You may be interested in a review of “Sad Jingo”, a novel by Ron Dionne, another Blogger at WordPress.


We know why the children who read Harry Potter identify with the main wizard.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was magic in the world?  And if there was, of course I would be one of the magicians.  Even if I couldn’t be Harry (though secretly, why wouldn’t I be?  why shouldn’t I be?) I wouldn’t be a muggle.  Once upon a time, I could watch zombie films and apocalypses until the mutant cows came home (1).  Omega Man, Mad Max 2, The Terminator, Afternoon Tea of the Dead, and always, I’d be identifying with those swift survivors, the ones who scurry just ahead of the blood thirsty hordes.

But what is the truth?  Almost to a one, even if there was a secret world, the millions of children reading HP would have no access to it.  They would be ordinary.  Just like they are now.  At best, at the…

View original post 1,032 more words


Loving the alien

Sniff of chlorophyl

whiff of ether

Look down

see fronds part and unfurl


leafy embrace

cool breeze

tugs you in

sinking the green

moss is velvet

plant yourself

lean in and

skin unfurls to mask you

the perfect kiss

inside out

you are draped

try to make sense

of distant calls

lose yourself in

the wind blowing

through her branches

are you dead

or are you

loving the alien?


Earth girls:

don’t care that they’re skinny

don’t care if they are fat

bothered always now

that they’re



lost on venus

lost on mars

press up against

foreign atmosphere

do you lose yourself

if you love the alien?


RIP Ray Bradbury

new sneakers hitting the pavement

forever now

I hate you radiator

I hate
the way you radiate
energy and power
how you excrete
and make weird noises
on the hour.
Your functionality
does not excuse
your lack of personality.
You are not everything to me
when that is what I demand
of everything.
You do not radiate love, radiator,
nor compassion or understanding.
So like a man
to think you can get away with fulfilling one mission.
I don’t want you to fix everything.
I want you to listen.


Disclaimer:  neither I nor the writer are female.  I just have to get that out there.  You can blame all of this on Scott.

The day I failed my personality test

You wanna test

my personality,

You say you’ll make a

man of me,

Wanna check the level of

Dianetic technology

required to set

me free

from the engrams that

bedevil me.

I’m very sorry,

Mr Scientology

in the words of Boy George

I’d much prefer a cup of tea.


Ahhh, Irish breakfast.  The writer once had a personality test.  It turned out he didn’t have one.  The scientologists had to throw him back, and off he swam, along the stream of rushing humanity along Castlereagh Street, still unable to fathom what made him different, as in his mind he added up the numbers on the registration plates of the cars he passed.  On cold nights he aches, and he thinks he may still have the hook embedded in his cheek.


The man of her dreams


she rose,


a gem in her hand,

a moment from time

usually lost.

Truth snatched

from the reverie,

just before sleep.

As she slipped off

after a day of infinite choices,

selections, ticking boxes,

it came to her:

she liked her men





Just like her toilet paper.

Armed with knowledge, now she can rest.

Internet, you are full of shit

Are you having fun

on the internet?

Interacting with dozens

you’ve never met.

Without it,

how many obscure

bookshops would you

have had to endure

to discover the secret link

between the Rothschilds

and your local skating rink?

The masonic conspiracy

to exploit someone else’s


The zionist bolshevik combine

that is behind the plan to mine

your backyard?

No Jews went to work that day,

its hardly surprising,

as well as eating babies,

they excel at organising.

Bin laden made his fortune

forging certificates of birth,

Obama is controlled by communists

from the centre of the earth.

Eternal salvation

requires correct pronunciation

of each of the names of God.

Old mother Hubbard

found body thetans in the cupboard.

The Reverend Moon,

he’s still calling the tune,

the hip beat

of zombies selling flowers in the street.


you are Brown, Dan; you are Erich von Daniken.

you are the Magicians of Dawn, you are Linda Goodman’s sun signs,

you are Shirley Maclaine, you are Carlos Castaneda,

you are T Lobsang Rampa,

the Joy of Sex,

Sven Hassell, Findhorn, The passport to Mangonia.

You win us friends and influence people.

you are both Tom Grattan’s and Tom Brown’s school days.

The Spear of Destiny and Edgar Cayce,

The Long Banana Peel and the spaceships of Ezekiel.


you are Corgi Books, spread infinitely thin

bringing us all together,

helping crypto fascists and high school drop out gnostics

find each other,

when they never would have before.

I didn’t say its a good thing.

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea


do not interfere

with my bathysphere.

Your ancient style

does not cut it,

not with me,

you liar of the sea.

Oh Trickster fish

you make a dish

of trickery and deceit.

Pulp forteans cite

you as proof we might

find a living dinosaur

if we look deep enough

on the ancient sea floor.

How could we?

A dinosaur under the sea?

It would drown.

I should have rhymed sea floor

with icthyosaur,

that would have been ok.

Or plesiosaur.

I better check my oxygen level.

Somethings not rite.

Stupid second hand


Stupid E bay.

Who dressed the coelacanth in a zoot suit?

There is a mystery for you, Leonard Nimoy.

Nimoy – what are ewe doing hear?

Pressure …