Category Archives: Plants



Humans do a lot of things that, at first glance, seem entirely normal but, if you think about them too much, begin to seem incredibly strange. I think it’s really weird that to express love, sympathy, pride, and other emotions, we give each other flowers. I think it’s a beautiful thing and I often give people flowers, and would be more than happy to receive them myself, but it is odd.


Remembrance or gratitude
Given with a card embossed with a platitude
Love or seduction
Why did we choose such a terrible tool?

These flowers represent my love
They look good enough
But some imminent day
They’ll wither away and you’ll discard them
You cow
Destroying the vegetation of my enamoured flirtation

I’m so very grateful
I bought you a handful of death
It’s like buying a pet for someone who did you a favour
Yes, thanks for your labour, now care for these plants
They are your responsibility now

How best to remember our dearly deceased?
He at least deserves hushed and regular mention
But more, more than that
On his grave I laid
A mass of dead matter
To biodegrade
And remind us
As above
So below
Do you know, I think that’s a marvellous idea!

But why stop there?
Lay a cut of old meat
Let us watch how it rots on the ground
For my lover, a pail of severed squirrel tails
They’re so soft and sweet
Here, have these feet!
I cut them from a rat I found under a rock
Then arranged them to form a floral display

I’m not saying that flowers are bad
I’m not saying that laying them’s bleak
But just take a moment to look at our race
The importance we tie to a thing or a place
Or a plant
Why a plant for those who’ve endeared?
I’m not saying it’s wrong

I’m just saying it’s weird

Photo Flowers.jpg

You have no idea of the horror that awaits you little buds




Santactus 001.jpg

In Tesco at the moment, you can buy a real cactus dressed as Father Christmas. A photo of my Santa Cactus (Santactus) featured at the end of a poem posted earlier this week.

I named it Santactus then realised that this sounded like the name of some old Roman god. When all the other fleeting, festive frivolities have passed away, this cactus will remain. Standing tall.


Tinsel falls from trees once trim
Baubles shatter, lights grow dim
Candles lie in waxy heaps but

Santactus irrecusably remains

Green wreaths rot in glittering piles
The neon reindeer lose their smiles
Robins lie in bloodstained heaps but

Santactus irrefutably remains

Christmas jumpers now unravel
Sleighs decay, unfit for travel
Snowmen lie in melted heaps but

Santactus irreducibly remains

Wrapping paper patterns fade
Handcrafted Christmas cards degrade
Ribbons lie in tangled heaps but

Santactus irrepressibly remains


Ironically, Santactus actually died shortly after the completion of this poem. But another will rise.

Avalarch Part 1: First Mud


I’ve always found great enjoyment in films that take the disaster movie idea and turn it into a ludicrous joke. Films like Megashark vs Giant Octopus, Sharknado, and 2012 are hilarious. I wanted to pay tribute to this very special type of film. My idea rapidly became the concept for an epic poem which I am currently working on. This is a story about the Avalarch; Part Avalanche, part Larch. It grows in secrecy in the heart of London, then breaks free to wreak havoc. Eventually, it is defeated but, like all good ridiculous disaster stories, it is soon back to face other monstrous beings.

This post contains part 1 of Avalarch. In this part of the epic poem, we watch strange and mysterious events unfold that lead to the creation of the greatest threat to London since the great fire.

Avalarch Part 1: First Mud

London doesn’t sleep, not quite
The light from every amber lamp
Reflects in fragments from the streets
That sheets of city rain made damp

The moon, half-hid by ashen clouds
Enshrouds the night in mystery
Illuminating hill and pit
A citadel of history

The Thames drifts by with murky grace
It’s face is grey with dirt and dark
A twisted trolley on the bank
Once thankless mule turned steel toothed shark

The ripples on the surface speak
Of bleak disturbances below
The wreckage of the city’s past
Lies fast beneath the undertow

The gentle trickle of the waves
That gravely stroke the crumbling wall
Heard only by the man in black
With sack and shovel as his haul

A crawl across the river muck
Legs stuck and sinking into mire
His hands and face with mud are packed
Though cracked, still like a mask entire

His body weary, aged, grey
A stray dog snuffles at his feet
It paws his leg, it starts to cry
Then finally accepts defeat

He drags himself up ladder rungs
And tongues of rust push through his hands
To taste his blood and slow his climb
From slime and mud and sucking sands

The top achieved, he stops to wheeze
His knees are trembling from the strain
Falls to the ground, his face is red
Then steadily he stands again

His eyes don’t speak so much as shout
A bout of coughing racks his chest
His job long done, he staggers home
To roam no more, at last to rest

A flutter from the traitor’s gate
A stately raven takes to flight
He rides the air with humble skill
A silhouette against the night

Big Ben chimes thrice his sonorous tone
A drone that gently shakes the sky
The bird drops to a window sill
And still the river slithers by

Swollen from the copious rain
It stains the bank with water lines
And laps the footprints in the clay
Erasing these, and other signs

A streak of bright fluorescent green
Here seen just momentarily
A tub of radioactive swill
Is spilling in the estuary

Through eddies, currents, ebb and flow
It slowly dissipates to spread
Some rises to the surface scum
And some sinks to the river bed

It seeps into the ground at last
Drawn past the banks and under soil
Into a garden, trickles through
The beauty bought by gardener’s toil

Exotic flowers, though lately bloomed
Consumed by filth, they wilt and die
But in the garden corner stand
The grand and glorious larches high

The trees succumb to waste and rot
But not the tallest, firm and wide
The dangerous drops through roots drawn in
Begin to change it from inside

This sole survivor drinking deep
While others die putrescently
For hours and days and months and years
It rears on up incessantly

And in due course, the others gone
Drawn on by time’s eternal march
It longs to rise from out the earth
The birth place of the Avalarch

No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greener than man's and yet as mortal as his own

No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greener than man’s and yet as mortal as his own

Lemon Tree Legs

Lemon Tree Legs

I don’t really have a good explanation for this poem. It’s nearly a love story but the whole thing is a bit ambiguous. There’s a lonely boy whose legs are actually lemon trees. He thinks he’s a freak who nobody will ever love but he is met by a kindred spirit who makes a request. It’s not made clear what happens next but you may speculate as to your own ending.

Lemon Tree Legs

The boy with the lemon tree legs
Was hanging his clothes out on pegs
His manner was dour
And his gait, it was sour
With little hope left, only dregs

But the girl with the apple tree eyes
Took lemon tree legs by surprise
She asked ‘Could I please
Take a fruit from your knees?
I’ve an order for leg lemon pies!’

Next time, we'll meet his cousin. The boy with the willow tree w... Actually never mind.

Next time, we’ll meet his cousin. The boy with the willow tree w… Actually never mind.

I Am A Tree

I Am a Tree


If trees were actually animals, they’d be the most relaxed animals ever. They live for ridiculously long times and are quite content to stand around enjoying nature. I wonder what they would say if they could speak. What does a tree worry about? What does a tree think about itself?

As Jaden Smith (Will Smith’s son) once tweeted ‘Trees Are Never Sad Look At Them Every Once In Awhile They’re Quite Beautiful’. He did also tweet ‘Most Trees Are Blue’ though so I’m not sure how much we can trust him.

I Am a Tree

I am a tree
I have bark
And I can’t make my food in the dark

I am a tree
I have roots
When I’m fully grown I get some fruits

I am a tree
I have leaves
Carved into my skin is ‘Sue 4 Jeeves’

I am a tree
I have moss
The beetles in my trunk make me awfully cross

I only write poetry at the moment, but I'm thinking of branching out

I only write poetry at the moment, but I’m thinking of branching out


Sit On This Grape

Sit on


This poem is an exploration of madness. What starts as a quirky eccentricity gradually becomes something far more sinister. Don’t read it in the dark. Super spooky.

Sit On This Grape

Sit on this grape if you want to be free
Sit on this grape and be all you can be
Sit on this grape to be closer to him
Sit on this grape on a mad old man’s whim

Sit on this grape and your dreams will come true
Sit on this grape, would I lie to you?
Sit on this grape, this is all I can give
Sit on this grape and your children will live

With grape power, comes grape responsibility

With grape power, comes grape responsibility

The Potato Gentleman



For my first post on this blog, I thought it would be appropriate to start with one of my first poems. This was inspired by a doodle I did during a lecture in the first weeks of my first year of university. I can’t remember what the lecture was on but I remember that the doodle looked very much like the one above. Without further ado, here is The Potato Gentleman. A poem about a shrivelled old potato who can’t find his place in the rapidly progressing modern world:

The Potato Gentleman

Potato man is round and big
And oft mistaken for a fig
His legs extend a hefty way
He proudly strides round town all day

Upon his head he bears a hat
A top hat that is tall and flat
His mouth bent in a constant smile
Come in my child, and stay a while

With hands on hips and eyes on you
He lights his pipe and ties his shoe
His tie is straight, his eyebrow raised
He’s only wanting to be praised

A monocle upon his eye
And late at night you hear him cry
His waistcoat is a size too small
Potato man says Blast it all

He never stays but rarely goes
He has a tiny, rounded nose
He likes to read financial times
He’s quite amused by childish rhymes

Potato man is round and big
And oft mistaken for a fig
He hopes that there’s a God above
Potato man just wants your love


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