Family Life

Time to disinvest

Today we had a blip. Blip is the word used by a colleague in a moment of genuine comfort, except today it felt more like a slap than a blip. A slap in the face that left me speechless. The usual mantra of professional explanation and justification had left the building.

What really brought me down was why today felt different to yesterday. I managed yesterday’s family challenge beautifully, even if I say so myself. For once it didn’t impact my other job. I managed to give my other job parity with the family job, and it worked. Maybe that’s why today felt different. I was complacent, caught off-guard. I knew my happiness on the bus to work this morning was premature on some cosmic scale. Maybe allowing happiness was foolish.

Having picked myself and my thoughts up by the end of the day, I concluded that I am too invested. This shocked me, as some time ago I was the would-be parent that planned to take it in their stride – much like a day job – and integrate parenthood into their life framework of career, society and interests. But family life has consumed me. Maybe too much? Maybe I need to disinvest. That’s an interesting word, and is different to divest. Both words have currency in my job at the moment. And in the family context, I see it this way: I need to stop putting so much in, because it is draining me and upsetting for me when we suffer a blip. This is disinvesting. To divest would be to deprive: I’m not going to do that. I still need to parent and to be a family member, but I also need to be me and to protect me. We call it self-care in therapeutic parenting circles.

Family Life


In the process of learning what triggers our children, we learn what triggers us. This hasn’t been a natural process for me. I didn’t find it easy to be open to it, but the triggers that secondary trauma can unavoidably give us as parents of children who have experienced trauma are a good starter to identifying those that we have held from our own childhoods.

Being ignored is my major trigger. Especially via the phone. I can feel all reason evapourate when I get no reply calling one of my sons. Frustration becomes rage. I’ve started using breathing to try and manage this but it’s not easy. How much harder is it for my sons to manage their own rage, if I struggle to do it, with my insights and awareness?

Control is the other. I find it hard to cope with not having everyone safely in the places they are planned to be, such as school.

These particular two triggers have led to me screaming at the top of my voice in the street at S that I was “shutting you down, fella” like Joan Crawford on a budget. Poor S was trying to make sense of my actions. I was visiting a number of his hang-outs to warn the occupants off harbouring him, and he was trying to make it easier for me by pointing me at the addresses I’d been given, but my rage had blocked all reason and his offer of help, and I strode my own path and made things much harder.

Family Life

Genuine Goods

This evening we started planning this year’s Christmas presents over a perfect pint in the Crafty Devil bar on Llandaff Road. It was our monthly two hours in Cardiff when the boys attend the youth group run by Talk Adoption. It’s a good opportunity to catch up with my family, although that usually boils down to my house-bound parents as everyone else is out on a Saturday evening.

Jon has found a web site that sells cheap alternatives to expensive brands, covering more or less everything you could want, and certainly everything on the boys’ wish-lists. This worries me. It brings to mind one of my very early Christmas’s. At the age of four or five, I wanted a toy Hoover vacuum cleaner. And I mean a Hoover. The Green Shield Stamps shop sold genuine imitation Hoovers. I guess they were expensive, and beyond the reach of Father Christmas, as that year I was given a multi-coloured plastic vacuum cleaner that lit up when it was used. This may sound like fun for a toddler, but I didn’t want fun, I wanted genuine imitation, and I wanted to imitate the thousands of housewives who used a Hoover vacuum. That need seemed to be lost on Father Christmas, and I’m determined that it isn’t lost on us as parents.

London Shorts

Rediscovering DJ Andre

I rarely see my DJ friend Andre these days. Our lives that were once so intertwined have taken on different paths, much as they started, although I understand he adopts dogs that need forever families.

Andre’s DJ sets were the best. He struck a perfact balance of house music and techno. He knew his dance floor, played it for hours on end, and developed a most loyal following. My favourite weekends were spent in London, dancing our way around the Market Tavern, Turnmills and the Royal Vauxhall Tavern until the next morning, and chilling later to recordings of Andre’s deeper personal sets that he recorded at home when no one saw him.

I witnessed Andre raid the record boxes of friends, pulling out twelve inch records that on the surface appeared main-stream, but homing in on unplayed dub mixes and remixes that strung together perfectly to make an Andre set, seemingly out of nowhere.

Years went by as I returned from London to focus on my career. I lost touch with where my friends were. When one afternoon, browsing the newly opened John Lewis store in Cardiff, I felt the deep thud of a bass drum, and I caught the flashes of bright colours coming from the lighting department. I had to investigate. The music got louder, the lights brighter, and guess who was there with a name badge behind the counter… DJ Andre, spreading some of his magic across his new path and mine.

London Shorts

Collecting Glasses

Kristian was a happy accident courtesy of my mum. Puzzled at my lack of enthusiasm for a night out one Friday evening, mum resorted to her drug of choice and encouraged me out of my shell with a Valium. It had kicked in by the time I was in Club X, and gave me an assured and confident air in a way that alcohol could not sustain.

I was introduced to Kristian through friends of my friend Wayne, ‘down from London’ for the weekend, with Kristian in tow. We formed a large group but for some reason Kristian talked with me and we hit it off. Not that I was into casual encounters, but being in an assured and confident mood, and enjoying his company, I told Kristian that he should stay at my place that night.

When mum brought me my cup of tea the next morning, and saw Kristian in the bed next to me, she barely skipped a breath before saying “Would you like one too?” I guess she felt at least partly responsible for this inaugural sleep-over.

Soon after, Kristian returned the favour by having me for a sleep-over at his place. I caught the train to Woodley in Berkshire to spend the Friday night with him. He settled me down to read the latest issue of The Grocer while he got changed, then drove us into London as it was only 20 minutes away and I would love a pub called the Royal Oak.

He bought me a pint and disappeared, leaving me to stand alone feeling slightly exposed. But no fear, he soon returned, collecting glasses. When I challenged him, he brushed it off saying he was just doing a few hours for some extra cash, and told me to talk to people.

I was still painfully shy back then, and it wasn’t long before my natural shyness attracted an Irish lad, who introduced himself as Kyle and offered to buy me a drink. I was naturally mortified at the thought of a stranger approaching me (note the absence of Valium). I made my excuses, found a payphone and called my good friend Abner to complain about the situation I was in. Abner did what Abner does best. He told me to stop moaning, get back to the Irish lad and go for it.

Being easily influenced by good advice, I got myself back to Kyle and got him to buy me a large whiskey, following which I got him to give me a good snog near the payphone. Half way through the snog and nearing closing time, he asked me to go back to his place with him. But I couldn’t, I would need to leave as soon as Kristian had cleared all the glasses. Kyle reassured me that it was no problem, he lived on the next street and therefore it wouldn’t take long. I made my excuses but was sure to finish the snog first.

Family Life

Managing Truancy

I had a really helpful chat with T about S’s fifth week of truancy, the excuses he is making, and his difficulty communicating with anyone. His truanting is a reaction to his trauma-related anxiety and has reached the stage where he doesn’t know what it is (the sick feeling he describes) and is flailing around trying to explain it, resulting in excuses.

T reassured me that we are doing the right thing by stepping back, ensuring his safety and giving him the space to work things through while at the same time continuing to assure him of our love and continuing to keep a dialogue going about attending school and needing a solution to the problem. I.e., “we love you and we will always be here for you but it’s important that you are in school and we all need to think of a way that you can be in school.”

On top of the trauma-related anxiety, S will now also be feeling guilt and shame for his behaviour and its impact on us so we need to avoid putting any more pressure on him (rewards, punishments).

The truancy is now moving from what could be a rebellious phase into something known as ‘school refusal’ which T has experience of. The school has a significant role in this, and T will work with them on their proposed next steps. They will have a policy and it will likely involve a referral to the Education Welfare Service. We will work jointly across all agencies and the school, and explore with S ways in which he can be in school, including compromises, without putting further pressure on anyone.

In parallel it is time to get an appropriate therapist to work with S on a long term basis. This will be someone who understands adoption and attachment. T will get some names and prepare a funding request for the Vale. If we want to arrange something privately in the meantime, that’s up to us, but it has to be someone appropriate and we have to understand this has been a long time building and will take a long time to fix, not a couple of sessions.

Family Life

What They Don’t Prepare You For

It’s a job.
It’s rubbish.
It will bring external influences into your home and life.
It is largely thankless.
It will be destructive.
It will take you to your lowest.
You will be known, looked at and judged.
You will know the police.
It will impact your day job.
Your children will be disliked.
You will be continually lied to.
Your things will be stolen.
They will break your heart.

Family Life

Coping Mechanisms

There is no beginning to this, and realistically there will be no end. So I’ll dive straight into it and try to paint the fuller picture and fill in the background as we go.

I’m compelled to take to written words today of all days because we are just over five years into this, and while I know there has been progress, today is one of those days that remind me just how much damage there is, and how readily that clouds my judgement.

What makes today of all days even more difficult is my questioning my partner’s actions and approach. Is it hindering our family? Slowing things down? Making things worse even? Are we as parents being manipulated: divided and now finally conquered?

So this morning after I’d left the house for work, it transpires world war three kicked off. And for me, the worse thing is not being there to play my part, to reassure myself that everything that can be done is being done, and is being done appropriately, that mistakes aren’t being made. I default to finding and claiming the guilt every time.

I’ve learned that everything I desire is a reaction to the things that happen to me and make me feel out of control. The simple-seeming bird guardian on Country File that I suddenly and inexplicably fall for is a reaction to the complexity of my day that day. The simple life calls to me through every available lens.

I’ve decided that I’m a control freak and there is nothing wrong with that. It’s been instrumental in my career.

I like to be prepared for all eventualities but this is unrealistic.

It’s ok to feel happy, excited and disappointed. Don’t suppress the feelings for risk of getting hurt.

I over analyse the same things and totally miss others. I need to be more decisive and then move on. Maybe mindfulness will help me do this.

I’ve decided to dedicate the next two years to helping my family be safe, heal and grow as close as possible util our boys are young men.

I can’t fix every relationship and I need to get better at knowing when to intervene, when to coach and when to back away.

I take things too seriously. Maybe if I can be more relaxed and fun, those around me can be too.

Maybe my reflection will help you. That would be nice.

Family Life


As I write off the rest of my working day and appear at the school my partner works in, I notice the Restorative Justice aide memoirs hanging on a lanyard around his neck. The irony isn’t lost on me. Being a practitioner and professional in a particular field doesn’t mean that managing the behaviours of your own children is any easier than for other parents.

The next day, and my finely crafted plan to get everyone to their respective places of study and work has failed. I’m a twin down. During these scenarios I use a risk assessment approach. What is the worse that could happen? He’s thirteen now. Chronologically anyway. Still eleven in many aspects. And positively primeval when things aren’t going his way. He has an over developed amygdala and I mustn’t forget that. So he’s not going to wander into the road and get killed. He could get picked up by the police and brought back to me, waiting for him in the house where I’ve told him I will be when he’s ready. He returns ten minutes later. He tries to take his school bag and phone. I distract him with the offer of a cuppa. Ten minutes later his head lifts and his eyes open, and for the first time in about 30 minutes (feels like a day) he can see and hear me.

While I’ve been waiting, checking and adjusting my body language to be open to him when he is ready, I’ve been running through my contingency plan and selecting the option that best matches this scenario. It’s part of my risk management approach that stops me feeling panicked and helpless. I know that today of all days I can afford to reschedule things in work. In that alone lies a silver lining: he has chosen a good day for a melt-down. It’s one I can work with.

London Shorts

Finding Jon John

I’d spotted Jonathan John some time before introducing myself to him. He’d been standing in the Golden Cross with a likely looking bunch of older chaps whom I immediately assumed to be in some king of group thing with him. My head on a Saturday night: not a savoury place to be.

I must have been with Blanche and Phil because I discussed Jon with them, rating him out of ten. But that’s another story.

At the next meeting, I was stood in Exit with some piece of trailer trash in a white vest hanging off my right arm and swaying to the music because I’d made the mistake of smiling at her at the precise same moment her pill kicked in. I had immediately become her new best friend and had to do something drastic to reverse the situation. Jon came swanning past with a chap that turned out to be his Sister Paul, and I made eye contact. A flash of inspiration later, and Jon became my perfect excuse to get rid of the trash.  I told her something along the lines of having to excuse me because I needed to go and chat to that gorgeous bit of stuff in the corner if it was the last thing I ever did.

With that, I walked over to Jon, put on my best pulling smile (it never failed), and issued the immortal killer line that gets them every time: “Hi, I’m Scott.” As if he had spent all his life trying to find out who I was. It was the most important thing he could acquire knowledge of. Jon returned the introductions. Having successfully dumped the trash, I had to follow through with what I’d started, so I asked if Paul was his boyfriend. Jon politely informed me that he wasn’t, and that he didn’t have a boyfriend. So all that was left for me to do was to ask if he would go on a date with me sometime.  The date offer works every time, and this occasion was no exception I’m pleased to say.

London Shorts

Following Pete Burns

I think we’d been to see Pete Burns do two or three songs at the Red Cap in Camden, the night I met Rob Dakin. We were certainly at the Red Cap, but I’m struggling with the performer. It may have been Lola Lasagne but I think she came later. So let’s go with Pete Burns because at that time Martin and I were following him around London via Ministry of Sound and G.A.Y, forming a part of his very loyal fan base, which amounted to about 20 people in total back then.

Pete had done a set consisting of a handful of songs, which was short but something, and we were about to leave as we were all due in work the next day, so it must have been a Thursday night and the weekend had just started. I’d made eye contact with Rob during the performance. A few pints later, as we were about to leave, that old devil called lust rose in me and I strode back towards Rob at the stage, and invited him on a date. The good old fashioned date offer. It works every time.

We only lasted a few weeks through December 1995. Rob wanted something I couldn’t give him. At least that’s what he said when he was crying down the phone to me one night, drunk and drugged up. It was the night after I’d been to the Daniel Poole album launch party at Mr C.’s new club The End on West Central Street with Martin, and therefore I was very hung over and very embarrassed and had some apologising to do to the girls up the road, so I took what Rob had to say quite easily and said a polite goodbye.

Incidentally, I’d also just discovered Commander Tom’s Are Am Eye on the promo CD that they’d given us as we left The End (me in Martin’s arms, prior to projectile vomiting up an escalator at Liverpool Street Station). Martin had been trying to find out what that track was for weeks, so it my finding it helped with my apology. Although I don’t think it made up fully for my displays at The End, including security having to drag me off the dance floor, but it went someway, I’m sure.

Talking of Pete Burns, his autobiography angers me. He is full of bull! Having personally witnessed him slagging off Debbie Harry at the Ministry of Sound as an introduction to singing her song Picture This – “Has anyone seen the state on Debbie Harry lately?!” – I find it hard to swallow him coming over so nice about her in his book, saying no-one understands her.

London Shorts

Meeting Rollo

The night I met Rollo was so unlikely that I’m amazed to this day it happened. It was a Monday night, Faithless were booked to play their first live gig at the Camden Jazz Cafe, and I’d bought my ticket about four weeks prior. Come the Monday night, of course I was feeling ill because Martin and I had been caning it in FF the night before. But more than usual, I actually had the flu.

When I got back to the flat that evening, I really wasn’t up to going out again, but Martin convinced me. So I dragged myself to Camden for the advertised 7pm start, only to find that Faithless weren’t going to be on until at least 9pm. I had a choice: go home, which is what I felt like doing, or make like fish and hang around for Faithless. So I ended up in Comptons, supping Guiness and enjoying being eyed up by the tourists. Some pints of guiness later and my flu in remission, I headed back to Camden and took my place at the back of the venue, hoping to avoid the onslaught.

Regardless of what history tells us, there was no onslaught, and when Rollo strolled past me on his way to hide at the back of the venue, I grabbed him and told him how fabulous I thought he was, and we got chatting. He took umbrage at the amount of money I was paying for the promo versions of his records, and promised to put me on his record label’s mailing list. Then he introduced me to Sister Bliss.

Rollo made his excuses and hid at the back of the venue as his band came on. The gig was intimate and beautiful.  When I caught up with Rollo afterwards, I commented on the singers who had joined Maxi Jazz, and he proudly explained that his sister Dido had joined the band for the night (Dido famously was paid a curry for her work that night).

Meanwhile, I had been doing my usual ‘making eye contact’ with some guy who turned out to be one of Rollo’s best mates, and we ended up arranging a date before Rolle took me to the band for autographs.

The date happened but, unfortunatelty, didn’t go anywhere, mainly because I was so in awe of someone who was not only best mates with Rollo but also had shared a squat with Boy George and was best friends with Leigh Bowery… that I felt like I’d arrived at a party two hours too late and the best thing was to go home. So I did. Happy times though.

London Shorts

The First Rebirth

Jones & Stephenson – The First Rebirth. I must admit that I can’t remember actually hearing this in Club X one Friday night, but I must have loved it because the next morning Andre the DJ dragged me into Spillers Records and gave me a list of records that I had to have because I’d insisted the night before, and this was one of them.

I took it home and, having admired the simplicity of the Prolekult house sleeve, put it on the decks that Andre had loaned me, and listened to it over and over with a bottle of poppers up one nostril, and my boyfriend Buzz watching TV in the next room. Buzz kept checking I was alright. I didn’t bother trying to mix the record in with anything else that evening. Not only did I not know how to mix yet, but nothing else that I had would have justified it. It just opened up a whole new world of techno for me.

The twelve inch record that I got has mixes by Red Jerry and Baby Doc & The Dentist, and these artists were to influence my record buying for the next few years, and well into the London scene. That twelve inch is precious to me.

East India Poetry

The Flowers In Your Garden

Your garden on the corner
sits and waits to alure
to lead astray
innocent passers by.
You cannot live the scents
you won’t survive without the roses
the blossoms around you.
They must smother you
and others
are drawn in through the
red bushes and the yellow bushes
scattered in your Heaven.
Flowers surveying the wind
and sending out “love” and “peace”
and “be what you want”
“who you are.”
Like alcohol it works everytime.
For why not? Led in drawn into your garden.
Deeper and further on the grass
through the stalks
fresh the smell of Vermouth
in my mouth and my mind.
Hitting and tickling
“Come on! Come further! Come in!” said the spider…
I believe in me
and all I do
I have confidence
these beautiful flowers all around me
tell of cool things and nice tunes
and wonderful things like those…
then I draw I too am led astray
one more sip and I’ll be away
but am stopped.
Your garden triumphs once again
on the corner
down the road and full of pretty flowers.

East India Poetry

Frozen Ices

Blind I am, and
Deaf I am, and
Dumb though I trip go
The smells get over,
No odour more spelling
Than that rumaging
In your empty stomache.
The boy you never knew
Rushes past and pushes
Foreign jellied smells
Upon your memory
You never knew,
But now you do
And you never shall forget
The beauty. The want.
Day alleys down wander
Stunned and stenches
Made niceties by powder
Muffling the horrid odour
And weaning it to your
Tase. How nice it is,
Frozen ices.

East India Poetry

Left Evidence


East India Poetry

Curl Up And Die

2 nights running
the bird with the cobalt blue
beak and neck which this family
had acquired as new
sat in the north-west corner
of whichever room we chose
to inhabit, so it couldn’t run
or escape to its fatal foes.

but the bird who couldn’t run
as long as it was sat
in a northern westerly corner
looked grim, sad and flat.

I loved the thing so unknown
that I shouted at my world
and upon the first acceptable thing
I loved, myself I hurled…
“I love you, don’t go”
but it was cruelty
and only the blindness of charity
is too stuborn to see.

so I put it in a Southern corner
to see if it could fly.
the following morning I cried
to see the bird curl up and die.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry


down here is close and stale
and egg-like, my head is
small and tense and tight.
down near by you is
dense with breath filled air,
loud ambience upon my ears.
of what line of fault did
you become to keep me here,
my kept head fears this dark
lit brown – your presence –
I would not see by choice.
sat tucked and tired, my
ear drums ache with dread
for final death, the crumble and
approach that is your voice.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry


what will I wear,
what shall I wear,
what shall I do with my hair?
I’ll wear my black,
my sweet, and we’ll smoke
’til the smoke comes
out our ears. we will

clamber out of the valley,
climb up the mountain,
my feet will drink the grass
and our breath will evaporate.

you tie a bow
so it sits on your head,
then we’ll dance ’til
the steam rises
from our feet and evaporates.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

Raindown The Window

He peed against the trough
like rain against the roof.
Take me there.
Newspaper cutting walls
and drunken acoustic balls.
Take me anywhere.
She smiled so sweetly
whilst pursing her lips, neatly.
Her head nodded once
and twice, four times,
rotating, my head followed
while my inners swallowed.
The walls nodded; bottles bowed;
the ceiling too; all joined in.
Speak deep – speak in my head,
grind your tones in my throat.
Too hot. Sleeves
too long – cast aside my coat.
Rain down the window
like steam on my showered forehead.
Body odours killed and dead
but still the toilet stinks.
It’s all too dirty – he thinks,
and slams the door out of there.
Take me anywhere.
Bum perched, in training,
she sat, legs curled under the pinning
of her piece of skirt.
Yet who when it’s she
who believes that I’m empty?
I am full of alcohol –
my veins injected pure and full.
She is the original angry young cat
and she hates me!

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry


the movement in my arm from warm
to gradual chilled existence as the
nerves begin to wake and regain sense.
both limbs recapture consciousness as
I again can breath, under flourescence.
lights, above my body, show me tense.
pinned down like an insect but not beautiful,
not similar to a butterfly,
but still, it is of course my own fault.
I should hide and not exist – be numb,
no blood, just dumb, or dead, my curse
that I am made of flesh instead of salt.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

Little Things

little things please little minds
if you can get them up,
if you can find a mouth to fit
your dreams tonight.
chase the length and
breadth of me,
cut the wires in my back,
and waken me tonight.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

Spontaneous Human Combustion

explosive character – you ruined my night!
I bought you a drink and you went and combusted.
clever tricks like that aren’t perfected overnight,
your love for cabaret has made you lusted.
attention seeker, in death as in life,
as ever, you left ’em crying for more.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

One More Taste

don’t look at me,
I’ll only laugh;
you’ll say I’m such a waste.
don’t touch my tongue,
when I say stop,
don’t ask for one more taste.
just one more drop,
you’ll have to stop…
great errors made in haste.

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

Instant Bereavement

What would you like?
All I can make is tea.
What shall I say – all
I can think is lines of words.
I’ll wash the dishes. You just
sit there and have a drink
while I tidy up this mess –
It saves me having to think.
Did I actually sleep six hours?
Has all that time passed by
like Christmas Eve, and morning
has arrived sudden but awaited.
Fed up with my company
am I now – I can’t think why.
I could go out, I could sleep,
drink, write, cry, die.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar

The Inner Within

I’ve been as fas as I can go,
but only with myself.

through the physics of love
and mental breakdown;
depression and petulance;
I have been within.

I cannot believe a love for me
possessed by someone else.
it cannot be and shall not see
the light of my heart.
I’ve been as close as I dare go
to that fickle flame,
and only I will feel its cold…

Poetry Show Biz Superstar


what shall I do?
whatever it is,
it won’t involve you.
whereever I go,
away from here
where you can’t know,

whatever I chance,
are you threatened
by my independance?

there’s me and thee
and me and myself.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar


through the doors of bedrooms
you can hear my songs.
if you listen close enough
you can hear my heart.
I fill pages of books
with thoughts about you,
still I live off your looks,
my tongue set alight.
through the folds in my jeans
you touch where I feel,
as cootchie as ten bears,
my god, I could hug you!
but you must love me
from your heart
before you can tear me apart.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar

Go Home To Mother

even his long-time love
who said she’d never desert him
has failed him.
where is she now the line has cleared?
the warmth is cut like ice, for
she is cruel and cold – he’s bitter.
this flaxon haired – and bonny-built
lad has saved one hundred pages
in his diary for her.
she shows no emotion.
all pinafore strings are severed,
cut with blades of frozen sweat,
he falls apart from long-time lover:
he could always go home to mother.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar


morning sweetness!
I woke today
with you on my mind.
while hot and bothered
I felt your arms
as I showered.
hot and horny I
thanked my stars
I had woken without
you on my pillow,
and I hadn’t been raised
on “Ask The Family”
or you might have slept
with me in my bed
and there could have been
a hot-crossed bun
in the oven by now.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar

I’ll Phone You

I’ll phone you from work –
I’ll feel safer there.
my brain will be on,
have been exercised
and I’ll be amongst
fellow people and machines
that will rush together
to support my mass
if I fall from the chair
when I hear you speak.
I’ll stay late and I’ll phone
where I’m safe and sound;
where you’ll be a voice
like the others thru’ the day.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar


you like talking
and the sound of your voice.
I like listening and playing your accent.
you give what you want
and I take what I need.
now smell the curries and valium
and mountains of cream in my teas.
how I’d love to cry
but there’s nothing to cry for;
and I grow everytime
in a charming, sensitive way.

Poetry Show Biz Superstar


I could have been a model,
so I haven’t been told:
I do not have a neck
which could commercially
be sold.
it’s been said
that I have not the head
with correct structure,
the bones are scaffolded,
my skin is folded,
the cheeks are tucked:
my modelling career is
not very promising.

Glass Box In Vision Poetry

Glass Box In Vision – Part 3

I wilt and I thin
For glassier days,
Of insects on the playground.
Sun scorched tarmac
Warm to my heart,
My golden childhood crowned.

The valleys of grey
Beckon me on
To the snow and deep stiring streams.
But gone are the days
Of daisy flood hills
Left in the oakend and ashen dreams.

This power of attorney lays down my life,
Thus, my life I must lay down too.

Glass Box In Vision Poetry

Glass Box In Vision – Part 2

Oh’ man in the moon…
Thou art lunatic,
In looks,
In race,
And in mind.

Oh’ you are so distant
From this body,
From others,
In sight
And in mind.

But between two globes
Of lumining myst,
My heart lies,
I live not…
…I don’t mind.

Glass Box In Vision Poetry

Glass Box In Vision – Part 1

To calm my heart
And quench my need,
Hold me close to your harvest seed.

Give me what
Belongs to me
I want you now obsessively.

Then when I die
On your piercing knife-

At least take comfort that you gave me life.

Glass Box In Vision Poetry

Glass Box In Vision

Glass Box In Vision cover
Glass Box In Vision was produced in 1985

Poetry Show Biz Superstar

Show Biz Superstar

Show Biz Superstar cover
A selection from “Show Biz Superstar”
by Scott Hill.
Originally 81 works spanning August 1988 – August 1990
Executive producer: Bobby Bristol for Scottsburg Productions 1990
Artwork by Alma Weldon and Scott.
Published by SCH copyright on all titles 6th September 1990

Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

Fat Cat’s First Book

Fat Cat's First Book cover
Fat Cat’s work is copyright April 1989 S.C Hill
Originally a Rush Job production for Scottsburg Productions.

East India Poetry

East India

East India cover
A selection of East Indian overtones.
East India was published in 1987 by Scott Hill.
Copyright S.C Hill 1987, Patent S.C Hill 1991