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Nominated for the 2014 Pushcart Prize. (more)


A refugee poem

The Marooned Mirage 

(aka Refugee Fantasy)

I first saw you
Branded by the unyielding light
Out of the haze and dust
Amidst the brittle remnants of pasts dispersed.

The camp is suffocating in its size
Intimidating by its nature
Swollen to the horizon
And yet still inadequate.
We are as worthless as the shattered concrete
We left behind
Like the rest of the crumbling unwanted souls
Yet I am despised more by my own
For being today’s arrival
Tomorrow it will be my turn to condemn.

A hierarchy dominates
A once valued loyalty is for the fool
A neighbour is merely your closest enemy
Yet we all dwell beneath the rounded ceiling
That is torment
Keeping us in
Caged without walls.

You were waiting behind me
Deeper in the gangling line
A mere spot on a centipede
With your battered water container
Precious, yet unable to serve its purpose
A symbol of your dire trials.

I could ill afford a diversion
My mouth crisp
With the frenzy for relief
The offspring of depletion.
The wailing of the children
No longer tears at my heart
They merely present iniquitous competition
The need of the self
Renders exotic concerns void
An impossible luxury.

Despite the lingering decay
And the whispers of oblivion
You intimated to me
Without a word
In the only language
That makes any sense
In this prevailing chaotic mirage
An illusion too inhuman to be palpable.

But as time turns against us
And what’s left of my family awaits my return
The cold descends again
To remind us that she is Master
Malevolent but almighty
And we are forced to respect her rules
More honest than those of men.

I cannot surrender my station
In this sluggish bedraggled worm
As there are affairs
More valuable than attraction
And though I turn to the front
And hope to find you again
Amid the bursting muster
I wonder if I will have the capacity

To do a thing about it.

(An alternate version of this poem first appeared in the collection, Caged Without Walls). 

A nice little video about love



Please share. I rely totally on word of mouth (word of the share.)

More Video Poetry.

Shots in the dark

Presumption of guilt
Assumptions of ill intentions
                 Analysis based on appearance
Judgments from mere seconds
Of interaction.

The ultimate question
Is why
When we know this truth   
to be false
In so many regards
Ages and cultures
The world over.

More Poetry  with plenty more on the way.
New Videos Coming.

Feedback/Suggestions always welcome


Do you want it?

You want it? You got it.

The For Your Pleasure 
YouTube Trailer.

Coffee Table Book of erotica based art and poetry by Paola Rassu and Anthony Langford.

Paperback now available.


A unique Christmas idea! (Just not for your Grandma).

Five 'Innovated' poems published

I have five poems published in Issue 10 of Innovate Magazine.
It's available for only 2 Pounds right here, with 50% going to a cancer charity. You couldn't ask for a better deal.
Innovate contains many poems as well as stories.

My Poetry samples
(intros only)


The music of rain
plays sweet at night
mocking irritant by day
when time
does not belong to us.


Ill-fitting handshake 

He ran around the outside
She struck from within
He wondered where her mind was
She believed all was justified
Only the unhinged
Believe they’re on target

I save my best work for submissions so these are of higher quality than usually posted on this site.
(in my opinion anyway).

Print copies also available

Print Version


with a 50% donation to charity 

Kindle US

Kindle UK

Kindle India

More Poetry

Cheers for supporting the arts!

No trail to follow


The pristine dull
Enunciate to the crowd
Correctly – Calculated
Whilst the seasoned sufferers
Howl spirited into the vacuum
Leaving no discernible trail
For the sustenance needy.

Coming soon,

New Videos and Poetry.

Have a good week.

For your pleasure - an artistic collaboration - book now available

The pleasure is all yours

I'm pleased to announce that a art project that I've been collaborating on is now available.
The incredibly talented Italian artist Paola Rassu has produced a book of original images regarding the subject of eroticism and the pursuit of pleasure. I wrote a small poem to accompany each image.
This is part of her introductory blurb:

'The idea came to me from the lyric of a song, For Your Pleasure by Roxy Music. It’s the reason why I named this project in the same way. The purpose was to represent the various “states” of pleasure, creating a journey where images and words (thanks to the collaboration with Anthony J. Langford) combine together to explore various themes. These themes relate to the pursuit of pleasure, instinct, the senses and boundaries between eroticism, pornography, lust and sin.'

The book is not cheap but it is highly original and creative with both art work and poetry. It also comes in a hard cover. You can find it right here at Blurb Books.
Perhaps it might make a good gift for someone, especially with Christmas not that far away.

Paola's official website.

More of my Poetry

Three Anniversaries and a little history

It's two years this July '15 since my debut Poetry Collection was released and just over three years since my novella Bottomless River was released.

The latter is out of print but I still have copies of Caged Without Walls available if you're interested. Yesterday I discovered that Better Read than Dead in Newtown were still stocking it. Well, they had a copy which was sold. Very nice to hear. Made my day.

As a matter of interest, this is the original cover which I put together. Back in 2012 I was considering self publishing it along with other stories until I found a publisher. A couple of those stories have since been published, most not. What do you think of the cover?

Speaking of anniversary's, its just over ten years since this Aussie classic album, Crossed Lines by 78 Saab. It received great reviews but not sales. Typical. They have been overlooked in a big way. Hopefully one day sense will prevail. They split up a few years back. No Illusions is the opening track. Do yourself a favour, track it down.

See you soon for new poetry and videos and who knows what else?

The Agony but not the Ecstasy

The Agony and Non Ecstasy of Publishing 

I recently came as close as I ever have in ten years to having one of my novels accepted by a legitimate publisher. I sent it off, (the entire novel rather than the usual first few chapters) and heard back within a couple of months. They said they liked it and would be interested in looking at it again if I were to make a few changes. It wasn’t anything to do with the story but about the narrative voice. Essentially they wanted it more immediate.  I told them it would take a while as I have a pretty busy life with two jobs, parenthood etc. They said they were okay with that.

I spent two months working hard on it. I updated the voice and made lots of small changes and deletions and even injected a small sub-plot. I thought it much better than it was and hoped they would agree. (I never mentioned it to anyone as I’m kind of superstitious about these things). 
I sent it back.

A month went by. Nothing. Another couple of weeks passed. Today I received a reply. It took me ten hours to bring myself to open the email. They liked the changes yet decided that it wasn’t for them after all.

Wow. Thanks.

Now I know how John Kennedy Toole felt. His journey was very similar. So close yet rejected after giving them what they wanted. (Though I was dealing with a smaller press, which I won’t name.) When you invest your heart and creative soul into a project and have a little hook dangle in front of you like that, it can give you hope.

It’s a very frustrating experience. I’m pretty pissed off I guess. I finished writing the damn thing six years ago and can’t get a look in. Well, I got a look in this time. Be careful what you wish for!

To be honest, I didn’t get my hopes up too much because there’s mostly rejection in this game so you can’t afford to get excited. I stopped doing that years ago. After all, tell me another occupation where you spend a decade working with no result. Yes the novels are written so that is something unto itself. And no I won’t self-publish because for me personally, I would feel like I failed.

Yes I should get back on the horse, but I’ve been doing that for so long the poor thing’s about to croak from old age.

Famous After Death - Franz Kafka

Famous After Death #7 

Poor Franz. He didn’t have a lot of luck did he?

Franz was born in Prague in 1883. He was Jewish and caught between two cultures flexing their identity, German and Czech, neither of which favoured the Jews. (He considered himself more German). He did come from a middle class family so he had a good education. He was soon a lawyer, yet he struggled with it, feeling that writing was his calling and that too much time was spent on the ‘day job.’ 
Be careful what you wish for.

The work

He had a difficult relationship with his father, yet it influenced his writing. Art out of chaos. He was also conflicted over being Jewish. He was in a relationship and was engaged. Yet he preferred to spend a great deal of time alone. He favoured communicating with loved ones by letter (hundreds of these survive).

As with many great artists and writers, few of his writings were published in his lifetime, only a small handful of stories. Some call him the greatest writer of the century but he was never to know success.

Much has been said of his work. It's simple enough to research so I’ll keep it brief. He had written novels, or began them yet never finished one. They were The Trial, The Castle and The Stoker (Amerika). He had also collated story collections, one of which Kafka was preparing to publish. Tragically he died before he could do so, at the young age of forty in 1924.


Franz suffered from tuberculosis, which would ultimately kill him. He spent much of his life in sanatoriums. He lived with his sister for a time which he thoroughly enjoyed. He had to be put on a pension. He was shy about his body and had low self-confidence, yet was interested in women and sex and visited brothels as well as being engaged several times. Ironically the women spoke of his quiet confidence, despite his shyness. His intelligence is evident. This is a man conflicted, a state which often produces great work. His writing is full of paranoia and confusion, almost surrealistic in nature, yet highly original and philosophical.

Much has been written about him and there is a lot to explore. Films have been made of his work, notable The Trial by Orson Welles and Kafka by Steven Soderburgh.  

Franz died from starvation, brought on by his illness swelling his throat. We would not know of Franz at all if it wasn't for his friend Max Brod. Brod did not follow Franz’s instructions to destroy the work after his death. Over a twelve year period Brod published a great deal of it, yet much remained incomplete and was difficult to arrange, perhaps adding to the mystique of Franz Kafka.

 Previous Famous After Death

The Art and Arrogance of Youth

Do you remember this song? 

It came to mind some place, probably in the crapper and I realised that it had been thirty years since it came out.

That realisation got me thinking about youth and promises and time slipping away, coupled with the life of a band, many bands actually, and it kind of got me to this...

The future is what was

They sang
Where will we be in thirty years?
A minor hit
Some band members laughed
‘Who gives a fuck anyway?’
Tomorrow never comes.
They put out the album
Toured and partied
And rested
Some fighting began
While writing new songs
With mild success
And suddenly there was more to lose
So they dug their heels in
And eventually delivered
Their sophomore work
Not without its stresses
And cost
Financially and otherwise.

A year went by
And their sound was
Not as fashionable
Nor their unity
So they split
Eager to begin anew
Which they did
With new members
And work was produced
More mature this time
More satisfying
Yet could not raise an iota
Of public interest

The following occasion was similar
Their fourth album disappeared
Without ever being visible
Their career languished
As family requirements grew

Unawares a decade and a half
Music had become
Garage indulgences
Until the kids were old enough
To comprehend
Coupled with the urge
To re-impress
As life is never ‘over with’
Even if their career was
So the talk of reunification began
Exploding a can of worms
Which took legal
Two years to quantify.

By the time they hit the road again
They could answer
Their own initial question        
Back where they started from
Yet somehow
Much worse off
The suburban circuit
Paling in comparison.

After five months
There was no need to ponder their future
Like they once had
They could already see the end

The rest of the tour
Was without speculation.

On a side note, I once worked with Brian Mannix,  lead singer of Uncanny X-Men. It was on a film clip shoot for another band he fronted called The Atomic Dining Club. it was in Melbourne during a freezing winter's night under the West Gate Bridge. The encounter probably found its way into the poem too. The follow up band wasn't bad, but pretty much disappeared without ever really surfacingBrian also helped produce the Countdown Musical that was out roughly a decade ago. The Uncanny X-Men are still around but haven't released any new albums since the eighties.

At any rate, this poem could be about any band, or any youthful endeavour. Happy to hear your thoughts that it may have brought up.

NB: None of the photographs are of the Uncanny X-Men.

More Poetry

It's not over 'til the plus size lady sings


It may be burdensome to teach
An old dog new tricks
Perhaps not insurmountable
Yet you can teach it to love again
And reignite fires
Thought long burnt out.

More Poetry.

To reflect... and to be

Mind's eye composition

The late afternoon
Sun light, stubbornly virulent
Colluded with the water’s surface 
To thrust heat
Into my chest and face
With a steady slash and burn policy
In motion.

I created a mini tent      
From my towel
Over my head
And was finger clicked
To childhood
And teenage hood days
Complete with visions
And sensations
And emotions
With smell barely relevant.

My three year old
Broke the sun ray’s path
Collapsing on my legs
Ending the fa├žade
And wished to share my tent
And we were promptly laughing

Memories were closed down
Before I could truly reflect
Though I was in the midst of creating
New ones
And I wasn’t alone
Nor felt isolated
In fact,
The company was sublime.

More Poetry

No mystery as to the origins of this poem, however as my daughter is now four and a half and it's winter, I can only assume it was written in early 2014. Nothing remarkable about it. I simply thought it was time for a change from the usual doom and gloom.

Have a great week.

What's a word you really don't like...

Or hate...
Or find exceedingly annoying...
Or amusing....

eg. Bumfuzzle
or Hemidemisemiquaver

                    Do your worst....               

Trapped in a world, not of her own choosing

The Moat

She has suffered. She can never go back. Yet how will she go forward?

Victims of Crime

Artist: Simon Burch

Social Media Soldier


(A piece of Meant)

Sharing a meme
Does not mean
You live by its philosophy

Protesting online
Does not equate to
Any real action

Liking a status
Or comment
Is less than
Fuck all

Don’t swindle yourself

More Poetry

Next Post, 
An important new Video Poem well worth sharing, especially given the recent talk about violence against women.