Teen Anguish.

Here a few I rediscovered recently  – some of my most early stuff, written in “those difficult teenage years” haha! (Judging by this, I might have been a bit of a perv back then, but I don’t recall it that way). Not my best, but posting partly for completeness and partly for posterity.

Necromantic Mistress.

In her enchanted arms I laid,
Blind to the world around me.
To her Satanic Lord I prayed,
No one, but she, could control me.

In her catacombs I hide,
Silenced from the world about me.
It was here, in the darkness, that I cried,
And here, my lady comforted me.

Here, in humility, she bore our child,
And in exhausted, tranquillity, she died.

Here, in the crypts,
Of my Necromantic Mistress,
I raise our child,
Our Necromantic Princess.

In my enchanted arms she lies,
Blind to the world about her,
It’s here, in the darkness that we cry,
And here, we comfort each other.

Dec’ 1984

I distinctly remember writing this one – we’d been studying “All Quiet on the Western Front”, & Wilfred Owen, in English class. Homework was to write our own war poem. This was my offering.
Jack and Jill.

Jacks crown had mended,
As he kissed his Jill goodbye,
He told her that he loved her,
And begged her not to cry.

He was on his way to Flanders,
To fight for King and Country,
He wanted to be a hero,
He wanted to taste the glory…

Exchanged his pail,
For uniform and gun,
Traded childhood dreams,
For a duty to be done.

But the glory of the trenches,
Too soon decayed and staled.
Mortar blasts and mustard gas,
– The truth behind their tale.

Back home Jill found another,
A conscientious objector,
And Jack read her letter…

…And in blind rage, he ran,
In angry grief, ‘cross no-mans land,
A German shell, a bloody hell,
A body in scarlet sands.

He’d been adopted by the poppy field,
His head hadn’t mended, just healed.
Jack and Jill,
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down,
And broke his crown,
And was sent to join the slaughter.
Dec’ 1989


My eyes fall to the Emp’ress of the four-post domain,
She’ll always rule beneath the counterpane.
I’m manipulated by the bedroom puppeteer,
Animated to love her all these years.

I’m her well-rehearsed marionette,
Awaiting the curtains rise,
Ready to perform once more,
Enact the play I so despise.

Pseudo-emotions, we hold for each other,
Pathetic devotions, neither fooled by the other.

Glove puppet – no real thoughts of my own,
Love puppet – I attend a warped Queens’ throne.
Glove puppet – no attached strings,
Love puppet – just whips and chains.

Understudy to a sadist,
Destined to be upstaged,
Engaged in her duvet duels,
Trapped within a love so cruel.

A minstrel to sing her lullabies,
Paint her butterflies in verse,
Playwright to write her tragedies,
Enslaved by a Witches curse.

Late ‘84/Early ‘85

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