A passing beauty
once observed

(Who’d walked upon
the cobbled street
below my window)

in dream.

And there
she strode along

With arms around herself:

A kind of cradling pose
which stood out as
so feminine.

This sight endured
in mind.

Since women always
fascinated me.

How self contained they seemed.
How unapproachable.

Those favoured ones
I most adored
moved ever
beyond reach.

Above apparent
for connection.
Or of love.

I recalled
my childhood

Where bullies
brutes and boasters would
display their baseless confidence.
Acting as if unaware
of life’s

But some still
grew quite popular.
While I was left
aside or

Both then
and now.

each day.

All down those
cold decades.

this long
ten thousand nights

at times the
pain could get so bad
(lying in the dark
I also tried to hold myself.

(Console myself.)

Two arms across the chest.

(Just as the passing girl had done.)




did not




(As an affectionate person, 30 years alone with illness has felt a bit like
being endlessly stuck in a touch-deprivation experiment.

I tried to convey something of that experience in the poem.)



And now, rather late (but better than never?) :

Here’s a piece to mark fours years on WordPress…




4th Blogiversary post




Not writing



How I envy those who love writing!

It doesn’t work that way for me.


Nor did my “blogging break” enable “returning refreshed”.

I find “refreshed” an almost forgotten sensation.
Due to chronic illness.

Each morning feels more like dragging my body free from a pit
of exhaustion and pain.
After taking minor beatings, during the night.
(Had dream-demons caught me again?)

Then I attempt to fake being human, for a few hours.


The longer my blogging break, the harder restarting appeared.
Inertia, anxiety, self-doubts, set in.

Watching others pour out their blogposts
I floundered amid sickness and despair.
Tormented by my own time-wasting.

Depression coats awareness
with its layer of toxic mould.

Failure expands, to seem a default state.


Perhaps poem-hunger makes it worse?
The waiting for inspiration.
Minus structure, plan, or plot.

Because I associate writing with mental ferment.

Where ideas disrupt rest.
Tapping against windowpanes of consciousness.
As if annoying moths sought entry.

Thoughts scribbled down: in order to escape them.
After which they fade, unseen.
Confined by decaying notepads.
An unedited chaos, I lack energy to synthesise.

If only this mess could be redeemed!

But illness ruins everything.

(How to ever to get published
when I struggle to get out of bed?)

So passed a blogiversary:
Enjoying other people’s work.
While neglecting my own.

Days spent scrolling.
soon  joined weeks.
Then months.

On it goes.
The emptiness.


The ticking clock.

Now draws me back.

To write.



not writing.





Does anyone else prefer reading to writing?

Have you ever felt motivationally-challenged (like me)?

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏


Best wishes to you all!


(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.🌛)


for reading!




( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / loneliness / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / writing )




scan 13



Reverberations move

around a soul.

Imagined far
beneath the skin.

Set where misfortune’s
malign codes

might multiply
through cells and blood.



As rain still fell

I trudged along night-shrouded


by wretchedness.



Footsteps sounding hollow.

Stifled tears were
kept unshed.


Within this skull
a pressurized

stayed dammed up
like my pointless




And there would never
come release.

In love’s fond gaze

or tenderness.


Just more futile
lonely years

used tissue
down sewer pipes.



No wife, no child
to change such fate:

excluded from normality.




While any hopes
grew weak

then charred.




Among despair’s
















Hi guys!

Hope you are well?

My old prose got poetized again, during editing.

(Any art on the blog is mine.)

Comments are VERY welcome! 🙏 🙂

Thank you for reading.





(P.S. Illness makes blogging a struggle, so I’ve been considering a writing break.

But that would mean missing all your feedback which encourages me to go on.)


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / life / loneliness / love / mental health / poem / poetry / thoughts / writing )


Tattooed by signs






Picture this awareness

behind its mental screen.

Unsure of getting
meaning through.


I sow thought
at transition points

where blankness is
tattooed by signs.

As images become revealed
across the passive sheet.


Creatively, my
felt reserve’s
been running low


Time was when words
waxed almost

To weave their fragile web
of lines
and occupy a void.


Why I spun them’s
far from clear.

Perhaps hoping
they’d be read?

So, seen in other’s
eye’s fresh lit
which brings ideas alive.


Retaining wishes
more were bustling
underneath my pen.

But fearing any
verbal force
might reach a final


Instead, such crops
still germinate.

once part-formed
can grow.



I think I sense

Even now.





















Hi guys!


Hope you are well?

My old prose got poetized again, during editing.

(Art on the blog is mine.)

Comments are very welcome!

Thank you for reading.



Health update

After 8 weeks my finger infections are slightly less inflamed.

With luck, I may soon get back to just dealing with the usual symptoms…

(ME/CFS, pain, exhaustion, weakness; vertigo; EPI/pancreatitis; migraine; IBS, PTSD, stress, insomnia, depression, anxiety; ulcers; kidney stones, etc.)

Perhaps I might put an ironic emoji here, if I knew how to use them on WordPress…


🤨      Oh!


(anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / loneliness/ mental health / poem / poetry / thoughts / writing)

A reject







Drizzle coated everything in soft spray.

Beneath tall lamps, pavements shone.
Lit by amber reflections.


Removing his wet glasses changed the view to an impressionistic haze.
Which seemed more comforting than stark reality.

Pocketing his spectacles, he carried on without them.
The area was quiet.
Occasionally a bush would rake its branch tips over his jacket, if he came too close.

He thought about those already in bed, at this hour. Behind thousands of facades across the town.
Unknown minds, many possessed by dreams.
While he wandered around, unseen.
A restless, forlorn, spirit.



But, later, nearing the corner to his own street, excited chatter, laughter, and screams, revealed a cluster of young girls, hidden in shadows.
Amid large, overgrown hedges.

He crossed the road, rather than intrude upon their space.


“Look: there goes that queer!”  Shouted a female voice.

“Yeah, that’s him,” came the response, “I hates him!”

“Hey you! She’s talkin’ to you!”  Called another.


He kept walking.

What could be done?
This was the life he knew.
Friendless. Depressed. Abused. Alone.

Some unexplained stigma appeared to mark him a reject.
The 22-year-old virgin, who’d never been on a date.
Each new humiliation scratched an unhealed wound.

Feeling mired in shame, he fumbled for door keys.


The dark hallway retained a reassuring warmth.


Wearily he climbed, up creaking stairs, toward his room.

His cell?



His retreat.









( Hi guys!

It’s deeply disappointing to me, after having failed to find love, how
easily haters are attracted.
Even now, though old and ill, I still draw hate.
Often without knowing why.



Starting blogging, I dreamed of becoming popular. For the first time…

Oh well.

Two years later, getting a single comment remains the highlight of my week.


Maybe you could leave one, and cheer me up?

(No pressure!)



Thank you for reading.)



(PS: Not so much morphing to poetry, from the prose, in this post.)



( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction / life / loneliness / mental health / poetry / photography / thoughts / writing )



Ghost life






Lostness   (82)



Can we have nostalgia for the present


detecting loss within these moments
while they’re here?


Once sadness brews a
dread of time

Recalling how
youth hoped
good things would happen…

Now adulthood fears they won’t
if old age is reached
it may regret
so much
one never did.


Yet should I
assuming consequents
when Y does not truly follow X?

(Like those promiscuous
my verbal hunger
often fed.)

Why expect coherence after
long surveys of thought
unless mind
or self
are unities?

Perhaps such systems
only understand
a level
formed less complex

hence the brain which fails
to grasp full knowledge
of its works.

Below awareness
nature needing boundaries

that guard innate from alien

forcing vital duty on a fast
immune response.


arising to more conscious states

must fend off chaos

though strong will resents
any limit
but its own.



As subjects
childhood put us at
the centre of our world

until we saw all others


A blow extended later
by rejections

with this sense:

society excludes me

since, alone,
year on year
I pass just strangers

as some ghost might

in an
outcast silence


the living.










(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.
Comments are very welcome!
Thank you for reading.)





(anxiety/art/beauty/blog/depression/drawing/life/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poem/poetry/thoughts)


Temples for the lost





Lostness   (74)



They felt like temples for the lost


Those second-hand bookshops
now long gone
toward which I set off
on textual pilgrimage
in hope of serendipity
or hidden wisdom.


Usually able to browse alone
apart from occasional fellow
maladjusted specimens.


Rarely diverted by the attractive

They were probably busy
perhaps even having actual sex?

Something inconceivable in my case
after so many futile years
cast around
through lust’s hormonal puppetry
seeking that non-existent one
who would allow me to love her.


Still stuck on biology’s rack
though aching desire made way
for muscle pain
and stabbing kidney stones
growing their cruel
little spines.


Reading retains its wonder
yet fails to suffice.

While any shreds of happiness
are side-effects once journeying
not an arrival.


Yearning for stamina
to make the art I want to view
and play music
heard internally
thus breaking loose
from illness.


Past creative output
weighs upon the mind
as a responsibility
needing work
to satisfy.

Its words left unseen
in cupboards
paper yellowing
with mute reproach at conscience
for such neglect.


But self-promotion requires energy,
belief, luck, or friends

Finding none of these
I fret about
my ruined life
regretting everything


the fact


I regret everything.










(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it. Comments welcome.)





(beauty/blog/books/depression/drawing/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poem/poetry/thoughts)



This sense of beauty





Lostness   (71)



This sense of beauty
leading to a fight

an unwinnable war
against nature.


Picture the cosmetic surgeon’s blade
slicing through surfaces
beyond rhetoric
as people vote with bodies
plus their cash
showing true
symmetric bias.


imagine androids
reflect desire

to escape
by original skin
from mucus and mortality
rising above limited potential
on earth-bound fields of play


(art versus the eternal)


wounded reason has its dream
into pureness
via digitality
attaining full creativity without
infinities required

merely letters, numbers,
colour, tone.


which parts of freedom
could I claim?

Being incapable of doing much
except observe my own decay.

once standing
clearly lost
before the mirror’s reproach

“With genes like mine, who needs enemies?”
I murmured
at its polished glass

across an inner emptiness
insignificance-haunted solitude
where all experience ends



I also failed
to console loneliness
by doubt

while questioning romance
I wondered:

“Can one be in love, and not dependant?”


But answered:
“What joy did “independence” bring?”


Would “autonomy” become my latest
for aloneness?




I began thinking
about that fragile moment
when a person calls us
the first time.

And whether it
will ever happen



For me.













(All art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.)





(beauty/blog/depression/drawing/love/mental health/poem/poetry/thoughts/writing)







Lostness   (70)



The loud persons pleasure
can be a quiet persons pain.


Some move within a noise-cloud
in sounds of self forgetting
creating asymmetric stress.


Fragile equilibriums
are easily disrupted

by love.


(And one achieving parity
may no longer marry up.)


But my thoughts diverted here
toward fresh questions…


Whether half-truths could be harder
to refute than lies
comparably dangerous?

Or eternal vigilance might also form a price
for falsity?

Would relativists: accused unfairly
appreciate a unitary view
that acts against injustice?





where certain writers use
impenetrable complexity
as if mere clarity
were too vulgar.

How critics resembling
intellectual porcupines
of cerebral hostility
root irritably after faults.


Should we prefer art
standing free
from explanation’s crutch?





a story concept
came to mind

about morphing text
each time it was read.


isn’t that what good books often do:

keep opening
new views through their words

showing memory’s
elusive flaws?


I abandoned the idea
(fantasy scarcely being my genre)


Though suddenly
the beginning of a different tale
spoke clear



“Boredom pressed upon him like a misshapen hat.”



Now I waited
for the rest…



did not emerge.


So I stayed

Vainly feeling aspirations
while the muse
had other calls to make.

that supposed
first line


Like me.









(Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like it.)





(anxiety/beauty/depression/drawing/life/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poetry)





Help! It’s my birthday…





Have you ever read about those people who die alone at home
and are finally discovered months later?

I used to think:

“How could anyone become so isolated?”

Now, I already seem to be headed that way.

Last of the family line.
No lovers. No close friends.
No carers. No visitors.
No letters. No phone calls
No social media.
No-one to miss me.

Unpaid bills might lead to investigations…



Thus, I fear such an end: unless I can break free of solitude.


But my body traps me inside the invisible cage of illness.


I have suffered from M.E. for 31 years.
Feeling like flu coming on…

(pain, aching, exhaustion, brain fog, sensitivity to sound, light, etc.)

…every day.

For life.


Coping can be tough.

Any additional problems tend to overwhelm.
And, in my case, there are plenty more:

Anxiety, mood-swings, insomnia, TMJ, PTSD, herpes, migraine, IBS, depression, stress,
kidney stones, pancreatic insufficiency, chronic vertigo…


Struggling with this, across three decades, has worn me down.

Recovery grows unimaginable.

Expectations need reduction.

I still hold many interests.
Though lack energy to practice them.


Facing another birthday, alone,
too ill to go out,
I resolved to distinguish it
with an extra blog post.

Also, by trying something outside of my normal comfort zone:

Reaching out to others.



Best wishes to you all!








NB: (June 30th 2018)

I want to thank everyone for all the lovely comments;
and Sara in LaLaLand for her great kindness!

It was a wonderful surprise.

Thank You!


(anxiety/art/birthday/blog/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)






Some slight romance




Lostness   (65)


Belonging: arisen by separation
from what does not belong.


Inclusion that excludes.


Identity involves division.


Though minds may meditate over
problems of personhood
immune systems must decide immediately
between self
and other…

as, at tribal levels, xenophobia
might protect a culture
against outside influence.

Nerves aroused in fear
attend to threats;
hostility defending
under stress.


For anger
the world is full
of opportunity.


Talk being often democratic
feeling tends to bias
seeking affirmation
until a story sets
or grows mythic
exaggeration aiding recall
hence, perhaps, our ancestors
built memories around past glory
then those exemplars
gained rank
among heroes
turning, later, into gods
with legends read
toward heaven
and marked across stone.



Amid conflict
some attempt neutrality
though sitting on the fence
can make it harder to stand up
for anything.

Like learning ways to doubt
while lacking any method
of belief.



Even romance has downsides
reflected in my slight experience
on dates
where her needs seemed met
yet mine remained postponed
when she took a certain pride
at how much had been withheld.


Thinking back
the great reward of sex
for me
was assisting female pleasure
sharing which
to my surprise
(after such intense aloneness)
could still be done.


And thus I
went on clinging
to an idea
of love…

despite its long









(All artwork on the blog is mine. I hope you like it.)


(art/beauty/blogging/drawing/life/loneliness/lostness/love/mental health/opinions/poetry/thoughts/writing)