For Iain Duncan Smith, Ode to the Death of Another Benefit Scrounger

I read the news, today

Glasgow writer killed

By the hand

That did not feed him

A suicide statistic

Soon to be forgotten

Like the books

He laboured hard to write

Which no one cares to read


And sitting outside Wetherspoons

Alongside my companionable

Cigarettes and alcohol

I contemplate

The minister of The State

Who one day

Will withdraw

My disability living allowance

Because I can crawl

More than 2 metres

And write

Bloody awful poetry


I am the common word

More Smith

Than Plath

Pretentious enough

To be proud

To be working class


And, suddenly, life seems…

…like perpetual misery

And I become the future statistic

I do not want to be



Occupying his inflaming

Twin towers of ivory

Plated over-privilege

And steely mouthed

Prosthetic political power

The star player

In Cameron’s corrupted cabinet

Of party members

Porn players, all

And secretarial back (side)


A stabber

Of the foulest form

Opens his whoring mouth

And laughs


Like Lucifer on crack

His Machiavellian throat

Issues sound that even Tony

Bastard bliar, bliar

After dinner speaker tones for hire

Cannot rival


Like a converse Jon Snow

Turned to Tory slush

He is the illegitimate

Legitimate product

Of an ideological game

Of thrones

And human slaughter


United Kingdom

Lock up your sick and disabled

Sons and daughters

Iain Duncan Smith

Is on the hunt

Pheasant is so last season’s


New labour’s elected

Sunday lunch


Human flesh

Is more appetising

These post-imperialistic

McSalad and fries days


With I.D.S. on my mind

I board the bus home

Grateful to still have money

In my pocket

And no student payback loan


But when I arrive home

I open the door

And staring back at me

From a crimson mat

Is a letter


Department of Work and Pensions


I take out a blade

And with a frenzied slash

The sullied brown envelop

Bleeds ink

Red as the gash

Adorning my wrist


I tear myself to pieces

Then I light a cigarette



Of my orange peel fingers tips


Ode to the death of another

Benefit scrounger

Homage to the demise

Of a seated disco dancer

And an inverted snob


My Heart is Warm

By Louise M.Hart




Spread your wounding comfort blanket

Upon the form that carries my heart

Perpetually in tatters


Because only love matters

And it gathers none


I am a malfunction

A cogitative


Soul shattered

Aborted foetus

That should never have been


My heart is warm

But my body like ice

Repels touch

And drip drips

Fleshy troubles

Beneath cold showered obscenity



Pretty Boys make Graves

I want to laff

When you forget to say


Not arfter

You poor middle class barstard

Of course, you are better than me-

You are pretty, young and male

You speak to me kindly

But your eyes never meet mine

Are you afraid that I might perceive

Your crystal blue lies

Or, perhaps, you fear infection

From the wounds I wear


I may be the self proclaimed sooth slayer

Of all unnatural disasters

But your inauthenticity makes me smile

Hope someone sweeps you up

From the ground

Like surplus dust, when you fall

From facade’s hand


Who knows not


The Nurse

I saw you wrap your cardigan

Around your hips

And wanted to be that cardigan

Binding your hips

My hands reaching for the comforting


Of your effervescent flesh


Playing love tunes

With strands of your hair

As it swept against

The rise and fall

Of your comely breasts

My skin warmed by the scent

Of your measured breaths

And your image strained


My cavernous thoughts

Like my hand on your flesh


I wanted to be

The last word on your tongue

Before you slept


You opened

Not your cardigan


But your mouth

And prescribed me a thousand milligrams

Of anti-madness

And an appointment with Dr Hart

Of darkest Ayrshire and Arran

In the first Gaelic Autumn

Of my Anglo –Saxon soul

And spiritual sickness


Live Life as Art

“LIVE in celebration of the pain that makes you

And break the ties that bind you to your melancholic nature”

My daemon bride cried aloud

Devoid of a soul I comprised mere flesh and bones

Exhumed from a tomb of my own making

My heart a perpetual beat away from death’s sweet eternity

My mind rendered blank with the noise of my interior distress

And echoes of duality

“Enter me! Enter me! I offer you redemption from the cursory LIFE”

The daemon’s eyes glowed like the embers of her inky black insides

I looked into her eyes and entered AS a nervous youth

Nakedly vulnerable in translucent skin

And searching for my unique and authentic

Poetic voice

On that night I made love with a daemon and found my mortal soul

Projecting my consciousness in the imprints I created

On the heart of human hatred

And the tarnished soil of materiality

“Enlightenment is the capacity to transcend reality,” she claimed

“And live life as (thou) art”

(Meant to be)

Poetry is not the province of academia; it is the voice of the soul. Listen to the bitter-sweet sounds it enunciates.

Speaking about mental health and recovery, Jan 14 1-3 p.m. 2015

I am giving a FREE TALK about mental health and recovery on Jan 14th 1-3 p.m.

If you are interested in non-medical approaches to mental health/illness or my journey from mental health service user to published writer you are welcome to attend.

The talk is taking place at:

The Thrive Centre

5th Floor, Coventry Point

Market Way


To book a place (places can be pre-booked only)  please email  or

Tele Marion: 0793 4675237

For more details visit

A poem in honour of world mental health day


Climb the hill
For honesty quickly
When spirits are
Open doors close
No more I
You never really
Corporeality is blind
Displaced by thought
And the deluded
Of physical laws
Like an ass
Seeking a brain
Marked with a
Cross embedded in
Its back, a
Holy autograph, yielding
Comforting nuzzles of