Insomnia’s Dependence


There they rush again: the hours to four,

All in a quandary,

Leaving five as futile and taking flight from fancy.

Lifeless six festers among dawn silhouettes;

Mind awash;

And ill-prepared for a day’s oratory requests.

Temazepam was the committed tipple,

But they whipped that away.

Now I read, write, and lay awake completely crippled.

Perpetually imagining dreams;

Insomnia’s needy disposition dictates No Relief.

So, operating machinery whilst drowsy;

I forget to send RSVPs to Sleep’s parties.

I want to meet and greet Sleep; see what we’ve got in common,

But Insomnia meets my subconscious before me,

And tactfully turns Sleep’s


Either that, or Insomnia wants to be my only friend.

And not to be contrary, except; it’s an absolute bully.

Insomnia’s the omniscient panic in a waking dream;

An enemy at the gates,

To Sleep’s invariably,  allusive screen.

What was it Sleep had found so offensive;

To allow Insomnia’s grip to be so utterly, and

Overwhelmingly comprehensive?


Authentic Binge Drinker; Loving Daughter?


Call yourself authentic? I’ve got more bands than you.

Only been in 2001, and two oh-oh two?

What, you didn’t go to Goa; never seen Guatemala?

And your liver remains in full working order?

So, you haven’t drunk the tribe’s specialist vodka?

Wow, and you call yourself an authentic binge drinker?

I went to uni: pff, course I drunk the lager

And beer, and the bombs of enhanced Jägermeister.

What, you think because your wine was

Fortified, that you were binged to the slaughter?

No my friend, you are not an authentic binge drinker.

I was rushed to hospital as they pumped my stomach with sobriety based water

And led my mother up the hall, making her wish she were still a daughter.

No, you wannabe, you are no binge drinker.

My mother’s mother is dead, because like me,

She liked Outer-Mongolian, bush based tea

And enjoyed swigs of scotch whiskey with at least ten

Mixed up bennies.

But still my mother wishes she were a living daughter;

And still you call yourself an authentic binge drinker?

What, you haven’t been to festivals since ya was a tiny lil’ nipper?

Well my friend, just talk to my father.

It was he who showed me the grass of the gods and divine based, real liquor.

It was he who showed me the merit of smiling, and tolerance

In the face of intoxicated and tribal-brained, mortal grace.

But sadly,

He -like my mother’s mother- was an authentic binge drinker,

Regardless of his daughter.

So, with patterns to break,

My orphaned mother began splitting the guise in half.

She vowed to keep him

From dangerous drinking orders (hiding modal,

Blinkered bruises in perfecting her art),

Ensuring his straight became narrow,

And wagon finally boarded.

So, no my friend, this is not authentic binge drinking,

and I don’t envy your daily onslaught.

Now a member of Alcoholics Anonymous:

I  deliver weekly platters of sobriety based truth,

And my so-called friends jibe me in the heart,

With their arrogant superiority of that binge drinking ‘art’.

So, no my friend, you are not an authentic binge drinker;

You have just forgotten the truth of love

And the worth of being an honest and loving daughter.

So, as with false economy, here find my false apology,

Ironic, as it’s direct from my heart:

I’m awfully sorry,

I cannot  – will not – encourage

The arrogant superiority of your binge drinking farce.



 ~ Nonautobiographical ~

Money Made Easy


Money, in a more simple form:

Money Made Easy

Money does not make the man;

the man makes money.

Money can help mend man;

but man troubles over mending money.

 Money does not make you happy;

Happiness though, is not rooted in poverty.

Poverty does not mend man;

and man will not mend poverty.

So, rather:

Money does make the man,

because with it he makes more money.

His making more money creates

these uncomfortable gaps to poverty.

So money may not make you happy.

but poverty does not allow free liberty.

Man will still make money, congruent

with his ‘Right’ views on socialists, and ‘their’ poverty.

*Not being sexist: man = human 

Recipe for Misanthropy (iCreme filled)

A very dear friend of mine has recently lost his freedom. The playground in his head is unique. This wonderful man accepts in me something otherwise labelled by many, as merely ‘cynical’ or ‘negative’. He understands a significant paradox; enough to amalgamate my name into a term of endearment (MisanthRosie). His acceptance provides such freedom, so Steinberg (endearment), this one is for you. xx



1 cup panic induced insomnia

1 cup fear induced narcolepsy

2 teaspoons futile hope

1 tablespoon smugregano

3 cups anti-terrorist propaganda

1/2 teaspoon blind-solidarity

1 teaspoon “no i in team” (dried)

ten cups infra-red satellite


Beat insomnia and narcolepsy until creamed. Fold in futile hope and “no i in team” and beat until fluffy. Slowly stir in smugregano until mixture resembles lottery winning 2.4, and quickly add blind-solidarity.

In a separate bowl, mix anti-terrorist propaganda with infra-red satellite and blend until ingredients form masque. Slowly pour masque over other ingredients and leave to set.

iTeam Creme (


1/2 cup ‘pickley capers’

4 tablespoons walk-over powder

1.5 cups trivia 

2 heaped tablespoons sugar-coated edification

1/2 teaspoon bonding tape

1 tablespoon shallow-waters


Gently beat ‘pickley capers’ with walk-over powder and sift in the trivia. Stir in sugar-coated edification with subtle motion and blend with bonding tape. Leave in shallow waters until vantage point medley formed.

Bake in app-oven for 20 minutes or until lukewarm. Smother tepid medley over the ready-prepared masque, ensuring all angles and sides covered.

Et voilà!

Published January, 2014, ‘Vice Verses’ Poem Anthology, Forward Poetry