And so I ask: “Who’ll soothe me now?”

Above all, like a 

window of light cloud 

onto summit 

proud, and 

loudly here,

and there,

and cared for curious-

like without this thing most people 

call wife,

I strive to be,

even then and when,

a good man, all

these ways and says.

And if striving to be good 

has made my 


a sad till now, let it be 

my goal

to not only be 

good to the other’s   

I see,

and desire – 

and I even have a wired 

right to be 

with, in puzzling love and

live, and sieve

as confusing 

gold of rivered flow – 

but acquire, on top of all of that,

the wondrous 






as well as 

rightly should

as must: and trust me 

I do; trust me

this is so.

For good – I do 

know –

does not need to be

sad; good does not need to be 


as I’ve 


And so neither does 

good need to be 


as I’ve


There will one day

be another way

where my life

can be something different from 

these lays.

I just don’t know what.

I don’t understand where it’s got.

I am shot of all sensibility.

My tree, in fact,

has lost

all branches: no longer do I see

the path. 

The path is – finally – become 

this oath.

And so I ask: “Who’ll 

soothe me


One shot

We all have one shot.

It’s all we’ve got.

It’s not

Rotten to fail at one’s goal.  It’s 

Rotten to succeed

Through another’s expense.

So don’t judge me for what I achieved.

Judge me for what I attempted.

In the knowledge

That although tempted on angry occasion


I never failed to keep any of yous in mind,

All the time

I could first have chosen myself.

Orange, blue and yellow: the history of your invisibility 

And orange was once a half of you.

And blue was once a whole of you.

And up until recently,

yellow was quite your bling.

But now the thing is

no one’s left you want to be with.




in two

would sit next to you 

and make you






No one left either 

who wants to speak with you;

all of them speaking 

at their tables 

of idiotic grandeurs, lost.

And the cost of your labour

is the indifference

of these women 

who surround you

without embracing you: 

who only come close 

in order 

to impound you.

You are

the invisible man;

and this is 

the history of your invisibility.  

The Last Will and Testament of a Man Who Never Was

And so the first clause did say that all the copyright, any revenues and any profits from any of his artistic output – whether written, photographic, blogged or any other content which in such a way could be so construed – he would bequeath to his three children in equal parts. 

And so the second clause did read that any liabilities for legal action carried out by anyone against such content, for whatever reason and with whatever motivation, should become the legal and moral responsibility, not of the children and owners of such content but, rather, of his widow – as actor directly responsible for the events which provoked their essential production.

And even were this not entirely a legal concept, he was perfectly, comfortably and totally at home with the moral sense and understanding underpinning, perhaps a little bizarrely, this whole and novel idea and split: both implicitly and explicitly, that is to say, with respect to the responsibility incurred through the above-mentioned assigning.

And so the third clause did tell that all his other possessions should become the legal property of his already mentioned children. 

And so finally, the last clause did communicate and the clause did underline and – in part – repeat some of the aforesaid and already asserted that nothing he owned should be handed on to his aforementioned wife, and that indeed any part of any properties jointly owned with his wife up to the moment of his death he, similarly, would bequeath to his aforementioned children.

And so he did finally write it to be his Last Will and Testament, as of 29th April 20_ _, in E_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ P_ _ _, in dark and solitary car park.

And so it was consequently, coherently and cogently signed by:

The Man Who Never Was

And so he knew not at all when this document would become of use.  And so he began slowly, ever so slowly, not to care any more when it would.  And so he started to realise the depth of his loneliness.  And so he gradually came close to seeing this curious whirled – in which, once, he had so wildly and wonderfully believed – as something not to be loved but to be battled day by day.

And eventually, to be battled to the moment when battle was no longer enough.

And ultimately, to accept one’s manifest and obvious fate: that of being and suffering and fighting and hating and occasionally, very occasionally, wondering truly, actually, really and grand what it must be like to once have been loved.

And so, finally, he accepted his dirty dirty job: that of universal spectator, and referee of wrong and right.

No embrace nor support nor love nor life which didn’t mean being driven and painful riven: driven and then riven this awful slow – this awful stealthy gentle sad.