Now comes a dawn crammed full of birdsong

Now comes a dawn crammed full of birdsong


– of riches beyond imagining. Cloth-eared – running – scared, monumental in the grey dawn’s cloth-eared light, transandental yet inconsequential, it rotates endlessly, effortlessly, stupidly, towards tomorrow.


grrrr…. the hole punchers chatter and dilute the truth and dribble it into glasses of alcohol free absinth while the Grand Master Klingon beseeches sad Hercules to give him one more chance, “Give me – please” he sobs and H. turns the other cheek, ” Wack away oh Grand Master Klingon” he sneers, lovingly. Meanwhile outside their tiny window poplar trees delegate insanely in the cursing, evergreen wind and the sun hides, yet again.

cover of Tony Chapman's album "Turning Point" :  a strange monster man and puppet fight and fall together under some arches.
cover of Tony Chapman’s album “Turning Point”

Greetings. This is my ME Blog.

Greetings. This is my ME Blog. For me only. It is pure, self -indulgent, sanity keeping self-expression. l put whatever comes up in me. It helps balance all the control type stuff I have to do in daily life – like shopping, planning, admin, meetings, organizing agh !! l begin to go crazy just thinking about it.

It is my place of freedom. Technology has given me this amazing platform, space, room, a 3D walking, talking sketch book – endless freedom within its limitless parameters.

It is usually written in those rare moments when I am alone  – at dawn before I get up, lying in bed, while others are asleep and dawn tickles the night sky and the first birds start chattering, or in the depth of the night, when all my worries rivet me and I have no perspective at all, only horror and hopelessness, or in cafes: neutral territory, my favourite places, sitting alone with a decaffeinated coffee and a grand perspective on my life – optomistic, inspired.

l don’t have to think about SEO-ing or marketing strategies or anything! l can just be myself – what a relief!

… and the miracle is – with with no middle men,  no publishers, it is automitacilIy shared with, published to! – THE WHOLE WORLD!


The pink dawn

Born out of nothing, born from the void
I stumble into bar-rooms and lift myself from the floor
I count the horseless carriages that niosely pass by

And the pink dawn spreads its insipid bloodstain across the sky

A rabid dog slinks into a shadow alley, its hairless tail between it chicken legs. I pass by and the rose-red dawn spreads its petals across the sky.

(Middle section):
“No milk today”, a nursing mother confides
“Thats the lot of the poor in times like these, here – I have a little left”, the other whispers, reaching across for the gift-wrapped child.

…and, with haste, the Diplomats 2

…and, with haste, the Diplomats

scrambled together over the splintered wooden cloisters that lay in a idle, higgledy-piggledy manner, where they had fallen.
   “No meditation today”, said Diplomat 1 to Diplomat 4.
   “No, indeed!”, retorted Diplomat 2, a little too vehemently.

…and the locusts sang.

Six foot angry birds

The cause of all things, on this grey, cold Sunday afternoon, where naked, damp tree skeletons, frozen in jagged lines, march, each side of the empty, cracked road,


waiting for the North Pole tsunami melt to change our society a little, whilst crabwise walking, and sipping tea from bone china, semi-transparent, little fingers pointing out – is the transparent tide, forever starting and stopping, on the glass shore, where trapped souls look up from below with empty eye-sockets.