books, men, poetry, writing

Fastest Pen In The West

Fill your hand

You son of a bitch,

The scholar with war stained dreams,

Frightened insular genius who lived

With phobias stitched into flesh

Men whose work outlived them

And look

Here you come

Not as quick

Not as ruthless

Call them out

High noon on the internet

Cheap links to cheap books

Shining where the harsh sun

Slaps against your waistcoat

Pocket watches without parts

Soft bellies

You can be trusted

With your lexicon of

Earnest puppy expressions

Such great lengths not to be

In the least bit threatening

But we know

How weak men are more dangerous

Aiming a shaking gun

At the past

Because your present

Is a heap of affectation

Fumes to scratch the back of your throat

So challenge the dead

And their immortality

And all for a smattering of

Cynical applause

Eye rolls like earthquakes

As the notion of your ever being seriously

Dies like your career

Five house points

For whatever dismal house

You were sorted into

But you come at the kings

And miss

But no one hears the bullet

Beyond the damp squeak

Of its arc

And those of us

Who sit in the cool shadows

Writing it down

Not even casting you

As a villain

A fart not a force



book reviews, books

Silence, I’m reading

Ben Percy 

The Dark Net

I have enjoyed his work. Yet there’s been a growing disconnect for me with his last few books. Red Moon was amazing but The Deadlands was a touch affected. I want to like his work more than I do. This book has a fun, inventive concept but it feels similar to Skipp and Specter work like The Scream but more mannered. It was a fast, enjoyable book and I wish it well. 

Margaret Atwood

Oryx and Drake

After The Fall


When she writes science fiction, she channels the best things about it. How it uses the future to talk about the present. Her characters are wonderful, she drops phrases and observations of compelling and acute insight. She’s so confident and astute, it’s almost maddening.

books, writing

Funding Question

I’m considering crowdfunding and self publishing one or more of my books or an anthology of poetry/short fiction?

What, as my following, would you consider supporting or buying?

Either answer in the comments below or email me


books, music

Words And Music

This is what I’ve been listening to, reading and watching. For disclosure, if you click through on these, I have an Amazon Affiliate account and I get something for it.


Bilal, In Another Life.

One of the unsung geniuses of neo-soul. The duet with Kimbra, ‘Holding It Back’ is a song I can listen to on repeat without being bored by it.

Prince – Purple Rain 25th Anniversary Edition.

Remastered brilliance and some gorgeous unreleased tracks. I have a lot of love for his music, and I’ve said before, even his bad stuff is interesting. He set a high bar for musicians with me which only a few of them have ever met.

Nine Inch Nails – The Downward Spiral.

It has an operatic intensity without forgetting the dichotomy of beauty and ugliness which informs the best art. There are some beautiful melodies and deep, hard drops of harsh intensity which adds up to a classic album of anger, love and madness.


Nick Harkaway – Gnomon.

A complex, rewarding and challenging meditation on surveillance culture, digital selves, mythology and society. It is exciting, complex and beautiful storytelling without compromising on the need to explore and expand on these ideas in the service of the story.

Jordan B Peterson 12 Rules For Life

He’s lauded as the next popular intellectual. I enjoy the pragmatism of his ideas, and his delivery is compelling. His ideas speak to a direction men should know, or consider. I don’t agree with everything he says, and I might put my thoughts down in a post at some point. His lectures on YouTube are fantastic and he is stimulating to listen to. I have this on audiobook and also a copy reserved for a present. I’ll get my own copy too, but he’s compelling and passionate.

Joyce Carol Oates A Book Of American Martyrs.

She goes after the issues lesser writers avoid, and finds the innate humanity in disparate positions. Oates’ work intimidates me as a writer and she channels a terrible intensity into her work before she gifts us with prose and emotion as subtle and involving as a missed connection.



books, craft, reading, Uncategorized

My Favourite Things – Books

Here are some of my favourite books, there are books on the craft of writing, lectures about nihilist philosophy and pop culture as well as fiction and non fiction. For disclosure, if you buy through these links, I have an affiliate account so it throws some pennies in the hat but get these books because I love them and the world needs more sharing the good things in it rather than the bad.

This is what the series of American Horror Story: Freakshow wishes it was. Humane, bizarre and beautifully written. It is one of those books I return to time and  again. Dunne is no longer with us, but this book is. I envy you reading it for the first time.

Percy has produced some fantastic cross genre work and this collection of essays speaks to an appreciation for literature and pop culture without casting either one in a negative light. It has a robust honesty which I find invigorating and useful.

Stephen King, much like Prince, was one of the artists which resonated from me at an early age. I’ve followed his work and example and resisted aping his mannerisms but his working class generosity of spirit and craft makes this book indispensable to me. He offers up a toolkit and reflects on his own experiences, professional and personal to give you an idea of what might be possible if you put the work and energy into the writing you do. There’s a lot on offer here, and if you’re looking for good, solid advice on the craft of writing, then King is your man.

Grammar is an important consideration in writing. A poor choice of phrase rips the reader out of the moment and undoes the hard work you’ve done establishing mood and setting. Don’t be precious, you’re never as good as you think you are, so something like this is worth investing in. Learn the rules in order to break them and Strunk tells you the rules in a pithy, elegiac way which makes it a useful reference work when editing.


Holiday has established a niche in mining the wisdom of Stoicism for it’s applications in the modern world and for his fantastic understanding of marketing and media. Here is a united work which talks about finding your own place and developing work which resists trends. He talks about Iron Maiden and The Shawshank Redemption in glowing terms, especially with the factoid that Harrison Ford and Tom Cruise were up for the main roles but Frank Darabont the director went with his own choices instead.

Next I will talk about music, then films with links to them for you to click on and preview/buy.

It’s strange how we will rush to interact with something bad but distrust a recommendation of quality or worth, relative as they are.

beauty, fairy stories, short fiction, women

Thought and Taste: An Interlude (The Wild Man, Season 2)

Once Upon a Time, The Wild Man sat in his cell, surrounded by cold iron, which burned his skin and caused agony at the slightest contact. His mind touched on the infinite, an evolving structure like a plant or a symphony, capable of experiencing memories as though he were present, experiencing every sensation again and again. Such a scale was not the gift you would imagine, but he had made the best of it. We cannot know the infinite, so let us refuse to fail and watch him awhile. He refused food and water, and despite the threat of torture, his encounters with Paul were polite, chill affairs which ended with Paul leaving the cell in thwarted silence. The air was dry and cool here, and each breath brought knowledge of his surroundings to him.

He tasted the thwarted ambition of Paul, bonded to injuries which roared within him at such a temperature it inspired pity within The Wild Man.

Pity and fear.

It reminded him of a broth, too much salt and not enough meat to give nourishment. Each swallow tasted of bile and he was grateful when Paul passed by.

He caught the warm, fresh scent of the servants and guards above him, heard their footsteps as the patter of rain through spring foliage and sipped from the goblet of human activity to quench his eternal thirst for connection. It did not feed him but The Wild Man knew the truth of a place or a person through his senses.

A banquet of tiredness, exhaustion, love, hate, fear and indifference.

Eilhu was here. His scent allowed The Wild Man to taste his grief and it was bitter, raw on his tongue like the meat of something which fed on poison. The Wild Man wanted to spit the taste from his mouth but he knew there was power in fluid. Blood, saliva and semen. He sought to reach Eilhu but the cold iron seethed at his attempt, sent the single, hopeful thought dashing to the ground like a bird with an arrow through its breast.

The Wild Man knew there were other forces here with him. They prickled with hatred and pain, a million nerves stretched and strained, played like a cacophonous orchestra to an audience they hated. Within the pain and hatred was a power to rend earth and sky, called from places no man reached without paying a terrible price for the journey, let alone the destination. It knew he was there, and it seethed to touch him. It offered the pleasure of power, but the gift was an exchange which would see him trade one cage for another.

He made his cell a home, a place to rest and observe. The Wild Man refused to gnash and wail in his bonds, he offered no plea or excuse for his actions. He was.

Instead, he waited and thought. A single seed taking root in inhospitable soil and thriving without sustenance.

All was as it should be, and judging by the screams from the adjoining cell, another fate altered and set on a different course. The Wild Man could touch the infinite, but never predict it. He read the signs available and where the portents were uncommon and vicious in their turns of fortune. He saw ends and beginnings in everything, apart but defined by the surrounding reality.


Darkness. Something gave a second breath, warm and fetid like an interred grave. Eyes which would never see the light, blinking and within the riot of new anatomies, poisonous organs bloomed and swelled, tasting and raping the air around them as it adjusted to the reconfigured limbs. It was a man once but now, shat from darkness into darkness, it adjusted itself and cried out in a terrible joy. It was appetite taken beyond limits, loyal beyond death and it represented a new front in a terrible, ancient war fought across millennia. The appetites of gods and monsters slaked on the flesh and fortune of men.

It was a weapon in search of a war.

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beauty, erotica, love, lust, women

An Excerpt From Until She Sings

This scene is different in the book, but I enjoyed it enough to keep and wanted to share it with you all.


He reached his left arm to support himself as he eased down into the chair. I put my hands to his face, stroking his beard as I kissed his smile. I clamped my thighs over his. I dipped my hips forward, driven with a need to have him closer. He was slow and gentle and it inflamed me. I threw myself against his supple body but it didn’t yield as I took him in my hands. I slipped his bottom lip between my teeth, biting into it. His fingers went to the waist of my jeans and unbuttoned me, his fingers weaving and dancing before he tried, to tug them down my hips. His slow authority made me wild with want and having given into this, everything had the volume turned up to it.

I pulled back to catch my breath, my face burning with heat as I looked at him. His expression made me ache and without taking my gaze off his face, I unbuttoned my blouse. My fingers were shaking, which made each button a challenge. The hunger in his eyes made me work harder. He had reduced and elevated me with the focus of his attention,

The heat grew as we rubbed against one another. It drew up into my stomach and it kept moving outwards. His hands swept around to my breasts. He trailed his kisses from my mouth down to my neck and I brought my left arm around him so I could hold him as he worked his lips there, setting a fire which moved through every vein, flooding my limbs with heat. Throwing myself against the calm, primal strength of him inflamed me, had me aching for more of it with a hunger larger than everything.

I ground myself against his crotch and his smile widened. He brushed my nipples through my bra and I reached my right hand around my back and unclipped it.

I took it off and tossed it aside. I lifted myself onto my knees and put my hands against his chest. I grazed my fingers through the soft hair on his chest, its tight, dark curls tickled my fingertips. My eyes were wide with fascination at the raw, sculptured power of his body.

‘Are you ok?’

I laughed.

‘Just needed to catch my breath. I love your body.’

He glided his hands down to my stomach. He made slow circles over my skin, tracing lines of fire which fed the heat inside me. My hands slipped up onto his shoulders and pushed off him. I stood up and met his gaze.

‘What do you want to do?’

I hooked the waistband of my jeans and tugged them down over my thighs and knees until they fell in a puddle around my feet. I stepped out of them, towards him and he sat up, bringing his hands out to claim me again.  A shiver of anticipation went through me, being nude before him made me new in his eyes, humming with lustful courage as his eyes roamed over me, a playful smile made my arousal stir like ancient force, a storm on the horizon, a fierce animal awaken from hibernation and every sense driven by hunger.

His touch was a whisper against my skin, mouth playing upwards. A right hand smoothed down from the curve of my right buttock, over the back of my leg and I shuddered when it came around to rest against the inside of my thigh. He kissed up and around, nuzzling my ribs underneath the swell of my breast.. The fullness of his attention robbed me of everything and gave me

I brought my left hand against the side of his head and pulled him to my nipple. I gasped as he took me between his lips. The blood raced around my body, overwhelmed by the heat brought into being by his touch.

He withdrew my nipple from his mouth and looked up at me, grinning as he moved his right hand closer to the crotch of my panties. He grazed the meat of his palm against my pussy and I lowered myself to meet it. My lips parted, dragging the cloth of my underwear against the edge of his hand. Between his hand and mouth, every nerve in my body sparked as he held his hand still, letting me take charge of my pleasure.

His mouth worked across my chest. He combined light kisses and the rasp of his tongue against the skin of my collarbone, working with his hand. I gave myself over to his touch. He turned his wrist and his fingertips pressed upwards. I wrapped my hands around the back of his head as he sucked my left nipple at the same time. The sensations overlapped and then his fingers moved.

I tangled my fingers through his hair, gasping as the pleasure became electric in the surrounding air. We did not speak in words, only sighs and the low, smooth sound of our breathing. I moaned as his fingers worked against the wet silk of my underwear. I reached and touched his forearm. He looked at me then plucked the cloth away. The tips of his fingers tickled my pubic hair before he found my clit. I growled with the force of it as it shot up into my head.

The tip of his finger teased me in slow, small circles. My chest rose as I took deep calming breaths, the tension moving upwards through my body until every inch of me tingled with need. I could not control my expressions and when I looked, he was studying my face for cues.

He stroked me and I gasped. He slid his finger down and brushed me between my labia. The gesture drew the moisture up then with the moistened tip of his finger he rolled it around my clit smooth and soft.

I went to say something but then he applied a little pressure with his finger and all the thoughts flew out of my head. He massaged me with the same gentle pressure as he had everywhere he touched me.

The tension roared through my bones until I could take no more. I gave myself over to it. I squeezed my eyes shut and bucked my hips against his hand. His left hand came to anchor me as I leaned forward and kept my hands tangled in his hair, deaf to the noises I made. The force of it lifted me upwards, my limbs tangled around his as we remained on the chair.

There was nothing but the sound of my heartbeat.

I buried my face into the crook of his shoulder. His hands brushed my hair. I looked at him. My eyes grew damp, and I touched his face.

‘You needed that,’ he said.

He smiled and brushed my hair away from my face as I folded myself into him. The muscles in my stomach and legs were heavy with a good ache and I drew my legs up so I was on his lap. I laid my head against his chest and listened to the deep, even rhythm of his breath.

‘I’ve been holding my breath since I met you,’ I said.

The vibrations of his words went straight through me as he spoke them.

‘I know just what you mean.’

I came up and rubbed his nose with my own. He smiled then turned his head to one side and kissed me again.

‘Yes, but so far all you’ve got is a cramp and sticky fingers.’

He gave a quiet laugh.

‘I got as much out of that as you did.’

I smiled and brought myself around so I was straddling him again. I looked down at the unzipped fly of his jeans.

His cock strained against the material of his underwear. I looked into his eyes and swallowed as I slid them down and reached for his cock. I curled my fingers around it, fascinated by the heat of it in my palm.. I looked at it and I stroked him. He lifted me, slipped off his jeans and kicked them away.

His muscular legs made me gasp with lust. The skin of his cock was soft and warm, stiff and yet, when I squeezed him, the life of him throbbed against my fingers. The ease of my hunger surprised me, the uncoiling lust that made me curious to touch him, to commit each texture, each throb, hair and vein to the memory of my hands.

He smiled and rested his right hand on my wrist as I watched his face. He sighed and tilted his head back, an easy grin on his face as he brought his hand up, resting it on the back of mine. I was gentle with him, but his erection wavered, and a burst of anxiety erupted in my chest. He slid his hand over mine and looked up at me.

‘Kiss me.’

I leaned forward and smiled as we kissed again.

‘Show me how you like it.’

From the first stroke, he stiffened. Unguarded bliss flitted across his face as I touched him.

I slid my hand up to take the head of his cock in my palm. He grinned at me.

I smiled back as I reached my left hand and stroked the tight skin of his testicles. He gasped. I let my fingertips dance over the flesh and maintained a steady rhythm with my right hand until he gave another breathy sigh. He bucked against my touch as the strain in his face grew until it cracked into a grin of ecstasy. He shot in three thick spurts, one of which splashed against the backs of my fingers. I gave a small giggle as I looked into his eyes and, on a whim, licked it from my fingers. He tasted thick and sweet.

He had a loose grin on his face. I watched him until he turned his head and looked at me. I tried to avoid his gaze, but he brought his hand to my face and turned me to look at him.

I glowed as he leaned forward to kiss me again.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

I kissed him again, then pulled back to put my hand between his shoulder blades, hungry to stroke the thick play of muscle there. The scar was beneath my fingers and I jumped, gasping in shock.

‘Shit. Sorry.’

He looked at my fingers, then back up at my face. He wore a small sad smile.

‘Tonight’s been the first time I’ve not thought about them in a long time.’

I teared up and he brought his arms around me. I put my head on his shoulder, surrendered to the warm authority of his embrace.

‘Tonight’s been the first night I’ve not thought about a few things.’

He planted a chaste kiss on the top of my ear and nuzzled my hair with his nose. Then he put his lips to my ear, his voice no louder than a whisper.



I leaned back on my elbows as he placed light feathery kisses against my collarbone. He brought his hands to cup my breasts. He bathed them with long slow licks of his tongue, so slow I arched my back to alleviate the tension it created within me.

My warm, wet flesh there. He kissed me with the same delicacy as he kissed my mouth, brief motions which set me on fire with the pleasure of it.

There was restraint here, he teased me with his tongue and lips. He gave a satisfied grunt before he dipped his head and the soft rough flat of his tongue dragged upwards. He used the wet, wild heat of mouth and his fingers to worship me in silence.