another reblog of my short story for the season of the witch and the rising dead… Happy Reading… A Short Horror Story.        I don’t remember what happened before, no clue as to who I was, what I was, but afterwards, everything that happened afterwards is a completely different story, because whenContinue reading “THE BLIND ASSASSIN; HALLOWEEN HORROR STORY”


Reblogging this old poem of mine, tis the season after all, Happy Halloween…   A haunting is happening in this house that holds me a sinister spirit that sighs in the shadows, a feeling of fear is feeding on frenzy as it ghoulishly groans and gasps from its gallows A breath is baying by thisContinue reading “SLICED, HALLOWEEN”

Published: Nous sommes Paris, Poetry Anothology

  Just back this weekend from work and joyous jet lag in Shanghai and discovered a real treat when I returned; the proof manuscript for the Paris poetry anthology, entitled #NousSommesParis being published by Eyewear Publishing this November, marking the one-year anniversary of the Paris attacks, which will include my poem Slow Moving Sorrow. TrulyContinue reading “Published: Nous sommes Paris, Poetry Anothology”


On pressing parades pedestrian pass on motors, on mass, in autos, under umbrellas, in downpours of flashing lights of signs I cannot identify, on roads that have no rules, with crossings that heed no caution for those crossing, the tens crossing, the hundreds crossing, the thousands trying to get through with rising intonations 
to parks,Continue reading “SHANGHAI STREETS; FAR FROM HOME”


Last week I was in Shanghai for work and met jet lag straight on, here are some of the pictures from that week, including 6am walks through the city while it was waking and I was searching for sleep… The mountains of the clouds The customary gas mask in your room for emergencies, wrapped inContinue reading “CHINA IN PICTURES; SHANGHAI STORIES”


Soft skin, like silk, draws hands caress in darkness as we warp and weft our fragile frames in gyrating games, crisscrossing lust with lies and trusting thighs, ties. We are bruised blankets baying on beds of yesterday’s toils; cotton soils and sweaty spoils. Silk, like soft skin, slips from touch too swiftly, too much sewnContinue reading “LEFT OVERS”

Paul Stephenson

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na rudai ata i mo cheann

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