tea belongs in room 101 (along with overpriced cream teas and…FFS! 20p for a pat of butter to ‘smear’ on a scone? THE THIEVING BASTARDS!)


there’s not much to be said
about tea.
there’s nothing much that pleases me
about tea,
except lemon drizzle cake,
without tea of course!

at least tea
doesn’t ferment in a civet.


isn’t coffee after all.

orange pekoe,
lapsang souchong,
lady jane grey,
an evocative trio
of speciality teas
which tease
those who
are easily pleased
by a promise of
orgasmic taste bud

not i.

wicker baskets
chock full of
jaunty eastern
yellow sunshine
picked with
nimble picking fingers.

aroma filled leaves
tumbled to spread,
to dry and crumble
green to black.

such imagery.
such deceit!


if tea danced
on my palette
like an indian movie,
bollywood in a cup
then i
drink more
of the wretched stuff.


i sense
to my anti-tea stance.

as hordes
of bunting waving tea lovers
chant pro-tea-drinking chants,
but i’ll stay the course
steady my ship,
pour a coffee,
have a sip
and consign tea
to where it belongs…

in room 101.

death of an unknown child

in a stoop.
balled in embryonic,
self-deprecating silence.
self-hugging, accusing,
gently rocking,
not talking.
silently flicking
my tired brain
off and on again.

memories flood
over me like rivers
of soft church bells pealing
on a dreamy, godless Sunday,
sweet dulcet memories
fecund, primal stirrings,
a resonance whirring and
dancing to my dopamine whirl.
my happy, lark filled times.

a baby girl, still.
in her cot.
shadows dancing
on her cheeks
as sunbeams peek
through white
cotton blinds,
to bathe her
in heavenly light,
a cruel, deceptive

she was the love of our lives.

a sweet bundle
of honeyed baby scent.
poked and nipped
by cheek pinchers
wherever she went.
adorably, achingly cute.
full of life and love
and possibility.

her eyes,
wide open
fell closed.
her limbs,
fell open.
a floppy,
rag doll.

my screams were chilling. haunting.

this is the death
of our universal child.
yours and mine.
our future,
our family,
our love.

is the death
of our unknown
flesh and blood.
this is our grief.
this has come
and is yet to come.
leaving memories
to haunt us and remind us
of happier lark filled times.

our screams were chilling. haunting.