Voke’s Wagon

I have no idea where “Love” is in my

record collection, though I

know it’s in there



Sick on the ill-digested

emotions of others I

ponder words and their

unexpected plosions, the


way words kick back at your

expectations, won’t mean

what you want them to

mean, defy you, brazen and


bold, but bugger them just

provoke thought

invoke memory

evoke emotion.

From Lowlife to Highgate

Fridayam's Blog

KindlingThe brown hill of boredom

stretches into the unknown evening,

and the rain beats the paths

towards its slippery, dull calvary.

Up on the blasted Heath

the rich keep fit for Armageddon,

while darkness falls over London

and wetness on the world.

Again in April I append:

“A year is gone and gain is none.

Alight with hope I’m often found,

but Jack O’Lantern’s skills abound.

The night’s a hearth,

the Moon its fire, and we,

poor feral creatures,

merely kindling”.

It’s an English sensibility,

summoned by rain,

taking me up the hill to

look out over London.

Its ancient imprecations lie before me,

from Harrow and Wealdstone

via Gospel Oak to Gravesend, which

Dictionary of English Place Names makes me see

what castles and cathedrals cannot hide:

the ghost is a Lord until we lay it.

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Pre-Tanned Bodies

Fridayam's Blog

With the first hint of sun, the

girls with pre-tanned bodies

parade in as little as possible, their

tattoos looking ill-advised

long before they regret being

advertising hoardings for men already

making other plans, their names just

tags on dilapidated trains or

abandoned buildings, whilst

strutting through the streets, they

brush past un-inked people with

hearts on their sleeves and

never notice.

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Fridayam's Blog

A curlicue of smoke from my cigarette

rises towards dense low clouds

backlit against the cloudbase

rent here and there to show

vapour trails crosshatching

cirrocumulous hiding a

haze of asteroids and their occasional

visitors from the Oort Cloud which

bull through the interstellar gas,

itself invisible until some

random explosion of a star

lights it up as nebulae or it is

whipped by immense events into

horseheads, eagles, furnaces of

stars which will in turn

spew their gaseous hearts into the

galaxy’s great cartwheel around the

local cloud of galaxies within the

Universe’s expansive chaos, full of

clouds of bizarre matter that from afar might look like a

curlicue of smoke from a


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The Canonical Hours of a Working Man

Fridayam's Blog


In the ghost world the

ghost girl dances her

ghost whirls enlacing me in

veils so seductive I

sometimes pray the

dawn won’t come.


But dawn does come with the

prayer my feet will

find the floor and that the

floor will bear my weight so I

will not start the day

flat on my face.


If there is a God it is coffee-coloured,

coffee-flavoured, dark-roasted,

perking like heavy breathing, its

consort sizzling in the pan, the

toaster popping its prize with a

sigh like a prayer.


In the mad rush of the studio I

see something, take my chance,

get the set rebuilt and

knowing it will take time

slip out to light my

prayer to creativity.


Shall I make this poem a pun on Sex? But

lunch is when I have a moment to

lust over those who, at work,

I respect, would…

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Old Dogs Still Have Teeth

Do you see us as

dogs learning new tricks,

desperate to please

new masters?

Was your new world

designed to exclude the

grey-haired masters and

mistresses of

old-world thought, those who

solved a problem before you could

develop an algorithm?


Your biggest mistake?

Making it too easy for us

old, clever folk, so we

slip into the booth

beside you and smile and you

can’t escape.

Empty Dancefloors

Fridayam's Blog

There’s this invisible

iron rod between us

ten feet long so

when I move you

move too in a

perverted mirror of

how we danced once on

empty dancefloors.

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Be Not Afraid

Fridayam's Blog


I don’t mean to scare you,

just want to touch something

warm and alive, blood

pulsing like distant thunder,

cause a shiver like

cold calls of air, chilling but

fleeting so you don’t suspect

it was me, I,

who was touching you.

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Our Lady of Walsingham

A very old poem of mine, whcih just struck a chord tonight.

Fridayam's Blog

Not a pilgrim, I, but I walked out to Walsingham,
along the brown beslippered road towards the Wash.
I went in search of love and a sort of faith.
But the wind, like a whippet unleashed from the hand,
took the tatters of my hopes, dried leaves,
and I huddled in my clothes, caught beneath the weather-edge.
The road echoed faith in a woman, which I sought,
but the puddles, glassy with late ice, reflected bleak life.
The entrance to Hell lay through such a grey hole, and I,
embalmed in the open, felt already entombed.
What hope could one Woman offer me in spite of another?
What faith could be found beyond the charity of friends?

Arriving, I found sanctuary in the pub,
before an ancient grate ablaze.
I drank my beer and lit a cigarette and felt
my body relax besides itself,
as though each exhalation of smoke

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Fridayam's Blog

Love is a great tumulus,

at its heart buried the

moment of meeting, the

first fire, perhaps sulphurous,

perhaps a fizzle that needed

breath to make it catch, perhaps now

just charcoal and dust, but

still surrounded by

life’s offerings.

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Temperature's Rising

Sexy Times ~ Warm Feelings ~ Hot Flashes ~ All That


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"He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life." ...James Joyce

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living and loving as a married submissive in my D/s marriage


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