My Mum Is A Lollipop Lady, Sometimes I Help Her Cross The Road

Confessional piece of performance poetry I wrote as part of The Roundhouse Poetry Collective. Click the above link to hear a recording via Soundcloud. Content Warning: Suitable for over 16, contains word-nudity…


Poetry Video: ‘It’s A Bird, No, It’s A Plane, No, It’s Just My Neighbour, Superman Is Saving Elsewhere’

A performance of a poem I wrote engaging with the BARPo theme of ‘Superheroes and Villains,’ as part of our monthly poetry night, Burn After Reading Presents… at the Seven Dials Club, Covent Garden, London.

For BARPo Happenings, check out our website at:
My Youtube playlist is here:

Basement Session with Scott Freeman

  Last Monday, I had the pleasure of joining a great friend and inspiration of mine, Scott Freeman, in his basement to record a session of performance, challenges and discussion… as well as silliness… mostly silliness. I had a riot and though it was weird performing pieces without an audience in front of me, it allowed the pieces to sit in the air in a different way for me. Give it a watch if you fancy it!

Duration: 58 mins (the very start was cut in the uploading process but not much was missed)

Scott is a Winchester based musician, who breaks what acoustic music could be and moulds it into what it should. I was a fan of his before I was a friend and I definitely encourage you to check him out at these places:
Facebook Page:
Twitter: @scottfreeman0

My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac – Translated!

My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac – Translated!

An amazing gentleman and friend from over-the-sea very kindly translated ‘My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac’ into Spanish. You can read it at the link below. You should also check the rest of his blog, there is some beautiful wordsmithing there! Thank you Mauricio González Álvarez!

Listening To A Street’s Voicebox

Standing attention to the sound of first shouts
post dance floor, I listened with my stabiliser wings
clipped by taxi rank breath of engines, a howl
in the concrete cube alley outside Revolution
where a punch drunk fist blew echo holes
in the throat throat throat…
It turned the whole street into a procession
with blue light sirens and kebabs spilled,
neon vomit on the high heeled
‘Oh no,’ flamingos, pencilled into their skirts,
holding onto their fannies with their clutch bags,
squawking with tiptoes around the rugby kit mobs
oofing the championship brawl of the curb,
oof oof to each fist landed, the proper Reading lad
beating a Northerner for looking at him funny,
at least, that’s what he thinks he said,
in testimony as the law enforcing, luminous jackets pile
batons on his boxer brains, echoes his claims
that he’s not a racist, he just hates Northeners
and I recognise his bloody eyebrows from school
and his mouthy grit stained lips, spitting curses
and baseball bats at the officers, who monotone
their radio, cancelling backup, checking in the arrest,
test, test, they boom the mic, as a band starts in a bar
down the road, swooping the echo attention
of the crowd massing to a shout fight,
where a guys is almost killed for his accent
by someone I used to break juice boxes with
and watched him hiss at pupils, teachers,
without ever trying to stop him.