Posted in Byron, Creative Writing, Dorian Grey, English Literature, English puns, Free Verse, Humor, Literature, Love, Oscar Wilde, Percy Shelley, Poetry, Relationship, Spoken word, Student, The Romantics, Writing

The man made of literature and technique

Caress me with caesuras, but don’t break in two.

 Kiss me with ballards, my heart will beat in tune,
With you.

Finger me with free verse until moans escape my lips,

like Enjambment,

Never ending

Oh God , don’t stop this.

You’re Wilde,

Like Dorian,

Be my Mr Gray.


Like Byron,

A Stag who never stays.

Drowning me like Percy,

In a lake of admiration.
Your love never ending,
Like their sexual frustration.

The Bad Boy of Literature ūüėć

Posted in Advice, Comedy, Creative Writing, Dead, Drunk, Emotions, English Literature, Free Verse, Growing up, Humor, Humour, Hungover, illness, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Sarcasm, Spoken word, Stories, Student, Theatre, Writing

 Hungover on poetry

Hungover on poetry,

It’s wrapped around my eyes.

I’ve drank it buckets.

Now I see the Light.

Head pounding,

Eyes hurting,

Throat sore with speech,

My eyebags are dark.

Like images of words,

that I now see.

Was the poetry spiked?

 Did I lap up too many,

too quickly?


Over too soon.

Did I trip over?

The words.

Did they  make a fool out of me?


But I can’t remember a thing.

Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!

There’s  vomit  on the doorstep,

My shoes ,

My hair,

The clean bed sheets,

And the toilet seat.

I shouldn’t have mixed mixed  Carol Anne Duffy, with my own special brew.

Or let others give me shots of


I should have closed my mouth

To stop the migraine.

The litre of water last night wasn’t enough.

To cure the poetry hang over.

Breakfast might make it better.

Still more words .

On the box.

Sickness is growing and I can’t stop the din.

The words are louder, 

Caving in.

Dead on my bed, 

I can’t find the cure.

Drink some more poetry.

That might stop the sore.