in the future when the electricity stops

the electronic screens into the world have shutdown

in a darkened room which is sauna hot

where candlelight casts dancing shadows about the wall

I will take my old Olivetti from the cupboard

its old ribbon re-inked with a home made concoction

I will type a poem like this, about the end of civilisation


my window will be my last remaining screen

looking out over the encroaching salt marshes

the snaking sea grasses and rushes that rise like spears

the sun, red as a blood orange, will float on the horizon

menacing, as the mouth of a smelter, from my days in the foundry

the reds, oranges and whites of liquid metal

poured spitting anger and fury into a crucible


I will wonder what creature will dominate after man

a quivering biological blob, resembling a children’s toy

or some dextrous anthropoidal crustacean, of sharp intelligence

either will do better than man, whose intelligence

became peacock feathers for decorative display, who

unable to adapt, tried to adapt the world to his needs

is now victim of his own evolutionary flaws


my poem in a bottle, I will cast into the marshes

where it will survive for countless aeons

until a spidery hand plucks it from the marsh

or maybe digs it up while foraging, eyeballs it in wonder

that what the creature had discovered

looked like the work of some primitive intelligence

a message or maybe a warning, out of the distant past


I will sigh and look up at the seemingly permanent stars

which once had a beauty that filled a man with awe

are now mocking him with their indifference

as the tide begins to lap about my feet

the end is no biblical revelation, there is no indignant god

smiting  sinners and sparing the righteous

just incremental disintegration and decay


my poem already on its journey into the future

I will open my last bottle of whisky and watch

silver clouds frothing up like boiling mercury

billowing and belching from the underworld

orange-read flames fanned across the swamps and marshes

as a new and yet unknown creature scurries

comfortable in its habitat, across the swamp





she was sat upon a suburban garden wall

a wholesome girl selling unwholesome thoughts

nature gives a man little choice in this

he can raise his behaviour to a higher level

but his imagination remains firmly in the gutter


I heard her speak before she spoke

educated, home counties, fully formed vowels

no thees and thas or wat’s thy on abowts

the sort of girl a mother hopes her son brings home

someone who could give her boasting rights


with hands on hips, in haughty pose 

splendid breasts and her pelvis thrust

presenting herself as she might for a lover

no mother would want this for her son 

but every son would want this wildest dream 


she’s sex, with Wittgenstein on her side

she has diplomas to prove it and a head full of ideas

a mind that is sharp as a blade and a tongue

with whimsical convolutions that put you at ease

then you’re sliced and diced, in the nicest possible way


so what a man gets is not what the man sees

the delicate damsel in need of his protection

is tough as a nut, hustling from job to job

clear eyed and sharply focused, she pitches

confident in the quality of her goods


but you remain a sucker for her charms

the thought, if there were less years between

if somehow youth had not been betrayed by age

still, you have her photo and thoughts of what might have been

if only the fates and chronology, had been on your side





Muse is a drama written in poetry from the point of view of an artist's Muse, after which the collection of poems is titled.  The poems in the collection are both experience and fictions but it is difficult to say where experience ends and fiction begins. Celebratory, lusty, cynical and love weary, these poems are sexual relationships with daggers.


sample poem: Maggie


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The Dead Centre Of The Universe And Other Places


This collection begins with a small series of poems about when the poet moved to and arrived in Leeuwarden. The other poems are poems that were written over the years and never fitted into a project, places visited, experiences experienced and musings.


(sample) Old Fart  


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Explaining women 

A collection of poems are based on a mixture of fact, fiction, memory, gossip and myth. Where reality end and the imagination begins? Kow towing to political correctness has no place in this collection, a rake's progress of poems.


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email me for any purchase. keithbrighouse@yahoo.com