by Derek | May 7, 2016 | Saturday Sonnet, Writing
friday In hindsight, some despair is evident, But, hey, what else are you supposed to do when pheromones, it seems, are heaven sent, and order you, put bluntly, to go screw? Whilst every single Gay in London town Comes freshly from the Spa or from the Gym, you squeeze...
by Derek | Apr 30, 2016 | Writing
She thought that all I did was to keep house That she could waltz right in and take my man from me and I’d stay silent as a mouse. That I’d fight back was never in her plan. And yet how could I not when all I knew was heading West with Laura and her hair of yellow and...
by Derek | Apr 17, 2016 | Uncategorized
“There’s something wrong with Sandra,” said her mum As Sandy Sat and hugged a Prada Bag “She’s quiet nowadays; morose and glum And has a tendency to lose her rag. Since Yves, that French boy, left, she’s been this way Cos...
by Derek | Sep 2, 2015 | Writing
I come from a story telling people. The Irish – the Celts – didn’t retain their personalities, their cultures, for as long as they did by simply painting themselves blue and waving their arses at invaders*. They did it by telling stories; by turning the everyday...
