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My very first post…!

This is the post excerpt.

So this is me…

Bit of a change in life. Or a mid-life crisis? I’ll probably be the last to know! 🙂

Dyslexic and a diagnosis at 42. Always knew something wasn’t ‘quite right’ but was told “You should be more confident” and other cliches. Of course, if you are reading this and have dyslexia yourself, the nonsense spoken by others will be familiar.

For me, it isn’t about reading. I always read well and I’m told I could read at about four, before school spoilt it for me. I’m one of the generation that had ITA inflicted on them. More about that and how the developers of the Initial Teaching Alphabet should be rounded up and shot in another blog. Sometime.

Currently transitioning from a work world of technology into something a little more writing based and creative. I’m being a bit cagey about past work as:

  1. I don’t want people bothering me about tech
  2. A change is as good as a rest
  3. I have quite enough things to keep me occupied, thanks all the same!

Offers of tens of thousands of pounds welcome in a few months when I’ve had a bit of a break and got my vim back. That involves a bit of walking and I’m currently managing 10 miles every fortnight with a pal. Great fun and a chance to unwind after overdoing it for too long.

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The Donkey on the Second Floor

Rises up, monument to invaders.

Enclosures, peasants impoverished

And ground down.

Parcelled out, quartered and sectioned.

There’s no more room for tea on the lawn and daffodils on the gravel path to the stained front door.


Dishevelled. Rotting.

Oak timbers riddled with worm and time and neglect.

Reduced to fit the bill. The cows are in the parlour,

Munching on hay,

The donkey on the second floor kicking through the wall

And falling far below.


Bats in the rafters, dead kittens in the corner,

The smell of country air and the third floor is gone.

The mountain broods in the far distance, the blue-grey

of Heaven’s sanctuary.

Watch the storm and the lightning fly, hiding behind the shutters.


In fevered dreams the little people dance on the windowsill

And the mice play peek-a-boo!

Laughing in shrill piping,

Wanting the game to continue.

Down below there’s jigs and reels and hornpipes,

The heady smell of molasses boiling,

Poitín clinking in glasses.


The meeting place no more.

The saint on the mound once preaching.

The lost castle.

The millstone gone and the sweet spring water is dry.

In the end it’s American-white bungalows with tidy lawns.

Not even a ghost is left

Of invaders, enclosures, starvation and tea on the lawn.

No cows in the parlour and the donkey was never on the second floor.

A Little Bit Quiet here…

Apologies for not doing much here for well over a year. I’ve realised how much being out and about and people watching inspires me to write. I haven’t been able to do much walking either which fires the brain. I know I’m not on my own.

Some will say the above is a pitiable excuse and I should get my act together. You may be right.

I am trying to drag myself out of the mire. You’ll notice it has been quiet in the Chaotic Comics & Crafts world too because of Covid: no markets or events since Christmas 2020. There’s a few things going on (hopefully) from April 2021 onwards. I might even be in a podcast or two! 😲

Stay well and safe and get your vaccine when it’s offered!

Cerebral Pinball- a recorded poem

My first poem upload! How exciting…

This is a poem about Neurodiversity: the way I can be at times with dyslexia and the experiences I’ve had working with people who have dyslexia, dyspraxia, autism, ADHD, Asperger’s or are in some way on the spectrum.

It’s not intended to ‘make fun’, but it is intended to raise some awareness of what people are up against.

Try to be patient and encouraging, but please don’t try to take over people’s lives!

Author does the hard sell…

Aidan is a writer and a poet, so if you can help during the joys of the Corona Virus, please buy a book as a paperback or for your Kindle:

Of the Sea is his debut anthology of poetry and prose. It’s full of short stories, flash fiction and poetry (in form and free verse) about people who are strange, angry, funny and slightly disturbed. Expect a lot about the sea, but also stories about cats, dogs and a peculiar aversion to chimpanzees.

Life and Liberty is Aidan’s first novel. It’s a coming-of-age-story of a young man growing up in the oppressive town of Medusa, ‘The Place set in Stone’ and his attempt to escape…

Life, Nature and the Spirit was written by Aidan’s Mum. Poetry she wrote on scraps of paper and backs of envelopes which he found all over the house when she went into care a couple of years ago. It’s her reflections on life, her love of nature and spiritual reflections. It’s good enough for a collection of its own…

Now it’s back to painting sheds…

Bile Duct – a sonnet

Delight I longed to see your face now hid,
I loved, I laughed, I cried with you, my sweet,
My life was stopped by your cold words unsaid,
Chill and frost kills loving and lust and heat.

The days of joy are gone, once more alone,
A ghost, perfume, your song, lips in a smile,
Forgive my sins, my words I would atone,
You haunt a dream that ends in hate so vile.

I mouth curses which once sang your praises,
I spit my bile, a devil’s smirk and plot,
I’ll end your life and rush you to blazes,
On your grave I’ll dance while below you’ll rot.

For I have found the joys of another,
Death is my wife and life and my lover.

Ares Rises – a poem

Cross the road, brush
Your teeth and speak.
Plan. Reason:
“I’m going to Mars,” she said.
Daytime television beckons.

Life isolation,
Run to other realms:
Deja Thoris beckons, I stumble
Through the hills of Barsoom burning
As Ares laughs.

A stench of rotting cabbage,
Dead and red.
Universal credits:
No benefits for tripods as Killraven washes
Your car.

Bubble headed skull
Melts when I remember you.
Tom Jones flies small planes, but
No-one could ever have believed
Our chronicles.

A war:
Your world, my world, their world,
It’s His world but we never,
Ever recall.
Bud and Lou are our guides.

Is there any life, Ancient Mariner?
In the cosmos like smoking
Beagles or marauding Vikings sojourning,
Expressing: sweet Rosetta!

Crimson spirit of opportunity,
Like a Phoenix with curiosity on fire.
Marco Polo,
Scoffing chocolate bars
From terror of hovering war, panics. All is dread.

Carrion, Regardless – a poem

Blue Planet fair,

You’re vegetarian, you care,

You love nature

And car share,

But the moon is falling from the skies

While the oceans boil.

Vegan meat, congratulate

That feat,

The forest burn and the cities choke,

You say that it matters, but your words are smoke,

Dancing like it makes a difference:

May as well do the hokey-coke.

Left leg. Right leg. Is that what it’s all about?

Your time’s up, the sea is lapping,

But shitty tv is what you’re clapping,

Blank it out what’s really happening.

Up to your knees.

This is how the end really makes you

Believe.

Faux halleluiah,

As useful as chronic diarrhoea,

As helpful as gonorrhoea,

When you’re last gasping go and shed a tear.

Time’s up on your little jaunt,

Turned to hell to be tortured and haunt.

You got it on loan.

Fucked it up collectively and alone.

Pay the price.

It won’t be nice.

The Dirty Rotten Lot of Them – a poem

I love poetic form: ballads, sonnet, villannelles and so on. But I thought I’d experiment with poetry that isn’t in a form. You’ll also notice that I’ve thrown meaning out the window. I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with that!

The Dirty Rotten Lot of Them

Once you could save the world and everyone

in it,

Glowing with white hot technology that would solve all ills:

Grasp the thorns the dumb speak, ,making

the deaf hear.

You felt good about them and even more

About yourself.

You know more than anyone else

But being the Messiah takes its toll, pour out

Your strength, diluted

Lifeblood

It isn’t so much

Fun. Not any more with

Frauds all around who care care care

Care more than you shiny white tombstones

You know what they all are

Care Commission Competition full of omissions and fictions

Despite despite you battle on, but

On the road to Damascus but really

It was Leeds you decided

You’d had your fill, No more

blindness and them and exhaustion and futility.

Let them save themselves for a change.                    

You know it’s nicer walking in the Garden.