobba and everyone involved in bringing us together.

Now, to celebrate our success in creating and becoming superheroes, I have a limited number of copies of my book, Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion at the special SPRING! price of:

£5.00 + £1.00 postage



Click Buy Now to purchase a copy of “Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion” via PayPal.

Also available on Lulu

Amazon.com (US) and Amazon.co.uk (UK)

And also very occasionally available on eBay

More information about this, my first illustrated collection of poems and stories, can be found here.

I will package your order brilliantly and send it promptly.

This way one can avoid both the extortionate postage costs of Lulu and the inflated price of Amazon. You can pay securely via the trusted and widely used PayPal platform in a snap. PayPal, as you may know is the same payment method used on eBay and numerous popular on-line stores, so many of you will be already familiar with its use. What’s more, you don’t need an existing PayPal customer account to make a purchase.

I’ve sourced the books directly myself and you would be buying from me directly, through the PayPal platform. This may well become a permanent solution to make things cheaper and easier for my readers.

We had a few unforeseeable hiccups at my book stall at the event, so I hope this will make up for it, and that those of you who couldn’t purchase a copy at SPRING! and were hoping to, will be able to take advantage of the reduced price here.


book info sign - available at this special price where to get 2 we


Not Particularly.

The dust always settles,
as they say,
upon the floor.

when it does,
an underpowered speaker
plays Syd Barrett.

Cricket noises and chirps
cause the room to vibrate under us,

and as softly as we talk,
my ears grind to a shell.

My favourite song has ruined them –
I finish off the crumbs
of a necessary pie,
because there is less time for madness.

We play with titles;
you call me “Monsignor”.

We throw our cards about,
like the others.

My Queen reads Edward Lear’s limericks aloud.
“To laugh or to cry?”
is a question,
when she asks it.

I remember the blue light
before my bad dreams
as a child.

I could play another with ease,
but today I pull no tricks.

Suppose that cricket underneath us
turns a wheel?

While painters of a certain school
pack up their things
in satisfaction –

the half-stolen silverware
from each other’s apartments
is silver-tongued;
and it discusses

the tree branch outside.
A lizard greets the ground.

The lizard forgets
the branch that…

it slipped again,
and slipped once more.

In the afterlife,
there’s plenty of china.

A cat meets him at the station,
with a parasol.

It must have been a rainy night
in the garden.

The glow of home,
its invisible friends
call the creature.

The chameleon
makes like a new barometer
for the snowflakes and swirls
that distract it from
the telephone.

Showers. Good. –
The shipping broadcast
gets it right every time
because there is no wind
in space.

A Building Called “Evita”

What goes on in that building, Evita?

An anonymous woman sees her name up in lights.

It is the last thing I see from my high-rise every evening –

there is a secret industry
built on whispers
in my dreams.

Everyone knows that there are certain parties,
held so covertly that the guests never arrive.

And I know for certain that the shop called
“World of Furniture”
can only be so called
if the armchairs come alive.

Armed with my camera,
I am here to take a picture –
but all I can see is this building with a name.

Maybe I am standing,
or always sleeping upright;
either way I’m overcome
by the smell of her perfume.

Welcomed like a President
into the ugliest of factories,
she invites me over
like a chair from its own World.

Her perfume,
from the street below,
does wonders for the atmosphere

The cars are pleased to see her leave,
as are other things that go.

Automatons once invaded the ballroom –
when machines made room
for formal affairs.

Someone will slip up on somebody’s
pearl necklace,
– it’s no use waiting for golden cherubs to sing.

The windows are the many eyes of
a woman called “Evita”.

She will ring the doorbell,
And our eyes will let in dust.