Saturday, 28 January 2017

Riding the dragon

I may work this poem about coming off hard drugs into a song. It's not autobiographical, however I'm pretty sure allot of us have been affected in one way or another by addictition, all be it a friend or loved one.

Riding the dragon

You don’t need that to get by
Do you have to get so damn high?
You shut me out
I scream and shout
You ride the dragon flying high

Steel railings round your heart
Me one side keeping us apart
You slam the gate
I want to hate
Scratch your arm a muddy dart;

You don’t need that to get by
Do you have to get so damn high?
Gave your loved ones a bag of tears
Gave your loved ones a bag of despair

You’ve opened all the rotten the doors
Lain on all the piss stained floors
You run the line
Things ain’t fine
Love’s run raw, hard to stay yours

Crazy trips you’re up like a Kite
Take cold turkey it’s time to fight
You cry for help
I hear your cry
Your soul is safe wrapped up tight.

No more Lady Caine or smoking dope
Rehabs hotel a holiday from hell
No more Lady Caine or smoking dope
Anxiety and pain glimmers of hope.

©Julian Clarke 2017

Sunday, 22 January 2017

Wishing Well and Last Hope

The following two pieces are for this months open mic evening which are loosely based on the non compulsory theme being, Hope.

Wishing Well.

Insanely balanced on the brink of blue
A parcel of jealousy tied with sisal
Ardour, so emerald green, wanting you,
To triumph your love without reprisal

Flick of a coin, heads or tails, your call;
Hoping for a wish, a dream to come true
Down into the darkness can’t see it fall
Oh wishing well, my last hope lies in you.

Slowly the emerald green fades, vivid red
Wishing well? But a mere hole in the ground
How loves foolish obsession ruled my head
Who was I kidding? And I’m ten pounds down.

© Julian Clarke 2017


Last Hope

The visions are clouded for the cynics of mankind for blindly believing it best not to believe; but Layla’s last hope for her sick one lay in the palms of a pagan priestess. And so the priestess cast her circle upon the ground and with eyes closed she rode the latitudes of time. From all points of the compass winds were weaving weighing mystic chants from the shaman of nations to dance in spiritual trance. Karma gathered and harnessed in heart and so the priestess returned to her own awareness; her rainbow gown laced in white flowed silently while hands circled the air as she sang incantations of spiritual care. With gratitude Layla wore tears on her cheek that fell to the earth as she wept with joy at the breath of her daughter’s soulful re-birth.

©Julian Clarke 2017

Thursday, 12 January 2017


I thought I'd try get away from the norm' of posting my poetry. Here is an offering of flash fiction I started a few months ago and finaly managed to find a conclusion to this week. I hope you enjoy it.


        The lady with auburn hair slipped the incriminating photos back into the manila envelope. Although she knew about all the back-handers he had taken over the years, it was the lies and habitual infidelity that was the last straw; cheating Bastard she muttered under her breath. Sitting forward, she looked from keyboard to screen and attached the scanned images to the e. mail. Momentarily, her finger hovered over the mouse…she took a deep breath and clicked send. A man two screens away glared at her and then gave an aggressive, Sshhh, as the metal legs of her chair squeaked and scraped loudly on the wooden floor as she got up to leave. “Get a life” she said, while deliberately slamming the door behind her; tossed the half smoked cigarette into the gutter and then got into her Mercedes.
        Councillor Jason Rose placed his Audi keys on the glass topped desk and took the post-it his P.A had stuck to the monitor, Melanie’s wedding anniversary present, your favourite table’s booked at Pierre’s 7.30 pm; he put the note with his keys. Coffee in one hand and mouse in the other he navigated the cursor to the e. mail with, URGENT, typed in bold capitals in the subject bar,
“What the f…” he said, as he stared in disbelief at the images of himself and the wife of a prominent businessman in a passionate embrace, he read the text. Tomorrow, 7am usual routine, health suite, £20,000 in used notes, leave in locker, swim, go to work, deviate from instructions your wife and newspapers will receive copies of images. Jason felt sick at the realisation that his rising political career was about to take a huge nose dive into oblivion if he did not act wisely. Melanie, well, he had to admit she was pretty good in bed and still looked a charm on his arm, but he was starting to get quite bored of her.
        Melanie put down her glass of Chablis and picked up her vibrating mobile from the table.
    “Jason,” Cheryl asked. 
    “Yeah,” she said, and then pressed reject call.
With compassion in her eyes Cheryl reached across and gave her friends hand a reassuring squeeze.
    “I’m fine, Cheryl, honestly I am.” She paused a moment and looked back on how Jason had courted her with flowers and gifts and sexy romantic weekends away.
    “Oh Cheryl, I tried so hard, so bloody damn hard not to fall in love with him.” Melanie said, as she sat back and took a long sip of her wine. She could not help but give a little smile as she thought about the recently acquired twenty thousand pounds in her safety deposit box.
    "What is it Melanie? you look miles away"
  “You know, I will be okay, Cheryl” Melanie said, as she started to scroll through her contacts . . . Delete.

© Julian Clarke 2017

I will link this to Poets United for Sundays pantry.

Saturday, 7 January 2017


The interminable writers block has struck again, and so the following is something completely left wing for me that perhaps should be consigned to the waste paper basket.

Colour race creed diversity
introvert extrovert opposites
superior inferior, (that’s complex)
genders, male female
other (exclamation mark).
Do not delete cannot delete,
genetically encoded  D.N.A
programmed to label we’re
classified chromosome X or Y.
Cyber café, searching, found profiles # tag X
blind date (question mark) bio’ # tag Y... send . . .

© Julian Clarke 2017