The Songbook

This is your opportunity to express yourself. I know there are many frustrated poets and writers out there who always looking for a vehicle to display their work, well this is it. All you have to do is simply mail me your compositions at be they songs, poems, articles or prose and I will endevour to display them on line. Anything I get sent will go on with the author's name and contact if they so wish unless I find it to be blatantly awful or offensive. Creative outputs will appear here, music reviews or articles in the particular artist's section.

Still no problem here

Where are you? You know I get claustrophobic when I can't feel you near, can't wait for your touch to get it over. Can still feel the breakfast you made me slipping down inside. Where are you? Can still hear the empty child laughter echoing from your misleading adult exterior. My crab-like escapes keep me from apportioning blame, my compulsive defenses save me from realization. I thread and puff.

Where is she? She's telling them there's still no problem here as I hide under the stairs and under my skin - thin, but masking, adjust my clothes, crawl out and whimper "there's still no problem here." Where is she? The door is closed, her back is turned and I escape, my physical form disowned and forgotten. I fly with fairies that beat away bad dreams that come day after day.

Where are they? Rolled and huddled, guilty and dirty, am I not enough anymore? Can still hear them crying as I float away patiently awaiting my temporary release.

Where am I? Not here, not with you, not I, some gross impostor. Who would dare get so close? not I - not safe. I thread and puff and tell myself there's still no problem here.

by Robert Porter

Whose world?

Please don't envelope me in your love, you don't understand, just hold.

There are so many words I could say that would make such a difference to two seconds of your simple little day.

I walked through the computer generated town today, physically present but worlds away. Born was I, the first they say, to live a life, no more may take.

by Robert Porter

The teaching of decadence

In the classroom we teach the beauty of nature. We teach morality under the guise of Religious education. At home we give our children an excuse to exist, we breathe life into them and then show them how to get through life without seeing its perceived emptiness. We use Christianity as a mark of the devil and enjoy temptation under its banner We force this upon our children because we are too scared to take responsibility for our own lives The fruits of Darwin's labours can be seen weekly on 'Blind Date'.

by Robert Porter


I'll drag you down the pavement, screaming, if need be. Suffering convulsions, bleeding, pleading for security.

I'll sever all your ties, disintegrate your life line and murder your family. To rescue you from your dominant, destructive side, but will it be worthwhile?

Does death hold for you less fear than becoming yourself? You have always been becoming to me.

I'll ask you what you want and don't lie to me again. I can turn you inside out, as you do me.

Don't shield or hide yourself, this time you can trust. Nothing's your fault. I will not let you fall again.

I am what I aspire to be, but you could be much more than me.

by Robert Porter

Dusk Is My Break In the Clouds

3am and the darkness is too bright for my eyes as my hesistant breathing starts to curdle.

Disabled and clean, the sweat from my dream,

Anoints and distempers the sheets.

The paper thin walls carry the showpiece sounds of this museum of nature's backlog.

Echoes in my head, and trapped in my bed;

My torture chamber of dripping taps.

Dawn dances in to bring relief to my mind, as if on cue the soldiers arrive.

Efficiently bright, they cancel the night,

But dusk is my break in the clouds.

by Robert Porter

Husbandry Potentia

There's a line up, to all intents and purposes - of identicle candidates.

Still you wind up, making an objective decision - based on physical attributes.

You choose the one with the least on his mind, a good man we all know is hard to find. Chosen by a strict criteria -a direct condition of those that beat ya.

With his short back, straight sides and hidden mind - his train arrives on time.

Still he's not there, with work on his mind - whilst you divest your life.

You choose the one with the weakest of minds, a bad man we all know comes through in hard times. Chosen by a strict dress code - the man who ignores the one for the road.

by Robert Porter