Internet magic!




What a magical place the internet seemed.

Once I signed up for e-mail, transformations began.

Charming ladies, were keen to date.
(Identifying as “hot local milfs.”)

These sounded a pleasant change
from those ice maidens
who blanked me
on lonely shopping trips.


Next, appeared financial offers
by the very rich.

People warned against responding.
Revealing cynical negativity.

“Your worldview must be sad, indeed,” I thought,
“Not trusting Nigerian royalty
with basic bank details.”


Sharp insight of strangers, also impressed.
Intuiting hidden desires.
For male enhancement products.
And female company.

How could they possibly know me, so well?
It felt a little spooky.


Though other messages made no sense.
As if tormented minds shared
deranged states.

Some spam undermined itself
using blatant brand names
in a web address.


But certain complimentary mail
one wished were genuine.


“You’ve done a formidable job on the blog!”
“Our community’s grateful to you.”

Had tech giants noticed Me?
Then why did stats stay low?


A special comment lit new sparks
amid my loneliness:

“I’m extremely pleased, finding your great site!”
Wrote Ukraine high-class escort.

“I truly savoured every part of it.
And have you saved in favourite.”


Might this be my muse, at last?
Wistfully, I sighed.
Imagining melancholy beauty.
A passionate Slavic soul.

I yearned to hear her exotic accent.
Or speak my only Russian words.
(Perhaps provoke a smile?)

Grown too old to meet her, now.

(Could I even afford to?)


a poor man still has dreams.

I confess.)



That internet magic


And keeps me



its spell.






(Should this piece have a British irony alert, at the top?
Can my sense of humour work without emojis?)


I took a blogging break, this month; for the first time in three years.
Had fun, discovering new sites, and interacting.

Meant to post last Sunday, but messed up.
A poem refused to go right.
Anxiety set in.
(“Maybe I can’t write poetry any more?”)

Then late night, brain-fog, and exhaustion, wore me down.
So another week was lost.


Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Do you ever enjoy spam?

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

Thank you
for reading.


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Sick of blogging?

scan 2



Ever get fed up with blogging?

I do.

Sometimes during moods of unexpected intensity.

“Why continue, then?” you ask.

(Notice me discerning your thoughts? Pretty cool, eh?)

“Because I don’t have a life,” is the basic answer.
Being chronically ill reduces capacity for enjoyable activities.

“Which activities are those?” you inquire.
(My mind-reading’s on a roll, today.)

“Hmm. Let’s see.”

“Say the first thing arising.”
“Er. Maybe the second thing.”
“Why not the first?”
“It was slightly inappropriate.”
“Go ahead. After all, who cares?”
“Excuse me?”

“Face facts. Hardly anybody’s interested.
They wearied of your existential rambling months ago.
And the depressing poetry.”

“Hang on, a minute…”

“Hence you’re left talking to yourself in cyberspace.
Like a person suffering multiple personality disorder.”

“Listen, rude inner-voice doubling as imaginary interlocutor,
such disrespect for a fellow, on his own website, appears poor etiquette.
Can’t you find redeeming features?”

“There’s no compulsory optimism, I suppose.”

“OK. Now please be quiet, as I wish to address my audience.”

“Both at once? LOL!”


Dear Reader, do you ever get sick of blogging?

Does anything help?


I remember advice articles suggest ending on a question.
Though people often ignore mine.

Perhaps engagement stays low since I’m a bad writer?
Yet, no-one wants to admit that, about their work.

Except, I just did.

But, wait:
isn’t honesty a positive quality?

So, might this downbeat post negate its own negativity?

Has my failure gone meta?

Could meta-failure
form a kind of success?



(Thus, when I’m trying to think the way out,
philosophy pulls me back in.)







Hi all!

Attempts at spontaneous writing took a silly turn this week. 🙃
(Influence of British humour upon me, since childhood, is not easily escaped.)

Comments are always VERY welcome?

Art on the blog is mine, hope you like it?


Thank you for reading.



( anxiety /art / blog / depression / humor / humour / life / mental health / poetry / prose / reading / thoughts / writing )

Seven good things about blogging!

scan 20



Blogging has its lows, I know.

Times when stats flatline, and fall.
As silence reigns across the site.
Those hoped-for comments don’t appear.
Five days go by without a view.
Followers lost
not gained.

(Third year in, I get such weeks.)

Yet there are upsides, too.
Hence the title: used above.

That said
I’ll start my list…




Seven good things about blogging!

1) Making connections.
(Seeing people return, until their avatars become akin to friends.)

2) The thrill of an arriving comment.
(Especially if you get very few. Often the case for me.)

3) Finding a fascinating blog.
(The pointer glides toward that “follow” sign. Resistance growing futile.)

4) Being first to “Like” a post.
(Or boost an unfairly-neglected one. Giving encouragement.)

5) Wishing a new blogger good luck.
(Sparing them commentless months: whence I began.)

6) Assisting someone to overcome a problem.
(Particularly mistakes I once made myself.)

7) Being deeply moved by a piece.
(Having my worldview changed.)



(One memorable example of (7) occurred in discovering a post about Ehlers-Danlos Syndromes, called The Reality of Living with Chronic Illnesses , by Julianna.

Her sufferings were far worse than I’d imagined.

Next, I found a video on the subject. It was upsetting to watch.

Then a wave of shame spread through me.
I recalled moaning over my own symptoms, to Wendi (from Simply Chronically Ill ).
Who endures Ehlers-Danlos.

I regretted avoiding research, instead of lazy vague ideas.
Too late, now.
(With luck, she’ll forgive me.)

Hence, if a single good thing might come from these thoughts, it would be
an increased awareness of EDS.)



So, what do YOU most enjoy about blogging?

Any of the points mentioned?
All of them?
Or none?

Have I left something out?

Please add a comment.





A note to regular readers surprised by an outbreak of uncharacteristic positivity.

My spirits were raised after interacting with several favourite writers and supporters, namely:
River Dixon, Mike Campbell, Yassy, Larisa, Luna, Wendi, Linda R Davis, Elan Mudrow:
who visited a festive comment section, last week.
Which helped the Christmas period feel less isolating than usual.
(For a person spending his 28th Xmas alone.)

But fear not! Eccentric order may soon be restored.
Strange art and sad poetry, remain in the pipeline.

I also continue to class myself as a failure on WordPress.

Just between us (don’t tell!).
My guiltiest secret desire during 2019 was for someone to push that “reblog” button.

It never happened, of course.

Ah well: perhaps I can write content worth sharing in 2020?

(“Dream on!” says an inner voice.))




I shall end by wishing a

Happy New Year!  🎉

to you all.


Thank’s for reading.


( anxiety / art / blog / depression / humor / illness / life / mental health / photography / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Gratifying cruelty




He wrote the word “crackdown”.

Envisioning a huge heel
which crushed some parasite.

Best not mention any resemblance to a jackboot.
That would never do.
The sneaky media inflated such details.
Especially from government spokesmen.

Similar problems curbed rants about “scum”.
When veering toward despotic shadows.
“Adolf ruined it for us. We can hardly show our balls,” he grumbled,
“Or get the juices flowing.”


Released bowel gas
spread sensations like a warm eel
uncoiling round his pants.
But he ignored anal distraction.
This unruly orifice, too often disrupted thought.


His department planned intensifying policy.
Cutting payments to the sick.
(Cloaked by its usual rhetoric: of “helping”
and “reform”.)

A renamed “Wellness scheme”.
Seeing everyone “reviewed”.
All declared “fit”.

He hoped the badly ill might just give up
or kill themselves.
Ability to mount appeals
“revealed” more health.
Should courts (despite instruction) rule in claimant’s
favour, automatic “reassessment” must occur.

Via long forms so elaborate
and framed with legal threats
many quit before the end.

Recurrently retesting.

Til the weak began relapsing
at the sight
of official letters posted
through their doors.

“Relentless pressure.
Wear those bastards down!”
he jeered.

“Good riddance!

Whiny spongers
won’t be missed.”


One could enjoy a stimulating
sugar-coated cruelty.

he started writing once again.

“We shall create new hope,
and guide the lost
from welfare to wage slavery…”

He crossed out “wage slavery”.
“the dignity of work”.

(Pious lies were safer options.)


Discomfort sensed
he raised his leg.
A hot fart ripped across the duvet.

He sat up, eager.
for an odorous afterglow.

Yet sniffed in vain.

“Damn! The bugger’s gone to ground.
Like a furtive vole.”


It was growng rather late.

He put aside both pad and pen
then flicked the lightswitch.
Turning off his reading lamp.

“A job well done.”


He lay and smiled.



by a gratifying











Hi everyone!

I’ve lived 32 years in fear of large official letters arriving.
They are almost always bad news.

Being unfit for work, due to chronic illness, left me dependent on the state.

Underlying anxiety never really ends, while sick, alone and poor.
That “safety net” is only a decision away from letting you fall.
(If having no family or friends, to keep one off the streets.)

Though (being so unwell) I was, eventually, granted benefit “for life”.

But then “reforms” abolished it.
And now all payments have ceased.


Comments are VERY welcome!

(Art on the blog is mine.)


Thank you for reading.



( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / fiction / humor / life / mental health / poetry / politics / reading / thoughts / writing )

Ballad of a Guardian reader



I’m a Guardian reader.

Hence you see
can use a Mac

and stay


sourced organic food.

To Wimmin
never being rude.


(Though wooing ladies
I’ve no gift for.

Some assume I’m a shirtlifter.)



Oft ready with new
le mot juste.

(My favourite writer’s
Marcel Proust.)


At the Right
I effing swear.

About minorities
I care.


Why cling to either
faith or leaders?

Get born again
as Guardian readers.


We’ll make this world

yet fair.


Look upon us
(any Philistine)


and despair!












Usually, I strive
to avoid confines

of rhyme.

But gave in
(one time)
for a cause.

Evoking purist
moral bliss.

From overwhelming



virtuous lines)


Went a bit
“full poet”

on your asses!



(Like a bold American

In English classes.)








Hi everyone!

Finding the above verses written under an old prose piece,
I felt they were not quite bad enough to discard.

Do any other people think banter, fun,
or having a laugh at one’s own expense
seem rather lacking, in our current political culture?

(And should there be a “British irony” alert, with this post?  🤔)


Comments are always VERY welcome!


(Art on the blog is mine.)


Thank you for reading.




PS, I’m hoping most readers may know The Guardian is a Left leaning UK newspaper?

( art / blog / blogging / culture / humor / life / mental health / news / poetry / politics / reading / thoughts / writing )

Letter to Satan



Dear Satan

I wish to make a complaint.

About unsatisfactory service
received from your minions.


Tempted with glossy ads
promising granted desires
for all prepared to pay the price:
I signed a deal
agreeing transfer of my soul to you
at death.

In return, it was stipulated
I’d gain lifelong grandmaster skills
exactly matching those possessed by
former world chess champion
the late Bobby Fischer.


Several weeks elapsed.

Seeing no change
I phoned Daemonic Plc
customer care team.
They assured me complex abilities
might take months developing.


Trustingly, I waited a whole year.

Yet remained on the same mediocre level as before.
Still miscalculating during games.


After ringing again, some details were checked.

Then infernal staff informed me that
due to glitches in data entry
the single “talent” passed
had not been Bobby Fischer’s
or even chess-related.

But, instead (mistakenly)
derived from a certain Nobby Fischer.

An obscure, Scunthorpe based, tobacconist
successful only at completing “easy” crossword puzzles
in his local newspaper!


Given such gross mismanagement
I am appealing to your Luciferian sense
of honour and fair play:

by requesting our contract is immediately


Yours Faithfully, etc.






I hope this matter can be swiftly resolved
without any recourse to



a higher power?











Hi everyone!

I’m reaching the end of blogging past prose, here.

My attempts at humour have had less appeal than sad poetry.

Writing feels even harder this week as, aside from all my other symptoms,
depression has recently spiked. Pulling me toward giving up altogether,
while enveloping work in an atmosphere of futility.

But I’ve ground out another post, anyway.


Hope you are all well?

Comments are always VERY welcome!

(Art on the blog is mine.)


Thank you for reading.

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction / humor / life / mental health / poetry / reading / story / writing )


Nympho Nazi?


      Please do not read if easily offended!



Recognising my desperation, the guys at chess club suggested dating sites.

Being a pessimist, I was doubtful about joining.
But still signed up.


Sole success came in the form of an improbable beauty.

Her profile picture drew me.
I’d always adored blondes.

“Far too young. Way out of your league,” my inner voice judged.
Then I read she sought “Hot times, with older men.”



After messaging her, surprisingly, I soon received a contact number.

Our initial conversation followed an unexpected course.

“Hi Magda.”
“Hi Ken.”
“The bio says you’re pansexual.”
“Can I ask a related question?”
“Ooh, go on.”
“Is there a role you especially enjoy?”

“Nazi slut.”
“SS uniforms. And cock!”


“I noticed your rune-shaped earrings.”
“Very good. Did you also fancy pounding me with your hammer of Thor?”

“I planned on going for a meal, first.”
“Sounds rather lame, Ken. The only thing I want to watch you eat, is me.”
“Hey! I could be vegan.”
“No need to play innocent. I’m a dirty girl.”
“Yes: I swallow. And I take it front and back.”

“I shall bear that in mind.”

“You’re a funny guy. Which is why I gave you my number.”
“It’s easy for me. If I need a laugh I just stand before the mirror.”
“Aw! You look quite distinguished, with your grey hair.”

“I’m starting to like you already,” I said.


“We live in the same city, Ken. Are you free tonight?”



My penis urged my brain to drop its qualms.

I paused.
Remembering the last sixteen, lovelorn, years.
Five thousand four hundred days:
yearning for a woman.

Unending physical loneliness.
So intense, it felt as if I wore my own touch deprivation,
in an unseen suit of aching body armour.

Why reject this unique chance to gain relief?


Magda was pleasant enough, allowing for her provocative style.
Might she be giving me a kind of female “test”?
I’d surely often failed those, in the past?


Would I ever get such an opportunity again?




“You’ve gone all quiet on me,” she said, softly.
“Sorry, Magda. I got distracted.”

“Can you make it, tonight?”

“I have some videos, to get you in the mood.”
“That may not be necessary.”

“Are you coming, then?”









“Guess you’ve talked me into it”

I heard myself say.










Hi everyone!


This is almost the last of my old prose.

I was anxious over how much to self-censor?
While reluctant about excluding such work altogether
(as I’m blogging all types of past writing, not just musings and poetry).


Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?


Comments are always very VERY welcome!


Thank you for reading.



( art / beauty / blog / blogging / fiction / humor / love / mental health / reading / relationships / sex / story / writing )

Horny toad





“The night had gone OK, until Dave tried getting his knob out.”


“Where was this?”
“The Horny Toad.”
“Crap pub.”
“Yeah, he knew somebody in the band, though.”
“Was it The Tampons?”
“They got a fit bass player: she’s proper stacked!”
“No. And I prefer flat-chested.”

“Do you wanna hear the story, or what?”



“The group were late…”
“Hey, was it Sword of pork? They just released Wedding tackle.”
“Can’t remember. We mainly scoped the local talent in there.”
“Thought you preferred The Newt & Gherkin for that?”
“Well, he’d told me their singer attracted women like flies round shit.”

“You felt up for some rock chick style poon?”
“Full tattoos and chlamydia, mate!”


“Six pints on board, Dave’s messing about in front of these girls.”
“Are you pretending he isn’t with you, by then?”
“I’m looking the other way, as he gets hit.”
“Bit of handbags?”
“I only saw him fall across a table, hand down trousers.”
“Did they have boyfriends in tow?”
“Thankfully, no.”

“What was he doing?”
“Said one of them asked who Mr Percy is: he offered to show her.”
“Lucky you never had more trouble.”
“Cider drinkers, eh?”


“So how big is it?”
“His donger. Vlad the Impaler.”
“Don’t know.”
“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Why would I be interested?”

“Because you are gay!”


“F**k off!”









Hi everyone!

Though I have avoided alcohol for 40 years and rarely spend time in bars,
this piece attempted to imitate a type of non-PC banter, once overheard among young men, after several drinks.
For the crudity, I apologise.

Please do not take it seriously.

Most profanity has been edited out; but some retained, for the sake of authenticity.


It was also a writing experiment: at using only dialogue, with no added description.
I hope you found it intelligible?


Comments are always VERY welcome!  😊



Visitors may now be relieved to hear I did not produce much prose after 2010, and thus,
shall soon resume blogging my more usual musings, and depressive poetry.


(Art on the blog is mine.)


Thank you all for reading.



( art / blog / culture / depression / fiction / fun / humor / life / mental health / music / reading / story / writing )

An argument with my penis







“Remember me?” it asks,
as I undress for bed.

“I’ve been trying to forget, but you keep turning up,” I reply.

“Oo-er! Turning up, eh?  Never know yer luck,” chirps my penis:
having a fondness for double entendres and vulgarity.

“Vulgarity is it? Get him! On that high horse,” he sneers,
with a slight toss of the head.

“I reckon it’s time you did a bit more tossing, around here.”

“Pipe down,” I said.
“Too late. I’m wide awake, ready for action.”

“Well, there isn’t going to be any.”

“Why can’t you find a girlfriend, then?”
“Because I’m a loser.”
“Depressive, you mean.”
“Melancholy realist.”

“You need a good woman!”

“Or even a bad one,” I thought.

“Yes. And how about me? Ten years lacking female company.”
“You aren’t helping to lessen the pain, either,” I grumbled.

“At least I function normally. Unlike some.”

“This conversation’s giving “self abuse” a new twist.”

“So, pay me a little attention.”

“In the end, that only leaves a sense of increased emptiness.
Over an aloneness.”

“Oh! Who’d be chained to such a pantywaist!” he mutters,
shrinking back, resentfully.



Being estranged from one’s manhood is an unhappy state.

Actually, I feel sorry for it, yet don’t want to stir things up.



Anyway, he’s fallen asleep, again, now.



Just wish I




could do
the same.












Hi everyone!

After being surprised by old prose morphing toward poetry (during editing) in some previous posts, I’m finding pieces based around dialogue are more resistant to change.

Sorry for lowering the tone somewhat, this week, but fear not:
I intend returning to fairly respectable musings,
and sad poetry,


Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Your comments are always VERY welcome! 😊


Thank you for reading.


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction / humor / life / mental health / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )


Sulphur shadow





A muffled cry rang out.

His colon issued plaintive sounds.
As if small beings were imprisoned there.

“What sort of person even pities their flatulence?”  he mumbled,
after feeling sympathetic emotional responses.


Pressure continued building.
He tried abdomenal relaxation. (Visualising a smooth snake, gently making an exit.)

But the source of disturbance was stubborn. Approaching release several times;
only to shrink back, as might a timid mammal, hiding in its burrow.


Then, suddenly, casting off all inhibition with scandalous impudence,
a profound explosion burst forth, echoing around the flat.
Pain sparked across his anus, resembling the cut from a laser blade,
while he jolted upward, spasmodically.

Battling urges to lie down, he resolved on checking potential toxicity levels.

Nothing was detectable.

Suspicious of apparent odourlessness, he quickly leaned back, sniffing over one shoulder…


Lurking behind him like a sulphurous shadow, hung an invisible gas cloud.
Redolent of warm exhalations from some unseen jungle. Elusive yet corrupt.


“Dignity is undermined by our own innards,” he complained.

The powerful blast could also be viewed as a coarse reproach, against absent vigour.

“My farts are more masculine than I am,” he said, ruefully.
“If a blind woman heard one, perhaps she’d mistake me for an alpha male,
and not this feeble weed?”


He made efforts to regain composure, hoping the worst had passed.
Beyond that distressed orifice, spread weary emptiness.
Plus primal fear.
Of eventual anal nemesis.

And the road to fartmageddon.



“A man cannot escape his end. Or his rear end,” he mused.


“Ass is destiny.”












Hi everyone!


Hope you are well?


My old prose resisted transitioning to poetry, during rewriting, this time.

Sorry for slightly lowering the tone, but I decided not to exclude an attempt at, ahem, milking a little humour, from the experience of lactose intolerance.


(Any art on the blog is mine.)

Comments are VERY welcome!  😀


Thank you for reading.



(PS: Next week will be my 200th post.)


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / fiction / humor / humour / life / mental health / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )