We Tell Ourselves Stories – a poem

We tell ourselves

That there are no ghosts

In winter.


We sing in innocence

And lament post-experience,

A tide of alien tunes.


Glimpses atop a dark stair

Of pale faces and long hair,

A silent witness looks on.


Out there flakes fall,

Foreign influence creeps in

And I hear a call.


One wail sounds out,

Painkiller drinks and smokes

Wished for, when in doubt.


Days drag in cold slumber,

Hibernation worn older

As we eat dry petals.


Ghosts don’t hibernate

For late winter laughs,

And frost eats the grass.


We still tell ourselves stories,

Though, for present moods

And everlasting memories.

When the Day is Done – a poem

Crowded voices clamour
For supremacy,
Denizens of the alcohol den
Let loose among own kind.

Tight circles, total uncalm
Shot with gold liquor flecks
And promises of soul balm
Applied vigorously
Under tent heaters.

A call of flashing lights,
The waste management of worry,
A fairy-tale in slow tides

Burning holes in our jeans…

What do we do

When the day is done

And the revolving kitchen door

Turns no more?

Playing Catchup – a musing

Greetings one and all.

I have been sticking to my resolution to write more, though finding a work/writing balance is still hard.

Progress continues on a number of poems, but I want to clear off my current prose work ASAP.


Every weekend I try to catchup on the writing that I’ve missed during the week.

Average wordcount is about 2000-3500 words.

I’m tired of waiting; I cannot wait to find out how the ending goes down.

The secrets are just around the next corridor turn…


Asian Mist.



Follow the Bodies – an excerpt

The good doctor got back in touch with me. She’d taken a weapon from a dead guard and was wondering where I was. I told her to come to me, to take the trail I had; going straight to Containment would be a dangerous prospect for her, even now.

“How will I know the way?”

“Follow the bodies.” I said, and hung up.

from a Leo Ninsei tale,

The Wild Diamond of the West

A Better Today – a musing

Time revolves on strange hinges.

Hello one and all, it has been quite a while.

I’ve been off the grid again for a while but am looking to revitalise this blog and my writing in the new year.

It’s refreshing to know that there’s so many artists and other people out there who want to communicate and work together.

The reason for my being off the grid is that I started a new job in early October. After being unemployed (I was studying at the time, and doing other stuff, but not employed alas) for 14 months, it has been quite a system shock. I now work in the finance industry, something I would never have imagined. It’s allowing me to save for my ideal position, which is teaching English abroad.

Something I had not expected was how my social life would suddenly blossom again. I’m not all that social, but there are lots of events that happen regularly and I’ve been getting to know my co-workers. Apart from that, I actually have a proper disposable income now and can afford to go places, do things.

On the flipside, my writing patterns have changed. I’m unable to write prose every single day due to time contraints and my medical status. Trust me, though, I’ve been trying. Prose for the weekends, poetry in the week. The pace and output is far slower than it was previously, but I’m working on it.

I’m sure that there are a lot of New Year resolutions floating around at the moment.

I have one myself- to cut down on swearing.

Might not seem like such a grand one, but we are always in the process of trying to improve or change ourselves, and I wish everyone the best of luck.

As for 2015, I don’t have any resolutions specific to the year itself, but my regular ones, which involves being more active in both the social and artistic worlds. Although, that having been said, I’m still editing work for a collection that I look to publish in the next few months.

As for today, I write this while I have the chance as I’m later going out in South Birmingham with the work family.

A Happy New Year to you all!


Asian Mist.


The Sculpture Garden – a poem

Straw skin

Hollow world,

Horus eyes peeking through.

Thumb vessel memory patterns

In a sculpture garden,

Feeding truth fruits.

Cocoa shells tumble out

From happenstances for ineffable,

Frost blossoms blooming.

Pale crimson lightning strike

Fire snap noise shrike

Splits the prickly pear tree

Down the fleshly middle,

‘ere we go a merry ‘nother round.

Tarot shadows in tiger ashes

Falter under twitching eye gaze,

Boxes being better suited.

Satisfaction in paved stones,

Air and time squashed

Like squiggly packing foam.

Débutantes of the concrete jungle

Know not the Stranger’s City

& nicotinic dangers

Sighted through poppy screen farms.

The eye of the sun gleams

Gold bright on

Prophecy proven false

From the crystal knowledge,

Yet renders little succour.

Another round as the red light strikes,

And ‘ere we go again,

Hoping for more in the sculpture garden,

As shadows in ashes

Call like to like.