#england
Head full of steam,
the end begins on Miller Street.
A lifeless disc called Sun
leads the funeral procession
into the heavens.
Factory city breathes
through an iron lung,
exhaling the smoke of "progress."
Dark, dank vapors
pollute the scepter,
enter the throne room,
and take the queen by force.
Women and children develop
industrial-grade hands and feet,
they sleep on beds of coal,
a fitting resting place:
when they die, they are buried
right beneath.
The spiraling dance of looms,
the incessant screams of machinery,
here chimney stacks
outnumber the men.
An outcrop of crooked crosses
on the hills above,
the bier stands ready
for the next in line,
on Sundays each one prays
to God it's not them.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:05 PM UTC
O DEATH, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest,
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Let thy sound my death tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
My pains who can express?
Alas, they are so strong;
My dolour will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong.
Alone in prison strong
I wait my destiny.
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery!
Farewell, my pleasures past,
Welcome, my present pain!
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now, thou passing bell;
Rung is my doleful knell;
For the sound my death doth tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 10:52 PM UTC
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Mar 30, 2026 at 5:38 AM UTC
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Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 12:11 AM UTC
Old Woman of Galway
There was an Old Woman of Galway,
Whose portrait was hung in her hallway;
The likeness was true
From the horn to the blue
Epidermis, the bluest in Galway.
Old Woman of Bristol
There was an Old Woman in Bristol,
Who carried a polished Colt pistol;
She'd shoot out the eye
Of a far-away fly,
This sharp-shooting Woman of Bristol.
Old Woman of York
There was an Old Woman of York,
Who was visited once by a stork
That brought her a baby,
A graylien grayby,
That devoured this Woman of York.
Old Woman of Kent
There was an Old Woman in Kent,
Who gave up complaining for Lent;
Her grumbling, however,
Was louder than ever,
And everyone heard it in Kent.
Old Woman of Soho
There was an old Woman of Soho,
Whose personal motto was "Yolo";
She happened to die
And came back as a fly
That flew for a day around Soho.
Old Woman of Derry
There was an Old Woman of Derry
As sweet as a Washington cherry;
Whoever would meet 'er
Would say she was sweeter
Than any black, rasp, or blue berry.
Old Woman of Dover
There was an Old Woman of Dover,
Who discovered a seven-leaf clover
By the light of the moon
In the blue afternoon
In the hands of a changeling in Dover.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 1:34 PM UTC
She wonders if the world knows.
She remembers she forgot to curtsey,
to demurely eat darkness.
Her thoughts were more inclined toward duplicity, the artifice in his eyes.
She had espied two figures walking close together in the secretive moor, the absent lord in question hiding behind another's parasol.
The thin smile upon his lips resembled
an Icarus bird's injured wing when caught.
She better understood why the angel in Lothian pretended to be dead when the love blood had drained.
Her Biblically turning away from him would eventually cast pallettes of gray shadow on his summer of another lover.
And if the world should know, it would not soon pass.
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 4:35 AM UTC
The grey Themes flows like molasses
Key figures bustle about the impending law
Like ants on a crumb of coffee cake
What seemed so important on that dark day
Flutters past like wind through a forgotten rake
What is more treasured than this entanglement?
The men with insipid wigs evidently
The public does not compare to Parliament
Bicker until your tongues swell into pink sausages
Time is a hair, caught on a nail in a plank, laying in the field
Insomuch as your ignorance to the turnshoes clacking underneath you
The porcelain haired fellows unfortunate to yield
Barrels of whiskey they are not
It’s a keg of a different sort
Guy thinks the fight is worth being fought
To worship is to be free after all
In the minds of zealots that’s justification enough
It was free reign in Eden before the fall
There’s no formality strike the brimstone
Cognition upon the floor erupting beneath them
Cricket in the corner little black legs hone
Not insects, yet footsteps close
Law prevails no fireworks tonight
Religious freedom prevails? Who knows?
It was foiled, ruined by one member
Gunpowder plot posse found the gallows
Perhaps no one will remember the fifth of November
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 11:15 AM UTC
i don’t think i’ve ever been
more in love with a city
than i was with you.
it’s inexplicable.
the more i see
this spirit of community,
of togetherness
where i live now,
the more i miss my real home.
it might be another country,
but you took me in,
held me like your own.
one hundred
and sixty thousand people,
yet it was always one:
the date whose flatmate
played in my favourite band,
the pub where a singer walked in
and we had to act cool,
even with fifty strangers, once,
crammed into a living room.
you were secret codes
and piano bars,
ropes above the thames,
carnivals and day festivals.
meeting someone,
and keeping them forever.
it was never just work.
it was passageways, and talent
rising like ivy through stone,
having the world
at my fingertips
as though sitting on a throne
without having a clue.
but i still did
what i thought i should,
and found myself alive
in the whole of you.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 6:43 PM UTC
(on the ten-year anniversary of leaving home)
without looking back,
she boarded a flight,
concealing that piercing anxiety.
to soothe the ache,
packed her language as a guide,
weeping quietly for her country.
recognition came in tears,
stretched paper-thin—
that her home couldn’t yet grasp
that love begins within.
the early years, under flickering lights,
were spent seeking solace.
with inner voices softly humming—
inhaling cheap wine,
books as her compass—
enough to outweigh not belonging.
some nights,
she danced until her heels
worn the skin away,
bleeding her truth into tile,
whilst friends, thick as thieves,
melted into laughter, and gin.
she loved badly,
lit candles to soften the silence
that screamed louder at 3 a.m.,
scribbled poetry
on the walls of her soul—
long forgotten, left forsaken.
her twenties were a strange gift,
she never thought to ask for,
memories scattered down the hallway,
like spilled drinks, laced with honesty.
sometimes the weight is still sore,
and yet she’s walking,
barefoot,
unfolding.
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
Pints int sun
Socks, sliders and chit-chat
Walking home in zig zags
Good people
I miss all that
Summer days
Sunny haze
Topping up the tan
In the English rays
Factor 50
Laid on thick
When the temp strikes 20
The sunstroke hits
Ice-cold bevs
On a picnic bench
Tunes blasting
Pints thrown
Am chuffing drenched
The ciggies and spliffs
Chasing the vibe
Oh, what it is
To be alive
The beer gardens
Packed to the brim
“Sorry mate
You can’t come in”
Party in the park
Barbecues
And burnt sausage
Go on then
Another gin
The English summer
What a sight
Top’s off, top’s on
Golden days
And Endless nights
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 9:33 AM UTC
I think I'll go across the sea,
And study music in Italy.
Leave with only the clothes on my back,
My jacket pocket full of little literatures.
Or should I study English arts,
In England?
I doubt I'd read much,
There's not a lot to see in a London fog.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 11:04 AM UTC
In I came to Dublin town,
Riding one fine morning,
I spied some Johnny Bullies
And I started off a'cussing!
Leave my home,
Go on get out.
Leave the whiskey,
Leave the grub.
Tell the king
To go **** off
And stay in his doe-hog hovel.
O'er glens of An Cabhán
There flew a rag of red,
I tore it off from where it hung
And ripped it all to shreds!
Leave my house,
You're unwelcome.
Leave the rope & iron.
Tell the king
To go **** off,
Lest he would rather violence.
In Londonderry & Belfast,
Pleasant little branches,
We'll grow ourselves gigantic oaks
Uproot their picket fences!
Leave my home,
Go on get out.
Leave the whiskey,
Leave the grub.
Tell the king
To go **** off
And stay in his doe-hog hovel.
Say the hounds are all but slept,
Yet I still hear the barking.
I think it restful pouting
Readying for a real good bouting!
Leave my house,
You're unwelcome.
Leave the rope & iron.
Tell the king
To go **** off,
Lest he would rather violence.
Hard to find good honest work,
When of royal or noble;
Hard to find good honest work
If they claim you're not loyal!
Leave my home,
Go on get out.
Leave my house,
You're unwelcome.
Tell the king
To go **** off,
And kindly don't respond.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 7:07 PM UTC
A winters stare,
Beautifully resonates in the air,
A clear sky, a frozen pitch,
I wonder if the beauty,
will last more than a few minutes,
The snapping of a twig,
which was once part of the untouched view,
A graceful swan as muted as I am in awe,
Gliding by,
Looking over by the hill,
The mist breathing through the grass,
as I pause once more,
The grandest of oaks, silhouetted by the rising sun,
Grips me to the core,
Only in England…
Say no more.
© Darren Wall
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 6:41 PM UTC
I wake up to the sound of cars
driving through puddles,
Splashing me awake;
Whilst moments ago,
I was dreaming
Of somewhere far away.
The rain should be soothing,
As plump drops beat down
Persistent in their rhythm,
Hammering on the glass
Whilst I hide under covers
And I do not wish to rise.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Jan 7, 2025
Jan 7, 2025 at 12:53 AM UTC
Enraged clouds of deepening grey
Advance with wind-whipped waters,
As tranquil skies begin to decay.
The fierce wind howls like a ravenous beast
Splintering trees like twigs with its might,
As nature's fury prepares to feast.
Devastation rolls in like a violent dance,
As lightning splits across the darkened sky.
Nothing in its path stands a chance.
Heavy rain slashes through the air,
The surge greedily devours,
Then vomits debris everywhere.
In its wake, the lull exposes the carnage,
And the savage toll we pay in defeat
When we cannot best the weather’s rage.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 11:40 PM UTC
The day I shall bore this egg
along my will, beside my Witt,
With dreams to **** or more .
A sway I can't ignore
Born and be reborn like Christ
Around my faith, all that await.
Life is a deadly gift
I am a living rift
With my surplus goals and desire.
Nor those vain glories to acquire,
Zeal above my will, debase me still
Please write down my will.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 4:21 AM UTC
I had been staring at corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous sea horn. Many of my skins partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the sea horns. We would head into the night, deep into oblique dens of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our mental cognition.
With cascading light festering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable alleyways of dread, between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and cables transpiring towards opaque operating systems which would import and export our collected consciousness for the trade of gelatinous brain matter, had overcame us.
Sliding into abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge; subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation, allowing silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation.
Oct 25, 2024
Oct 25, 2024 at 6:18 AM UTC
Saint George is an englishman
Who never came to England
Born in ancient Turkey
Fighting for the Romans
Saint George is an englishman
Who never met a dragon
Willing to be martyred
Killed for saintly passions
Saint George is an englishman
Adopted as our own
Our nation full of mongrels
Imports a classic hero
Apr 23, 2024
Apr 23, 2024 at 6:17 AM UTC
It was two decades ago today when an actor took his final breath.
When he starred in Doctor Who, he starred in "The Robots of Death".
His name was Russell Hunter and he was born in February of 1925.
Next year would've been his 100th birthday if he had survived.
Hunter starred in nineteen episodes of "The Gaffer" and one episode of "Born and Bred".
People in England were sad twenty years ago today because they learned he was dead.
In 1976, he starred in one episode of "Play From A".
He also starred in "Daddy's Girl" and "Up Pompeii".
Hunter starred in "The Cockleshell Heroes" and one episode of "The Bill".
When it comes to forgetting him, the good people of England never will.
Feb 26, 2024
Feb 26, 2024 at 3:52 PM UTC
Spoilt from birth,
Pampered and needy,
Being the spare an inherited curse,
Leading to actions often quite seedy.
Great aunt Margaret blazing the trail
Questionable choices aplenty,
Drugs and alcohol steering her sail
A life of regrets, vacuous and empty.
Followed by Andrew possessing of valor
But aimless and vain in every respect,
His choices a mess, cause of great clamor,
So by way of example what to expect?
As to his mother, that heart-shearing tale,
The lovely Diana Princess of Tears,
A tragic figure determined yet frail,
The ultimate victim to her own inner fears.
But a glass half empty is a mindset of sorts,
Blindly ungrateful to privileges bestowed,
Clouding his mind with nothing but torts,
Leading the spiral down a winding dark road.
We the onlookers can only but hope
That time and experience will yet prove the key,
Shielding his fall from that slippery slope,
Grasping the change which for now he can't see.
Jun 8, 2023
Jun 8, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
Morning was sudden-made as an onwardness of hills,
Meant for donning crusade in chainmail glistenings,
The sun visored in misty slats of cold steel,
To glimmer fusty through the godded grove,
A holy sepulchre, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Where the forest-fall of sunlight shed its rosework,
And a red-breasted bird, its song-flight of dappled gleam,
And in the meadow, where colorful whorled the tale of Saladin,
Wayside flowers shook beneath the destriers' cloth caparisons,
A sunny fullness of vales for the crusaders' forest-heartened lungs,
And when this furthering of sights was sunken from,
Still an onwardness of hills to Jaffa like steppingstones.
Apr 16, 2023
Apr 16, 2023 at 10:11 PM UTC