A golden beam

Beams find their way through the boughs and the leaves,

Bringing gold light to this eternal place,

Sweet waters slake sheep and cloth halls are weaved,

High priests of high press put smiles on our face.

Yellow, white and blue steps we climb as they creak,

Abiding limestone worn by gleeful feet,

Mean valleys reach towards towering peaks,

Colours in’t sky match carnival in’t street.

Yet darkness enthrals and shame falls upon,

Those that come to take our culture away,

Shards of brick clatter in the dark arches,

As they harry the North, bringing decay.

Our city rises with brushstrokes not cares

Taking to wing from the banks of the Aire.

(2021) Demi Eve

I drown in a sea of pain and hate

Submerged by forces infernal within

Dragged to depths by my own conceited weight

Yon Plutonian creatures call me kin

A siren calls to me in this dread night

At her beck, I surface, suffering ends

By her call, the shore nears and is in sight  

Like deadwood I wash up and my heart rends

My halcyon vision stands before me

She turns wet sand to warm stone and alights

As she graciously descends, demi-eve

Golden rays bounce off the sea at first light

The battle for my soul was fought on shale

She saved me and I don’t deserve her flails

El amario de esqueletos (The skeleton closet, 2019)

She first spoke to me in a mountainside restaurant and I had her later that night. She looked and sounded in her mid-thirties but then again it was dark and the music was loud.

She had clearly noticed me in the restaurant; we made eye contact and exchanged a brief flicker of mutual attraction alongside our small talk. “I’ll look out for you in the arena” I said as I left. Older women; they like me and I like them.

I walk out into the cool mountain air, having taken shelter in the restaurant to escape a heavy downpour earlier that night. The temperature is unseasonably cool for Spain in May, though once you factor in the altitude, perhaps I should have anticipated it.

I wrap myself up in a large and rather fetching cream jumper and come to terms with the fact that my legs are likely to be cold for the rest of the night, having foolishly worn dark canvas shorts with some off-white shoes.

  • Colours; Bone, Black
  • Location; 40 miles outside Valencia, 418 metres above sea level
  • Outlook; generally excited, some anxiety

Never mind, learn from this and remember next time.

I make my way towards fuente de los banos; or the source of the hot springs. My Spanish is improving every day and i’m starting to enjoy showing off, feeling an endorphin rush after each successful interaction; we truly are social animals, our brains rewarding us for that single most important facet of human existence – language.

I walk alongside the freshwater as it runs away from it’s mountain source and mull this over some more. Without language what are we but animals? Language allows us to create the most dangerous of human inventions, that which binds tribes together and tears continents apart; ideas.

My thoughts come back down to earth and my attention returns to the path ahead of me. A steady stream of festival goers flowing alongside the spring water. The vast majority are, like me;

  • Youthful
  • Attractive
  • Intoxicated

I smile warmly at the various groups I pass and get plenty back, an unspoken acknowledgement of our mutual firm grip on life. I make my way upstream for over 1.5 km before arriving at our fiesta en la montanas, Fuego sin Esfuerzo.

There, straddling an old car park, sits the festival site high up a mountain escarpment. I pass through security untroubled, walking up and out into a mass of revellers spilling out into the night. A ruthless beat pounds out of the sound system, along with a chime and a haunting vocal which builds to crescendo:

I knew that I,

I knew that I,

I knew that I would never grow old,



My senses blur as my head looks around, neon lights and dusky pastel colours from tents swim into one another, making me reassess my intoxication. I’ve clearly had too much. I’ll let my future self worry about that one.

Future self: you should have worried more about that.


I wake up with a palpable sense of hangxiety. Contributing factors;

  • Dry mouth
  • A banging headache
  • Black out

Where’s the girl from the festival? Sunlight and music filters through the gaps in the wooden shutters, casting corrugated beams that light up crumpled sheets and scattered clothes.

Somebody else was here.

I look through the semi-darkness at the wardrobe in the corner of the room. For a second, it almost looked like it moved.

My head is swimming.

Getting up off the tiny camp bed, I throw open the shutters and take a step out onto the balcony and into the cool mountain air.

The following wakes me up rapidly;

  • a cool breeze, pregnant with rain
  • the sound of music coming from the village square
  • people going about their day immediately below my semi naked carcass

After several deep breaths on the balcony, overlooking a post-card perfect village tableau with its terracotta apartments and winding cobbled streets, I summon up what little shreds of courage I possess and I walk back into the darkness of my lair.

With great difficulty I gather up clothes, beer cans, gin glasses, biscuit wrappers, food packets et al. In one fell swoop it gets dumped in the bin and the rickety old apartment looks as good as it ever did, which is to say not very. With only a cursory glance at the wardrobe, I go back into my room and open the balcony shutters wide to air the place out.

Next it’s time for a shower. The bathroom looks serviceable enough; a distinctly continental affair with a shower tray, a flimsy curtain and not much else. Hot water on the other hand, looks like it could be problematic. A giant cannister of calor gas squats on the floor staring at me. Momentarily weighing up the risk vs reward of a hot shower versus blowing up the entire apartment in my current state, I opt to avoid the latter.

Future self: if the cool mountain air doesn’t wake you up, the spring water certainly will.


There is something exhilarating and not entirely unpleasant about cold showers. The freezing water must engager a very primal part of the brain, sending you into a state of mini-shock, giving you the same adrenalin fuelled attentiveness brought on by instinct, without having to worry about drowning or hypothermia.

It’s all well and good having these thoughts now, I wasn’t so full of thoughts earlier.

Once dried I get dressed, my summer wardrobe, mostly strewn across the room, not really providing adequate warmth for the naively unexpected conditions. With one last look around the room I set off into town.

Within minutes, it really is a small place, only 2, max 300 people, i’m in the town square. Ceramic, or terracotta I can’t tell which, buildings daubed in white paint stare at me as I walk past a central fountain. To my right, erected in honour of the festival, stands an impromptu stage, complete with DJ booth and ornamental ivy which looks real.

It’s early for it, probably too early, but I must admit a stage in the middle of a rural town square is quite atmospheric, even at this time. I spot my friends as a rasping high-hat and vocal kick in:

I want everybody to get up on your feet now, now now

I want everybody to hear the beat now 

They are sat outside a restaurant, on the other side of the square to where I met the girl from last night. I get within ear shot and am struck by a wave of jeers and greetings. I’m relieved to see that most of them look at least as hurt as I do, a couple of them more so.

Observations at this point:

  • Never have I ever sat eating breakfast in a restaurant in the middle of a rave, until now
  • This festival has brought hundreds if not thousands of people into a small rural community, the boost to the local economy must be spectacular and worth the invasion
  • Tapas is actually quite plain, standard fare, not that i’m faulting it

A waiter brings me a beer.

A Soldier (Short story, 2014)

A soldier awakens.

Surrounded and suffocated, entombed by the collapsing rubble of a thousand year Reich. He chokes and gasps, his throat burning from the minute particles of soot and brick assaulting his airway in such an enclosed space. Claustrophobia works poisonous tendrils as he realises his situation, drowning beneath unknown fathoms of twisted iron and shattered concrete, most likely running out of oxygen.

Years of training kick in, panic being the deadliest enemy on any battlefield, as he slowly calms his fluttering heartbeat. Next he pushes outwards with his arms and legs, then his back and neck, no movement. His concrete mausoleum remains, and panic again threatens to overcome him. Each dry, painful breath comes harder now, His eyes see only the black of the grave whilst his ears are overwhelmed by the erratic pounding in his chest and the ragged gasp of his lungs.

Escape has to come soon, he knows all too well that there’s only so much trauma and suffocation a human body can take. Thinking quickly he reaches for the luger at his belt, rusty metal and what feels like shards of concrete tear at his arms as he pulls the pistol free, as if his sarcophagus refuses to let him leave. He angles the pistol towards where the sky should be.

He hesitates. Deliberating for a matter of seconds which lasts an eternity, he weighs up the risk of a collapse with potential escape. Escape is the main priority, better a quick death crushed beneath untold tons of rubble than a slow asphyxiation.

He fires. Two shots. Two shafts of light immediately spill forth, revealing the dusty grey of his chest and lighting up the entirety of his erstwhile cairn. Sweet daylight and delicious fresh air reveal that escape is only a matter of yards away. Desperate with the promise of freedom he rages, clawing and tearing at the rubble above him.

Like a cruel mockery of a caesarean, he bursts forth from the belly of earth, coughing and bloody, his own midwife. His world spins, refusing to stay still as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. His brain deprived of oxygen and his body exhausted from the exertions of escape, he passes out…


…He walks.

Swiftly and with purpose, toward a known destination, He has been here before.

   A distant booming can be heard, felt as much as heard, followed by a faint clatter of gunfire. Neither noise phases him, as his knee high boots grind and crush the twisted asphalt of a ruined road. Smoke winds its way between devastated buildings, its thick black plumes propelled by a faint wind, the death rattle of his dying city.

   After an unknown time the heavily cratered street fades away, and he walks in the smoky ether that follows him, clinging to his shoulders and obscuring his path, yet still he walks, the crack of his boot heels loud in his ears despite no road being visible. This does not matter to him, He has been here before.

   Faint shapes can now be seen at the periphery of his vision. He keeps his eyes fixed ahead into the murk as he knows looking to either side will cause him to falter. He picks up his stride as a wind that can’t be felt starts to clear the smoke from the path in front of him. On both sides, the faint shapes coalesce into tangible figures of people, all calling to him in imperceptible voices from beyond his sight. Still he moves forward, as he knows stopping to engage one of his shades will not end well, he has been here before.

   Out of the gloom a door can be seen, slowly opening as he makes his way swiftly through the remaining smoke. A small girl stands in the portal, no more than four years old, her black hair hanging loosely around her olive face. Finally, he reaches the girl, and in one smooth motion picks her up and holds her to him. They stay like this, in the threshold of a house he hasn’t seen for months, until shrill laughter is heard from upstairs. The small girl lifts her head and looks at him with those striking emerald orbs, so different from the pale blue of his own eyes, made resplendent by fresh tears forming as the laughter continues. The girl in his arms, they make their way into the house, up a curving, ornate staircase to find the source of the laughter that so haunts them both. They step off the staircase and look into the only room open to them. Inside, a dark figure of a man reclines on an old sofa, his tanned face looking away from the door towards the source of the laughter that captivates and torments; A woman, golden haired and blue eyed, laughs again as she pours wine from an all too familiar carafe. The little girl renews her silent tears, as the golden woman moves languidly towards the dark man on the sofa. On cue, as he knew it would, the door swings shut on the pair, and all sounds of laughter are gone. He has seen this before.

   Suddenly air raid sirens sound, panic grips the little girl in his arms and she buries her fear and her silent tears in his chest. He rushes back to the staircase he knows so well, his free hand gripping the bannister as hard as the tide of fear in turn grips him. Taking the stairs as fast as possible with this precious child, he flees down a hallway towards safety. He runs, sirens blearing as loud in his ears as the beating heart in his chest, past a painful kaleidoscope of memories hanging in frames from the walls.

   Through this place he rushes, like he did in another life, until he reaches a set of ornate French windows leading to a garden. With his free hand he throws the doors apart, as he did countless times on hot summers days to let breeze inside, however now the air is filled with the clamouring of sirens and the distant but recognisable hum of Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. As one, a soldier and the girl clutched in his arms look towards the sky. Overhead, sporadically illuminated by hastily assembled spotlight teams, pass legions upon legions of armoured Valkyries, the source of the sirens ire. Their multitudes staggers him, and he, fully absorbed by the synchronised apocalypse passing overhead, only regains his wits when the little girl’s composure breaks in his arms, and she starts to weep aloud.   

   Acting now on instinct, he surges forward from the small patio, striding past neat rows of flowers and a small line of fruit trees. Swiftly, he reaches the bottom of the garden where lies an earthen covered air raid shelter, and fumbling with the handle and the little girl, opens the low entrance hatch. Urgently he ushers the little girl inside before slamming the heavy hatch shut, at last in safety.

   They take refuge in their subterranean sanctuary, buried under a paltry few feet of earth. He writes and she draws to pass the time in this place, safe from the cruelties of the house and the world outside; where Avro Vakyries decide who lives and who dies.

   With a heavy heart he looks up; across the shelter, dimly lit by a solitary light bulb flickering in time to the concussive impacts miles and miles away, sits the little girl arranging her drawings on the camp bed in front of her. One depicting the little girl herself, drawn with the simplistic yet incisive observations of a child, holding hands with a father figure, evidently a role he is expected to play. The second drawing shows her golden mother and the dark man from the house. ”Gretta this is wonderful, you are the next Picasso!” She smiles and goes back to her Guernican depiction of family life. They fall asleep to the drone of bombers.

   They awake to a heart-breaking sunrise and a silent sky devoid of death. The little girl happily runs ahead, through the garden into the house. He smiles at her contentment, as she no doubt hurries to her bedroom to proudly display her art on her wall, though it only gives bitterness to his remaining time at the house. He enters the house and climbs the stairs, where he finds the golden woman alone in the room he has left her in many times.

 “You can’t leave her like this” he says softly.

She turns, shocked at his presence, “It’s no longer your concern what I do with my daughter.”

 “It is a concern of mine whilst my blood runs through her veins.” He insists, she remains silent and looks away.

 “You shouldn’t be here…there’s someone else.”

 His temper flares, “There’s only me, her and a mother who cares nothing for her safety. There’s a war going on outside, yet you lounge about inside your little fortress entertaining stra…”

Her beautiful face contorts with anger and she cuts him off with a finger to his chest, “These barbarians will not take the city, they are still miles and miles away! You are losing your resolve like you lost me…”

He ignores her taunt and turns, “there’s only one thing I’m scared of losing” he says, doing his best to remain calm. Months of absence revealing wounds barely beginning to heal and others are made worse. A car horn sounds from outside, a sinking dread fills his stomach as he looks outside through a bedroom window.    

   A large black Mercedes can be seen pulling up, decorated with red and white flags that flutter ominously. It sounds its horn again, a summons to join in the final futile defence of this doomed city. ’Those simple barbarians’ were the start, she might not recognise it but he knew. A powerful enemy stood poised to bring ruin and fire and death to a land and life for which he had fought for nearly six long years. Six years of uncertainty, six years of sending men to slaughter, six years of desert abattoirs and lush green charnel houses. Six years which for him had been worth it if only to return to his wife whom loved him and his child whose birth and upbringing he had missed. He leaves the golden woman and stalks the house to find the little girl, whom he finds in her room. He kneels in front of her and explains he has to go and that she must get to the shelter if she hears the sirens. He holds her once again, letting go only at the insistence of the Mercedes outside, its call an impatient harbinger of horrors to come. They have had many partings, but none with the finality of this one. He collects his things and is greeted with a salute at the car, while the little girl watches from a window…             

He awakes with mocking laughter echoing in his ears. Looking up, he is mere yards from where he had escaped his concrete prison. His head spins as he surveys the scene around him, appalled at what little is left of his patrol. Diesel fumes hang thick in the air, along with a distinctive cloying odour which he notices as he glances toward the inferno enveloping the cabin of their patrol vehicle. He forces the bile down as he recognises the smell for what it is; it reminds him of El Alamein.

Embers fall, glowing remnants of the wooden flatbed of the truck and its contents dancing through the smoky evening air. He watches one of the hellish snowflakes as it plays on the zephyr that drifts between buildings, it comes to rest on his arm and the sharp burn jolts him into action.

He rolls himself forward onto his haunches, his ears still ringing from the explosion. They had barely any time to react to the bomber, the roar of its engines betraying its presence moments before the bomb struck. He had been leading a patrol through the outskirts of his city, fortifying redoubts and anti-aircraft positions, preparing it for the Armageddon that would soon be camped outside the city gates. The futility and desperation of their situation was weighing heavily on the minds of his men as they had left the final defensive position manned by old men and boys that were the last hope of his doomed fatherland.

Now rising to his feet he staggers towards the heart of carnage. The truck lies on its side, half buried by the same cascade of concrete that nearly drowned him.  Its battered wheels still creaking with movement from the impact as it bares its blazing underbelly, leaking fluid like some mortal wound. He needn’t look for any of his men in the cabin, the intensity of the fire coupled with the nauseating smell betrays a grisly fate.

Looking across the rubble-strewn road he locates the rest of his comrades. Scattered, torn and broken, nothing more than ragdolls, they lie in the road. One by one he drags them to the side of the road, taking weapons, food and other useful items that they no longer need. Blood and viscera mar the faces of men he had known and fought beside, for days or years it matters not, they were his men. Where possible he closes their eyes for the last time, before covering the pile of bodies with a salvaged tarpaulin and lighting it. He knows he should leave, but he also knows what is about to happen to his city and his country, he cannot leave his fallen brothers to an underserved desecration.

By the light of the funeral pyre he gathers what little supplies he could save, along with the only intact StG44 and a bandolier of ammunition. With a look to the sky, both to get his bearing and to steel himself, he sets off into suburban ruin.

He walks once again between broken buildings that reach toward the sky, the open rib cage of this carcass city. Obscure figures ghost between doorways and spy from windows high to either side, but the presence of an armed soldier is enough to make them keep to their shadowy refuge. Those weary eyes watch as he approaches a large square with a battle scarred palace lying gutted at one end, he recognises this place, the Schlossplatz. The evening closes in as he starts across the deserted square but the pale light from a grey sun still illuminates the fountain at the centre of the square. Exhausted with his ears still ringing, he walks around the Neptunbrunnen, locking stony gazes with a bullet riddled Neptune…


…He walks the square as a heavy snow falls, Neptune’s face set in its stern grimace as he wrestles some titanic sea-monster. On his arm saying nothing walks the golden woman, her squeeze felt through the thick fur of her coat and the hard leather of his trench. Ahead plays the little girl, chasing snowflakes on uncertain feet. The city palace lies at the end of the square, windows and domes blazing, looking every inch the fairy tale palace. He gently disengages from the lady on his arm and plucks the little girl up.   

 “Look Gretta” he says pointing her attention to the fountain, “who are these beautiful ladies?”

At each corner of the fountain stands four beautiful statues, the water pouring from their urns frozen in time like the rest of the fountain. The little girls babbles gleefully at them.

 “Let me introduce you to Elbe…the lovely Vistula…” he walks around the fountain once more, snowflakes brushing snow from the face of the little eskimo in his arms. “…this is Oder…and this is the beautiful Rhine…”  


The sound once again of air raid sirens pulls him from the vision. On the western horizon a squadron of Valkyries swarm angrily. So far inside the city limits and no opposition, he thinks to himself, this must be the end.

He rushes toward the refuge of ruined buildings up ahead, getting away from the deserted square. His legs however do not obey properly, revealing how little energy he has left. He tries to think back to his last meal, but it is an unfathomable memory…“Deliria” he realises, before forcing himself into a final run for cover.

The bombers bellow their bloodlust to him as they pass overhead. Over 40 of them glide through the iron sky before he loses his count from his hiding place in the shadow of a collapsed apartment balcony. Toward the east they start to drop their load only a matter of miles away. He urgently slings his rifle over his shoulder and presses on eastward.

He finds himself facing the remnants of a house. Knees that so far have borne him halfway across this vast city now buckle.

The entire street lies in waste, ploughed from the air by the Valkyrie horde. He collapses to his knees as the home he had fought for burns. Only the door frames and staircase show any semblance of what lay here before, whilst the charred remains of furniture and collapsed brick and plaster offer the only clues as to where rooms had been.

He rises to his feet now, grief and shock paralyse any immediate emotions. He walks the house, alive in a world of death. He knows first-hand that the firestorm from these attacks leaves no chance of survival and the ruins lie empty.

A timber falls behind him, crashing on top of an old stove, on the floor of what was once a kitchen. Amidst a shower of sparks his attention is drawn outside. Fatigue forgotten in the face of new hope he rushes toward the kitchen, passing underneath the smouldering beam and out into the garden.

His trousers and sleeves snare on the barbs of scorched rose bushes as he stumbles through rows of skeletal fire-scoured flower beds. He trips and falls, once, twice, exhaustion beginning to shut down his body, yet from within he calls upon one last surge of energy and throws himself at the shelter door. His breath now coming in ragged gasps he opens the door.


“Gretta” he breathes.

Jorge Luis Borges: Grand Architect of the Dreamscape

Taken from:


Featured on The State Of The Arts magazine:



“I have always imagined that Paradise will be some kind of library” – J.L.B.

Jorge Luis Borges was perhaps the finest and most puissant artificer of literary puzzles the 20th century saw. In the past I have spent much time lauding similar qualities in his American contemporary and purveyor of transcendent sci-fi Philip K Dick, an equally skilful creator and destroyer of convoluted fictional worlds, yet not once have I mentioned this titan of Latin American literature. Well, it is time to address that.

I came across the Argentine’s work in my final year of University, in the middle of a module that focussed on Narrative, specifically what interesting things could be done with such an intangible yet integral literary concept. A few of Borges’ short stories absolutely blew me away and, like Philip K Dick, he is an accomplished grand-master of the twist ending. However, where Phil Dick needs 200 pages to first create then spectacularly invert and destroy his reader’s world, Borges needs only 2.

Born in Buenos Aires in 1899, Jorge Luis Borges became a prolific and successful short-story writer and poet, as well as an esteemed translator and essayist. Blending a deeply philosophical literary style with plot elements that belong firmly in the realm of fantasy, it is fair to say that Borges blazed the trail for various writers of the Latin-American tradition of magical-realism such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez and directors of film including Claudia Llosa and Patricio Guzman. Borges’ stories revolve around recurring motifs such as labyrinths and libraries, with one particularly memorable story being set in an infinite hexagonal library filled with every book that ever was or will be written*; indeed Borges’ prose borrows much from the dream-world.


It was doubly fascinating studying Borges alongside another module which covered Representations of Trauma in Latin America. Indeed many South American authors and directors of various nationalities found in their work an escape from the horrors imposed upon them by various oppressive US-backed regimes; thus Magical Realism was a reaction against both the terrible situations found on a turbulent Latin-American continent and against the prevalent realism and naturalism of 19th century literature.

Seeing as I am due to embark upon my own South American Odyssey, it seems prudent that before I lose myself in the sublime wilds of Patagonia and vast jungles of the Pantanal, we had better lose ourselves in Borges…




One of Borges’ shortest short stories yet also one of his most devastating both in terms of his stylistic prowess and the effect his revelatory twist endings, ‘the house of Asterion’ begins as many of Borges’ stories do, with some bibliographic detail that firmly anchors the story within the realms of historical reality: prefaced in this case with a quote from a presumably ancient historian; “and the queen gave birth to a child, who was named Asterion – Appollodrus Bibliotecha III, I”. The story is then told from the point of view of the eponymous Asterion, whose erudite and graceful language seemingly betrays his noble birth in the minds of the reader.

Asterion then proceeds to tell us about life from his point of view. He lives a lonely existence, presumably kept in isolation from commoners due to his royal lineage, declaring “not for nothing was my mother a queen.” He occasionally performs a ceremonial ritual that is expected of him, freeing commoners from their curses or “freeing them from evil”, but aside from that spends his days running and charging through the cavernous halls of his house alone, pretending to be various animals.

Asterion’s house has 14 identical doorways and hallways, Borges the editor here annotating 14 as probably the highest number Asterion has ever needed to count to and therefore being analogous for infinity. Asterion observes that his house is “as big as the world, or rather it is the world.”

Borges even gives Asterion is own theology; having spent his entire life in near-isolation Asterion has the very human urge to make sense of his world, musing “Perhaps I have created the stars and the sun and this enormous house. Perhaps I no longer remember.”

All of these small, human details serve to wrong-foot his reader. And it is with spectacular effect, in a moment of vertigo-inducing inversion, that Borges pulls the carpet out from underneath his readers…

“The morning sun reflected from the bronze sword. There was no longer any vestige of blood. ‘Would you believe it Ariadne?’ said Theseus, ‘The minotaur scarcely defended itself!’

The Minotaur 1885 by George Frederic Watts 1817-1904

The Minotaur 1885 George Frederic Watts 1817-1904 Presented by the artist 1897 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N01634

Borges revelation that Asterion is in fact the Cretan Minotaur from ancient Greek myth is made all the more sensational by Borges’ skill as a writer, whose clever attention to detail shows us a completely human side to a creature otherwise regarded as in-human. The small things such as Asterion’s theology, his loneliness, the games he plays, his descriptions of his ‘house’, all wrong-foot the reader, resulting in the following two things: An intensification of Borges’ stomach-churning twist ending and also the realisation that over the course just two pages, Borges has forced us to unknowingly reconsider the universe from the point of view of a creature we would normally consider completely different to ourselves. A worthy achievement for a writer working through a century of unprecedented racial and ideological conflict.


It is with a heavy heart then, that with the passing of one famous denizen of a Labyrinth, I get the opportunity to introduce the architect of another. ‘The House of Asterion’ is but one scintillating example of Jorge Luis Borges’ evocative work. Scattered throughout his collections of fiction are others, as multitudinous as the books in his infinite library of Babylon and every bit as worthy of discovery.

(Words taken from my feature done for The State of The Arts magazine, January 2016)






“The Aleph”



The Last Syllable – Jorge Luis Borges: Part 1

Jorge Luis Borges was perhaps the finest and most puissant artificer of literary puzzles the 20th century saw. It is perhaps ironic that I have spent so much time lauding similar qualities in his American contemporary Philip K Dick, an equally skilful creator and destroyer of convoluted fictional worlds, and not once mentioned this titan of Latin American literature. Well, let us address that.

I came across the Argentine’s work in my final year, in the middle of a module that revolved around Narrative and what interesting things could be done with such an intangible yet integral literary concept. A few of Borges’ short stories absolutely blew me away and, like Philip K Dick, he is a master of the twist ending. However, where Phil Dick needs 200 pages to create then spectacularly invert and destroy his reader’s world, Borges needs only 2.

Born in Buenos Aires in 1899, Jorge Luis Borges became a prolific and successful short-story writer and poet, as well as an esteemed translator and essayist. Blending a deeply philosophical style with elements that belong firmly in the realm of fantasy, it is fair to say that Borges blazed the trail for various writers of the Latin-American tradition of magical-realism.

It was doubly interesting studying Borges alongside another module which covered Representations of Trauma in Latin America. Indeed many South American authors of various nationalities found in their work an escape from the horrors imposed upon them by various oppressive US-backed regimes; thus Magical Realism was a reaction against both the terrible situations found on the Latin American continent and against the realism and naturalism of 19th century literature.

Seeing as I am due to embark upon my own South American Odyssey, it seems prudent that before I lose myself in the sublime wilds of Patagonia, we had better lose ourselves in Borges…

I had only previously read two of Borges’ more famous short stories, The Garden of Forking Paths and The House of Asterion respectively, and I therefore felt it imperative to further immerse myself in more of the Argentine’s work.  Having picked up a copy of Ficciones for an absolute steal online, I have since found myself trapped in an infinite hexagonal library containing every book ever written, before wandering into the jungle to find a sorcerer dreaming and conjuring in circular ruins. I have drawn lots from the lottery of Babylon, and I have marvelled as seemingly sincere literary criticism manifests itself in real life. Borges’ writing reflects and even imitates the dream-world; his words embrace the contradictory truisms that one takes on board without question in dreams, despite their often absurd impossibility.

So let’s have a look at what Borges actually does.


In Asterion Borges depicts the world from the point of view of its eponymous main character, who details various aspects of his world as he knows it. His explanation of his comings and goings in his ‘house’ are decidedly odd but nonetheless not beyond the readers experience. Asterion eloquently rejects certain defamatory claims that he is arrogant, anti-social and mad; ‘I know that I am accused of arrogance, and perhaps of misanthropy, and perhaps even of madness.’[1] But nonetheless Asterion puts his solitude down to his royal blood and prides himself as a unique being, ‘Not for nothing was my mother a queen; I cannot mix with commoners, even if my modesty should wish it.’ He spends his days playing in his ‘house’ described by Borges in somewhat animalistic terms, ‘sometimes I run like a charging ram…sometimes I crouch in the shadow…I can pretend any time I like that I am asleep.’ Borges here supplying the first clue that Asterion is perhaps something other than human.

Lacking any other social stimuli, Asterion creates and inhabits his own world. A world where the number fourteen is equivalent to infinity (presumably because it is the highest Asterion has ever needed to count…), a world where a ‘house’ is in-reality a Labyrinth and his killing of men is in-fact a ceremonial duty expected of him; ‘every nine years, nine men come into my house so that I can free them from all evil.’ These trivial details serve to anchor the reader within Asterion’s world.  Asterion even creates his own theology, musing ‘there are two things in the world that exist but once – on high, the intricate sun, and below, Asterion. Perhaps I have created the stars and the sun and this huge house and no longer remember it.’ Asterion has presumably never been told a creation story, and lacking an explanation thus creates his own, in itself a very human concept. This, coupled with lonesome Asterion’s remark that ‘the nights and days are long’ serves to humanise Asterion in the mind of the reader, who at this point still does not know the reality of Asterion and his house. The genius of Borges shows itself again at the end, where Borges finally turns the entire narrative on its head revealing Asterion at the end to in fact be the Cretan Minotaur of ancient Greek myth, slain thus by Theseus, ‘“Can you believe it Ariadne?” said Theseus. “The Minotaur scarcely defended itself.”

Borges inverts a three thousand year old story, subverting our expectation of a bloody and heroic battle between the Minotaur and Theseus, supplanting it instead with a version that lacks the risk and heroism of the ancient myth. This is Borges the puzzle maker at his best,  and by depicting Asterion as a proudly complex yet pathetically lonely creature, one who has existential anxieties just like us, Borges reverses our sympathies towards a creature rarely considered anything more than a monster.

Borges revelation that Asterion is in fact the Cretan Minotaur forces us as readers to reassess what constitutes a world, both within fiction and without. As western readers at least somewhat familiar with the ancient Greek myth-world, we do not expect to ever sympathise with Asterion, and the fact that Borges depicts him sympathetically is indicative of an author who wanted his readers and the wider world to reassess their approach to all conflict, to consider life from the view point of a being who may look different, but underneath possesses all the same trappings of humanity. On a more objective level, The House of Asterion is a prime example of an intricately constructed and convincing literary microcosm, which Borges then deconstructs to spectacular revelatory effect.

Taken from The Last Syllable – An Emulsion of Dust and Drugs


The American Dream is Dead and it’s buried in the Mojave Desert…

It might sound absolutely crackers to compare a novel chronicling the plight of dustbowl farmers and their doomed migration across western America with a debauched recollection of a three-day narcotics-fuelled bender in Las Vegas… but fuck it I’m going to do just that.

You see, dear reader, I have been to the Promised Land. I have set foot in the new world. And do you know what I found out? The American Dream is dead and it is buried in the Mohave desert.


Earlier this year at the recommendation of a number of friends, and in light of my own pilgrimage to Nevada edging ever closer, I picked up Hunter S Thompson’s perennial Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Thomson’s work struck chords with me, despite hailing from a different continent and different generation. In the horrifying wake of a tory majority for the first time in my living memory, I couldn’t help but empathise with the wanton despair Thompson so accessibly conveys whilst mourning the death of the American left at the beginning of the 1970’s. To a man as concrete in his left-leaning convictions as Thompson was (and here I’ll direct you to Hunter’s hilarious tactic of shaving his hair off in order to refer to his republican mayoral opponent as ‘my long haired friend’), the advent of the Nixon administration after the relative domestic successes of JFK and LBJ’s presidential terms must have seemed a political apocalypse, heightened of course by the televised horrors of Rolling Thunder and ‘peace with honour’ and the subsequent urban decay seen throughout 1970’s America.


“Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas … with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.”

Indeed Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Thompson’s magnum opus that spawned the subjective ‘Gonzo’ style that has been so influential in the modern age of journalism (would we have ‘Vice’ without doctor Gonzo? Is that even a good thing??), can be seen as an exhumation of the American dream. Messrs Duke and Gonzo go to Las Vegas because they know the American dream is buried there. I mean where else can a nobody become a somebody as quickly and as easily as in Las Vegas? Gonzo and Duke, recognising it as the neon-edged headstone that it is, exhume the American Dream, check it’s pulse whilst freaking out on mescaline, drag it round various hotel rooms and casinos whilst the Indy 400 takes place on the Nevada sands, before solemnly burying it again in a pile of Adrenochrome and Cocaine.

“We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers… and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”


Walking wistfully down Las Vegas boulevard, looking between looming hotels and conference centres out upon the vast plain beyond, you realise… none of it should be there. Nowhere else in the world can you walk through the desert at in forty degree heat, finding yourself being sprinkled by fresh water vapour streaming selflessly into the arid night air purely to keep you cool. No other desert in the world has lush flower beds, expansive water features, Casinos and strip clubs on every corner. Take me back.

“No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.”


Perhaps HST has rubbed off on me, I feel like I’m digressing on one of his infamously subjective and viciously entertaining tangents, but there is a point to all this somewhere… I am sure of it.


Yet Vegas, in all its artificial glory, somehow makes a mockery of the plight of those doomed souls who braved the dustbowl, sojourning through equally barren deserts toward the false promise of a better life in the west. I mean this is a place where anyone can make a million. What could possibly be a better embodiment of the American psyche? It matters not a whit who you are or whether you have any wits, it matters only that the turn of card and wheel ensnare you, moth-like, drawn towards and consumed by a neon flame.

“But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country-but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.”

Admittedly, the link between these two works is a tenuous one, but at their core the dusty corpse of the American Dream unites them. The searing, indulgent wit of Hunter S Thompson reads nothing like the bleak poetry that pervades Steinbeck’s nihilistic prose. Both Thompson and his literary icon Fitzgerald write of (and dare I say in) excess, be it the bootlegged mint Julep-soaked hedonism of the Jazz-age (The Great Gatsby, This Side of Paradise et al) or the rakish depravity and sheer nerve of Raoul Duke and Doctor Gonzo’s Las Vegas session.

“Now the dust was evenly mixed with the air, an emulsion of dust and air.” 

Whereas Steinbeck writes of abject poverty. His novel is an Odyssey of bitterly crushed dreams and unspeakable hardships. It is an intensely poetic work, indeed the title of this feature is derived from the above quote which resonated with me for some reason. One might find the juxtaposition of poetry and the dustbowl struggle troubling; however I found it probably the most humane and dignified way of weaving such a terrific tapestry of human suffering.


Steinbeck is more original in his writing than I ever had cause to believe before picking up The Grapes of Wrath. Structurally Steinbeck is very clever. He alternates the focus of his chapters for both dramatic and emotional effect. A long chapter of intense human suffering, usually focussed on the Joad family as they make their perilous way west, illustrates the personal plight and endearing strength of the family unit whilst developing his characters in the mind of the reader. These chapters are punctuated with a shorter chapter, usually only three or four pages long, which tell the story from an almost omniscient voice which focusses on the situation as a whole for the millions of dustbowl migrants. The effect of these contrasting chapters is devastating, allowing for a poetical break from the heavy plot, subtly giving the reader a chance to digest Steinbeck’s bleak tale. One allegorical chapter in particular sticks in the memory, one devoted entirely to a tortoises’ agonising journey across the scorched asphalt of the highway road; Steinbeck metaphorically uses this image to foreshadow the Joad families struggle to maintain dignity whilst making their way, ever so slowly, through hell.


Make no mistake, Steinbeck and Thompson’s works are on the surface vastly different novels, miles and miles apart in terms of style and execution. Despite my foolishly ambitious scope in attempting to link them, I am not looking to draw some revelatory conclusion forever linking the two works in the minds of the wider literary community, or even whoever is kind enough to read this blog. I merely saw both novels as a eulogy to the American Dream. The Joads, like Gatsby before them, realise at the last that the dream is a fallacy; this is in turn certainly conveyed by Steinbeck’s significantly anti-capitalist tone in his intervening chapters, here he portrays the corporations and banks as living monsters, wholly evil and beyond the comprehension of lowly tenant farmers…

“Sure, cried the tenant men,but it’s our land…We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it’s no good, it’s still ours….That’s what makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.”

“We’re sorry. It’s not us. It’s the monster. The bank isn’t like a man.”

“Yes, but the bank is only made of men.”

“No, you’re wrong there—quite wrong there. The bank is something else than men. It happens that every man in a bank hates what the bank does, and yet the bank does it. The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It’s the monster. Men made it, but they can’t control it.”

Thus Thompson has mournfully read such eulogies and, in a fit of mescaline induced rage, exhumes the dream for one last hurrah, before the apocalyptic curtain of the Nixon era has finally fallen upon his idealistic America of the sixties.

I’ve been mulling this article/feature/piece/whatever the fuck this is over for a while now, trying to come up with some kind of poetic epiphany, a unifying and deeply satisfying final conclusion to wrap things up nicely… And whilst on a flight heading back into sunny Leeds, propellors desperately dragging us through a belligerent Yorkshire gale, it came to me… No one can sum up the mournful exasperation Thomson and Steinbeck share when writing of the American Dream better than the man himself, Hunter S Thompson:



“Hear me people: We have now to deal with another race – small and feeble when our fathers first met them, but now great and overbearing. Strangely enough they have mind to till the soil and the love of possession is a disease with them. These people have made many rules that the rich may break and the poor may not. They take their tithes from the poor and weak to support the rich and those who rule.”          – Cheif Sitting Bull, speaking at the Powder River Conference 1877

“The Powder River Conference ended ninety five years ago, but the old Chief’s baleful analysis of the White Man’s rape of the American continent was just as accurate then as it would be today if he came back from the dead and said it for the microphones on prime time TV. The ugly fallout from the American Dream has been coming down on us at a pretty constant rate since Sitting Bull’s time – and the only real difference now, with Election Day ’72 only a few weeks away, is that we seem to be on the verge of ratifying the fallout and forgetting the Dream itself…”

J M Roche, November 2015

The Last Syllable

The Shifting Unrealities and Permeable Constructs of Philip K Dick: A feature by myself taken from thelastsyllableblog.wordpress.com


The Man In The High Castle is nigh.

For those who haven’t seen any trailers, I can reveal with some anticipation that Amazon Studios and Ridley Scott are bringing us Philip K Dick’s chilling vision of what might have happened had the Nazi’s won world war two. Philip K Dick’s Hugo Award-winning novel, The Man In The High Castle, intricately blended the worlds of science-fiction and alternate history. Dick depicts a pseudo modern world where the Axis powers of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan emerged victorious from the Second World War and subsequently enter into a bitter Cold War of their own…


Immediately such a narrative, being a complete contrast to our own world where the Allies won, is alien and requires the power of Dick’s vision and skill with narrative to prop up within the minds of the reader. Dick accomplishes this through his faux-historical writing, weaving an entirely convincing historical chronicle as a backstory to a world we know to be in conflict with our own. It is the intensity and detail of Dick’s vision that establishes it as believable within the minds of his readers. Dick chronicles a world where Franklin Roosevelt never won election in 1934, where a weak republican United States government refused to re-arm or be drawn into a war alongside Britain and Russia, resulting in the Axis powers dominating the United States of ‘High Castle’. Dick populates his alternate America with relatively benevolent Japanese conquerors, who consider old examples of pre-war American culture highly valuable, and as such trashy items of Americana are considered by the Japanese as ‘antique’ as an original Chippendale cabinet would be to a collector in our reality…(‘Ah’ the man said, his dark eyes flashing. ‘And a Victrola cabinet of 1920 made into a liquor cabinet.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘And sir, listen; framed signed picture of Jean Harlow.’ The man goggled at him. ‘Shall we make arrangements?’ Childan said, seizing this correct psychological instant.) All of this renders Dick’s unreality that bit more realistic, and hopefully after a successful translation to TV, yields spectacular results.

Like many of the world’s greatest and most visionary artists, Philip Kindred Dick was not truly appreciated whilst he was alive. Dick died in 1982, a matter of months before Ridley Scott’s adaptation of his work, entitled Blade Runner, opened in cinemas. In a modern age of total digital immersion, where technology infuses itself throughout every aspect of our day-to-day lives, it is perhaps easier to see why Dick didn’t attain the level of critical and popular acclaim he so deserved… we weren’t ready for him.

I could bang on about him and his work until the sun flickers and dies… and I will.

But who was Phil K Dick?

Dick was the prescient, deeply resonant mind behind some of Hollywood’s most successful and most thought-provoking science-fiction films of the past thirty five years. Writing fiction throughout the fifties, sixties and seventies, Dick’s fiction asks metaphysical and philosophical questions, whilst reflecting themes of monopolistic corporate evil and altered states of consciousness. This combined to devastating effect with a vivid imagination that posthumously inspired several Hollywood science fiction blockbusters. Most people have never heard of the man, yet the catalogue of titanic films that took their inspiration or were directly sourced from his work is astonishing; Blade Runner (Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?), Total Recall (We Can Remember It For You Wholesale), Minority Report, Paycheck and The Adjustment Bureau to name but some of the more renowned examples.


Dick was concerned with the endlessly replicating realities of modernity, something which, in an era of videogames, smartphones and the internet, strikes an even clearer chord, and it is no doubt this which lends his work a transcendent and cutting-edge modern quality. When reading what I regard as his Magnum Opus, Ubik (1969), you are transported to Dick’s vision of 1992 where you are introduced to the idea of ‘Prudence Organisations’, corporations whose duty it is to protect, or steal, a person’s thoughts for financial gain… In an age of personalised advertising based upon each individuals internet browsing history, in a world where the intellectual property and preferences of people using social media are worth billions of dollars behind closed doors, it is all the more remarkable to consider Dick was actually writing nearly half a century ago.

Ubik also introduces us to the idea of ‘cold-pac’ or ‘half-life; a technology enabling a state of suspended animation after death, which can, for a price, keep ones loved ones in a state of limbo, able to talk and communicate, halfway between life and death (“I’ll consult my dead wife” concludes main character Glen Runciter within the opening pages). This process is integral to Dick’s novel, yet to me it is eerily reminiscent of social media accounts functioning after a loved one’s death, and in a world where artificial intelligence is nigh-on impossible to separate from human, are we really that far away from robots operating social media accounts as a source of comfort, much like the ‘cold-pac’ that features so heavily in Ubik?


Dick’s fiction is one of questions asked, not answers provided. Indeed, Dick thought of himself less as a novelist, more as a philosopher who asked his questions through the medium of story-telling. Thus reality in Dick’s novels is never quite what it seems. This is a consequence of a driving conviction of Dick’s; that what we call a reality is subjective and cannot be qualified as ‘real’ by any measurable observation. Dick was an intensely philosophical thinker, and wrote extensive essays and papers on his beliefs, which were at the very least deeply spiritual and sometimes bordered on the futile and delusional. Regardless this conviction, that essentially there is no way to distinguish a collective reality from subjective unreality*, permeates Dick’s creative writing; in that his worlds are populated by robots indistinguishable from humans (Blade Runner/Do Androids Dream), artificially implanted memories (Total Recall/Remember It For You Wholesale) and even entire worlds that collapse in on themselves (Ubik & The Man In The High Castle). This is indicative of an author tortured by a combination of modernity and a genuine conviction that his surrounding reality was anything but real.

If reading these words has even slightly invoked your curiosity then I can sleep soundly at night knowing I at least have done my part to ensure that such a true visionary gets the recognition he deserves as a writer, and not just as the progenitor of the modern, critically worthwhile Sci-Fi blockbuster. However, do not just take my word for it, lose yourself in the shifting realities and permeable constructs of perhaps America’s most avant-garde writer of the 20th century. The genius of novels such as Ubik, The Man In The High Castle, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, (the list after all goes on) lies in Dick’s genuinely gripping narratives and endearingly human(??) characters, who are confronted with the very same existential concerns that formed such an integral part of Dick’s psyche as a philosopher and his far-reaching vision as the preeminent writer-prophet of credible science-fiction.


Believe me, there will be a twist in the tale.

J M Roche, October 2015

*You play or witness the immersive likes of Second Life and Grand Theft Auto and try tell me people aren’t beginning to choose their reality…

“So I ask, in my writing, what is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudorealities manufactured by very sophisticated electronic mechanisms… and it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing. It is my job to create universes…and I have to build them in such a way that they do not fall apart two days later.” – Philip K Dick, 1978

Recommended Works of Philip K Dick:

The Man In The High Castle (1962 Hugo Award Winner)
Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep? (1968)
Ubik (1969)
A Scanner Darkly (1977)
The Exegesis (1978)

The Last Syllable

Kurzel’s Macbeth; full of sound and fury

It is important, nay, essential, for a Hollywood director of Shakespeare, whom, benefitting from the inherent advantages his medium provides him, must read the play and draw forth that which isn’t necessarily on the page. It is what you can draw from the play that lends greatness to your representation of it, on stage or on screen. Kurzel does this, spectacularly so with the aid of cinematographer Adam Arkapaw, and thus successfully translates many of the subtextual themes that are so key to understanding Macbeth as one of Shakespeare’s darkest and most visceral tragedies.

I massively enjoyed Kurzel’s Macbeth, Fassbender is tortured and curious, murderous and mad in exactly the right quantities at exactly the right moments. Cotillard likewise is as insidiously ambitious as she is vulnerable and bereaved. Her child-like frame and vestal attire is at an intentional, stark contrast to her venomous plotting and viscous bating of her husband’s manhood, whose physical presence further emphasises this contrast.

Kurzel and Arkapaw fantastically capture the supernatural, otherworldly atmosphere of the Scottish play, utilising breath-taking highland scenery and evocative battle-scenes set against the fire and ash of Birnam wood to give the film an almost alien feel to it. This is intensified by Kurzel’s decision to retain the original Shakespearean dialogue, which in combination with authentic Scottish accents really conveys the feeling that what is happening before us is archaically savage, not of this world.
Kurzel heavily plays upon Macbeth’s subtextual theme of Children, specifically the child that he and his wife seem to be mourning. Kurzel manifests several of the ghostly visions that Macbeth sees as involving children, or child-soldiers onto whom he obviously projects his own lost son and heir. The iconic ‘is this a dagger I see before me’ line is infused with dramatic poignancy when carried by the ghost of Macbeth’s lost son and heir. Indeed Kurzel picks up on Macbeth’s own anxiety regarding his lack of heir, which is subsequently turned into murderous paranoia by the prophecy of the weird sisters, indeed this lack of a male heir is equated with a lack of potency, a lack of masculinity for Macbeth.

The fact that Kurzel picks up on this does not make his production unique, however it is refreshing to see a Hollywood director giving it the prominence he does. Children are everywhere in his Macbeth; be it on screen as child-soldiers and their ghosts or in the pained speech of Marion Cotillard as she mourns her babe. To reinforce the recurring theme, Kurzel even adds another child-witch to the ranks of the weird sisters, who as a non-speaking character silently drives home Kurzel’s overpowering point; Macbeth is as much a tragedy of children lost as it is about a crown won. This undoubtedly reflects the fact that Shakespeare himself lost his only son, young Hamnet, and it is this which lends true ferocity to the infanticide on screen, in that this tragedy is as much about an anxiety of progeny as it is about flawed ambition and the subsequent paranoia and madness that comes with it.

The play is a bloody miscarriage of nature, and this is translated well by the graphic violence in the film, reaching its raw height when Macbeth repeatedly stabs his King as he sleeps.

There are however, a few things which Kurzel does not get right. Kurzel’s retention of the original iambic pentameter, whilst admirable from a literary standpoint, nonetheless gets somewhat swept away by the pace the film moves at, and in combination with thick Scottish brogues amounts to an authentic feel at the expense of actually fully grasping the direction and rhythm of Shakespeare’s poetry. Many of Shakespeare’s weighted couplets are lost at the end of scenes, though it must be said this could well be down to the medium. It is a lot easier to appreciate (or even catch) the language of Shakespeare when listening to an actor enunciate live to an audience, than it is to hear Fassbender or Cotillard over the howl of highland winds.

The name of this proto-blog or literary feature (I’ve yet to decide which ha) is derived from Macbeth’s final soliloquy, his ‘To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow’ speech in act 5 scene 5, one of my favourite passages from the Shakespearean canon, a primal howl into the chasm of inescapable death and lonesome life. Without ruining endings for readers, and something for which I can’t forgive him for, Kurzel chooses to make this iconic scene about Fassbender and Cotillard, which adds a pained romantic tinge to what is essentially an existential rage, the cold realisation of a mad king that he stares into the void.

Macbeth deserves such an adult, visceral Hollywood rendition. For one of Shakespeare’s most accessible, yet no less complex or poetically significant tragedies, to finally have a worthy modern update of and successor to Roman Polanski’s 1971 effort is something to celebrate. Full of sound and fury, Kurzel’s Macbeth certainly signifies something.

Lines composed on Weymouth pier.

Winds rush out as change rushes in

Bringing fear

Bearing lust

But not love.



Clouds move in and the sun is locked out

So light fades

And tides rise

Over love.



Look from the west at cliffs that stretch east

As wind howls

And buoys sink

‘neath loveless caress.



A storm gathers above those whose life is the sea

Young vessels flounder

Whilst they sit in duress

And white cliffs fade to grey.



So I look to the fort whose walls pale yet defy

Tempestuous orders

And hurried demands

Enduring years of torment.



And I learn from them whilst she takes from me

My youth

My mind

And my love.



Then she throws me over crystal battlements



To a lake of fire.



I waste years in bondage to this dark agony



On Weymouth pier.