Long ago, there lived a shaman.

This shaman had power and influence in his tribe, derived from his healing powers and spiritual enlightenment.

After his death, the shaman’s children were revered, although some of them didn’t show the same wisdom as their father. However, the shaman had bestowed upon each of them magical stones and metals that no normal mortal possessed. These stones and metals were imbued with his power; a power they could use to protect and lead the tribe.

This was not simple mythology. The fact that power was truly held by rare stones and metals could be proven. Occasionally, someone who was not a direct descendant, would find these materials in nature (obviously bestowed by some god or other, to show their favour), and thereafter they too would hold power.

Indeed, sometimes a great warrior, who had been of service to one who held such items, would be rewarded with a small magic stone, or even something fashioned from the magical metal, as a reward. This, in turn, bestowed some level of its power upon the favoured individual, though obviously, the chieftains kept most of the talismans.

Over centuries the tribe grew large and powerful, thanks to the stored magic, and many of the stones and artefacts were bestowed on sub-chiefs and generals, to give them the magic needed to rule their people. These people would then give the holder goods and services, and work his land, in return for protection from evil spirits, demons and unseen enemies.

It soon became clear that some loyal tribesmen deserved lesser rewards than a whole magic stone or artefact, so they were given chips, or small amounts of the magical metal. Since the holders of these mini talismans were often not powerful enough to use them for the good of the whole tribe, they would sometimes exchange their magical influence with neighbours, for goods or services.

Eventually, this behaviour became so widespread that many people had some small talisman with which to dominate those who held no magic at all.

Then, one day, a chief noticed that his own stock of artefacts had become depleted. He realised that he was in danger of no longer being the most powerful wizard in the land, but he came up with a brilliant idea. It occurred to him that he could keep most of his magic to himself, if he gave out the smaller favours in the form of tokens made of base metals, with the promise to swap them out for the real thing if enough were accumulated.

Remarkably, it seemed this system worked. The people had such faith in magic that they would obey and compete for tokens, in the hope of one day having real power themselves.

Rather ingeniously, this ‘king’ even managed to convince the populace that, to receive his protection in the meantime, they must return some of the tokens along with their other tributes. This idea wasn’t so readily embraced, but thugs were sent out to beat and imprison any who refused to comply with this absurd notion, and over time it was accepted.

Unfortunately, as the people became more desperate for personal power, the poorest amongst them became jealous, demanding tokens for themselves in return for their labour and produce. Before long, it became impractical to carry sacks of tokens around, and the richest started to demand real talismans from the kings, as promised.

Still not willing to relinquish their power, the kings once again devised a clever plan. Most people now saw the tokens themselves as real magic, the problem being the need for a cart to transport them in large quantities. To relieve this issue the kings suggested that, rather than exchanging for the real talismans, which could also be cumbersome in quantity, they would issue the wealthy with letters instead. These notes would promise the most favoured power and access to the magic, without the need to transport heavy metals and stones.

It soon became clear that the magic was so powerful that even a note promising access to it could convey the power itself. In truth, by this time the people had all but forgotten the talismanic shamanic powers that the items carried. Most people believed the promissory notes were, in themselves, the power.

Noticing this, the kings decided to try an experiment. Since those who held the notes rarely demanded the core magical materials anymore, they decided to issue more notes than they could back up. This meant, of course, that they could double, or even triple their power, without the people ever realising that they were in no position to fulfil their promises. They no longer simply held the bequeathed magic of the shaman; their own ingenuity had increased their power exponentially.

Again, this plan worked spectacularly well. The people built machines to keep track of the promissory notes for them. Drunk on their own power, the leaders took their biggest risk yet. Perhaps people didn’t even need the notes. Perhaps just knowing how many notes you were owed would be enough!

Familiarity breeds contempt, and by now so many people owned the notes that they had forgotten the magic that powered them. They ignored the proof of their own experience, which saw spectacular feats carried out by the magic of the notes, declaring instead that it was an entirely rational response to obey those who held them. In the absence of a shamanistic faith, they fell back on that final, unavoidable, mystical code — mathematics. The power did not lay in the magic of kings, but in the numbers themselves.

People and events could be controlled by simply exchanging numbers, representing notes, promising tokens, which promised far more magical stones and talismans than had ever existed in the real world. Those in power could not believe their luck, but they had to be careful. Some people had accumulated very large numbers on their machines. There had been wars and revolutions to overthrow the power of those who held the most, and some of the peasantry now held even more numbers than the leaders. It became necessary to become more cunning. Those who hoarded the real magic had to pretend to be ‘of the people’, claiming they were protecting the magic on behalf of everyone else.

Since most people had no idea how magic works, this ploy succeeded, yet the leaders still found that their peers might accrue greater numbers than they held themselves. Clearly, they could not effectively rule this way, so they added yet another layer of obfuscation, whereby, in return for use of the magic, their peers would loan them some of their numbers. In fact, it soon became clear that leaders didn’t even really need to borrow numbers; it was enough to know people who had enough to potentially lend them and were willing to express their intent to do so.

Perhaps they underestimated the willingness of humanity to embrace paradox, for it seems they did not predict that people granted a wish might wish for more wishes. Soon, the people approached by the leaders to promise their numbers, used the magic granted in return to alter the world in ways that enabled them to gain and hold more numbers. The numbers became so large that their magic could accomplish anything. With enough numbers, and enough people offering ideas and labour in return for numbers, humanity learned to fly. The magic of large enough numbers, and the combined efforts of people who would do anything for them, could hurl people to the moon and bring them home. It could split atoms and devastate whole populations. It could build devices to at once connect and isolate people all over the world.

There is no limit. The magic of the shaman’s numbers can compel people to kill, and without his numbers we must starve.

As it’s UNESCO World Poetry Day today, I’m posting for the second time this week. Shocking, I know.

This is a recording I made for the Red Door Gallery in Copenhagen, as part of their permanent ‘Poetic Phonoteque’ collection. It is a recitation of my poem Atman, read over my own 2013 ambient track of the same name.

ATMAN


There is void, infinite expanse.
It is alone; always the same.
Then it occurred.
A thought; the very first.
There was existence without thought,
but now also existence with.
So, there was a difference,
a wrinkle in the timeless pool,
a reflection in the perfect stillness.

An echo of the void, repeating back and back,
forming the idea into a pattern
that it not be lost once more in the blank expanse.
A swirl, a coil; reflected in itself,
echoing itself, perceiving itself,
stretching on and on throughout itself.

Can an echo hear itself, or must there be more?
Attention moved throughout the field,
examining detail, then drawing back to glimpse the whole,
and found that the patterns drew together
under scrutiny and thought.

Looking again at the first,
the wrinkle that had begun this course,
I focused tight 'til it burned with bright energy,
and from within that light, looking outward,
it became apparent:
all ideas can be arranged, organised,
as glaring points in the field of infinite reflections,
rapidly expanding, increasing,
dividing into grand monuments to the question.
Huge swirls reflecting and mimicking,
in larger and larger formation,
until the tiny coil, repeated forever, and forming the source of all reflection,
shrinks beyond comprehension.

It was but a model; a way to grasp a concept.
Unsubstantial, it threatened return to nothing,
but I squeezed, and focussed,
clinging to the diagram, lacking alternatives,
because I dreamed it may mean a thing.
Skipping from star to star, witnessing, analysing,
I discovered comparison,
as sense was surely found within division of perception.
One can see meaning only from outside.

There were similarities; I tried to catalogue,
form covens here and there; pathways of views that held promise.
But with each new idea a star was born.
A reflection of infinity can never be less.
My obsession to focus a single point,
to try to regain the initial thought,
as it shrank to realms beyond perception.

Over and over, I abandoned the expanse,
to dive deeper and deeper
into the pool of the singular.
Every singular.
But still, it was futile.
I must find precision.
Be only one, to grasp the whole.
But infinity cannot be less than all,
so, one by one I was all things.

As I dove, deeper and deeper,
watching the infinite reflect, swirl, recede,
I divided attention,
separating, to view only from source.
I strove to disassociate, forget the myriad,
favour the singular goal.
Many times I failed, but my quest consumed me.
Sensations were overwhelming.
I battled on, diving further into the oppressive tunnel,
until I came to warm darkness.

Driving all other from my mind,
I wallowed in the pressure, the heat, the stillness, the rhythm.
I took time, to examine the depth I had reached,
pulling together the views to a pinpoint,
striving to forget infinite pools and options.
Gathering strength, building armour, for the next step of descent.
Excluding the other for elusive lucidity.

But each time I felt the goal approach,
a morning star just out of reach,
all flooded back.
I pounded the horrors of infinity into bricks;
drowning in sensations, deafened by sound, blinded by light, screaming pain.
I saw them outside, signals of the other.
Rested and heroic in my insular shell,
I prepared to dive once more; a falling angel.
My strength lay in division;
I could view reflections from my shell,
knowing they need not intrude on my quest.

And so, with a howl of agony and intent, I charged onward
seeking the Holy spark,
into an unending blinding storm of everything.
From another position, even deeper
within a different pool, wherein I divided the lines more sharply,
I observed this mighty exertion from beyond,
stating “It's a boy”.

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Keep On Pumping

One hundred and six kilos
of meat, blubber and wiry hair.
Pressure mounting; actions; reactions
as crumbling ivory grinds.
Steel tendons straining,
cracking bone, and leaking marrow.

Gravity dragging like quicksand,
it's subtle force crushing,
as chemistry battles nature
to tease open canals of slick red heat.
To wrestle the grey slug,
where mind clings to a phantom of vitality.
Youth.
Energy.
Clarity.

Scarred bellows threaten collapse
with every stinging inhalation.
Wallowing in damp flannelette gasps.
Drawing a muddy memory of breath.
Fragile cartilage creaks and clicks,
as potions burn in gullet.

The lumbering creature flounders,
energy spent through years of disarray.
Focus; a fantastic beast
glimpsed through fogged and cracked glass.
Names and faces blurred to one
leave debris of bewildered distress
and a muffled clatter of voices,
heard, but lost in a thick mire
of ancient feculent compost.
Grasping for thought in it's felted cell,
finding only fleeting clues
and an abstract carousel of dimly lit hopes.

And yet, it is so unspeakably tiny.
Helpless; inconsequential.
How did time lay so much weight
on such a fragile spark?
So much expectation
on such a flimsy web?

The one remaining dream:
to keep on pumping.




Richard Temple 11th August 2020

First published in Red Door Magazine, issue 24 (Autumn 2020)
Red Door Magazine

Set in the twilight years of the Jacobean era, Richard Temple’s epic romantic ballad follows the story of Elizabeth, a miller’s daughter, betrothed to William, wealthy heir to a sprawling estate.

Can a simple country girl, whose heart lies deep within the Royal Forest of Melksham, find her place amongst the landed gentry?

Occupying an elusive space between formal Romanticism and the ambiguity of Folk-Horror, The Bryde of Melksham Woode is an intimate tale of arboreal love.

‘A real tour de force’ - Dr Paul Wright

‘Richard is no lightweight’ - Kemlyn Tan Bappe (author of Between the Lines)

This is a limited edition produced in honour of Morecambe Poetry Festival 2025. Copies are £12 from Richard Temple. To order go to paypal.me/magicktemple/12 - make sure to include your address!

Limited edition art prints of the illustrations are also available for £5 each, or £20 for a set of five. Contact the author to make sure copies are available!

Fiction Publications

Live reading of Winter Sacrifice (fiction) at TiF Summit 2026 (YouTube Link)

Poetry Recordings

Tall Tales of Aging, at Confessions of Creative Minds 2024 (full performance recording) (YouTube Link)

Morecambe Poetry Festival 2023 (YouTube Link)

Unorthodox Paradox on Sea (YouTube Link)

Date With “The Fertile Brains” (online): Xmas Eve 2024 (YouTube Link)

The Fertile Brains (online) - Poets Speak of Poets, Ep05. Reading Dr. John Cooper Clarke. (2024) (YouTube Link)

Poetry Publications

The Bryde of Melksham Woode (print only)

Jack in the Box (print only - sold out)

Threads Into Streams - Rips Into Mends (print only anthology)

The Morecambe Poetry Festival Anthology vol. 3 (print only)

Flapping Doodles: Droll Domestic Poems (anthology - print or Kindle)

Beyond the Horizon (print only anthology - only available in India)

The Morecambe Poetry Festival Anthology vol. 2 (print only)

Tranquillity (anthology - hardback or paperback print, or Kindle)

The Morecambe Poetry Festival Anthology Vol. 1 (print only)

Animal, Vegetable, Mineral (anthology - print or Kindle)

Paradise Vol. 2 No. 5. (Japanese journal of Haiku - sold out)

Journal of Expressive Writing (online literary journal)

Wuxing Lyrical (Anthology - print or Kindle)

Song of Peace (print only anthology - only available in India)

They Want All Our Teeth To Be Theirs (print only anthology)

Places of Poetry (online)

Red Door Magazine (print or online literary journal)

Other Publications

Lyrical Poems (poetry collection by Gobinda Biswas with foreword by Richard Temple - print or Kindle)

What do we do

if words are not enough?

What do we say

if hope is not enough?



What do we do?



Clawing out of flesh.

Howling into the shadows of space,

where nobody hears

a baby cry.



Try, hard

not to think.

Pass time.

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What will they say?

A man of little consequence

passed, like a ghost,

leaving no trace.


Actions, words, absurd thought —

he ought to, for sure,

have amounted to more.


The only trace —

a broken track

through bracken.


Fractured promises,

fatuous premises —

only wounds to mark his wake.


His heart was in the wrong place.

He never lied (to your face).

Faint praise, erased

by memories

of tragedies and travesties.


Lost significance.

Lacking diligence.

Must.
Try.
Harder.

Always harder —

never softer.


Malodorous man-child,

weak and wanting —

Waits on a tricycle,

wending cyclical figures-of-eight

under bare-branched canopies

of breeze-blown trees.


The trail of a spectre —

no rock turned.

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The dearth and rarity of recordings has consigned what we did to fading memory, in a way that artists of today will never experience.1 Yet, in our prime, we could fill rooms in Birmingham, with folks who actually left their houses and paid money to watch us, on a fairly regular basis. There must have been some value to it, at least in the contemporary cultural context of that setting. It’s not like we were the popular kids who just had loads of mates - if anything, quite the opposite.

I know that by the end of our 2-3 year existence we had quite a lot of songs - and yet I struggle to remember very many. Some, like Good ‘n’ Hoppy or Heaven Awaits, still inhabit suitably monochrome cupboards in the shrivelled backwaters of my cerebral cortex, emerging only as snippets of melody, or short, baffling, decontextualized extracts. I.e.: ‘The old man from the cottage sang of secrets, and of Jenny. In my hand I held a star, in caution of the night.’

Other half-remembered phrases, like ‘He needed his mother’s help to kick his suicide trip’ hover in the background, entirely divorced from any recollection of the song to which they belonged. I don’t even have a copy of our second studio session. Somewhere, recordings of such oddities as All the Little Fishes [sic], The Day of the Dragon, Heaven Awaits and the strangely prescient Kelly, likely still lurk in somebody’s attic, hiding in forgotten cases of once loved cassette tapes.2

I suppose this shadowy recollection might lead me to unconsciously mythologise our time together. There is no doubt that our starting point was extremely experimental and unique. I remain unreasonably proud of our first ever composition, Icicle Treetops, which was kept precisely as improvised by the original, short-lived, three-piece line-up. But even by the time that track was recorded, the membership and process of the band had evolved drastically.

It seems that part of this myth was my memory of our commitment to original material. Today, I had my entire music library playing on shuffle as I went about my day, and one song unexpectedly snatched a memory from some forty years ago, straight to the forefront of my attention.

Because Three Dead Crows had covered The Staircase (Mystery), by Siouxsie and the Banshees. In fact, I had gone so far as to go into a music shop and buy the sheet music! Yes, in the 1980s, published songs - even punk songs - were available in high street shops as printed sheet music! Even I find that hard to believe now. I really wish I still had it.

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I have to say I am proud of my 16 year old self for picking this song. The lurching, sinister swells and waves of the vocal line, and the surreal, disturbingly disorientating lyrics were a perfect match for what we were trying to do, and even today, it sounds wildly unusual as a choice for a single. But this sudden revelatory recollection shook the mountain of the myth, causing an avalanche of further memories. It was not an outlier. Sure most of our repertoire was original compositions, but across our short career we actually played a surprising number of cover versions. I doubt we ever included more than one in a set, but still!

Other songs I recalled us playing in this barrage of myth-busting, would include Overground (also the Banshees), Car Trouble by Adam & the Ants, (for which I also bought the sheet music), as well as Whip In My Valise and Physical (You’re So) (also the Ants).3 Then there was So What? by the UK Subs, Latex Love by Vice Squad, Summertime Blues by Eddie Cochran, and, I have a horrible feeling we might have even attempted Spy In The Cab by Bauhaus. Hell, we were practically a covers band.

Still… there may have been a whole lot more cover versions than I had previously remembered, but, damn, we chose some good stuff to cover!

If you made it this far, please consider liking, commenting, following, restacking, subscribing (it’s free) and all that stuff. SubStack can feel a bit like shouting into a void without feedback.

I realise that I’m probably using first-person plural here to feel less alone, and perhaps to disguise the fact that I’m just rambling about my own process. Certainly, I wouldn’t recommend my ‘process’ to anyone else. While it has undeniably produced some work that I’m proud of, it is also mind-wrenchingly inefficient. I read articles and watch tutorials daily, hoping to learn consistency, but when I try to implement such techniques I seem incapable of producing work of any real worth. I’m not, of course, suggesting that more prolific writers are doing it wrong, but rather acknowledging a weakness I have yet to overcome.

I recall explaining to Dr. Reynolds, my erstwhile tutor at Lampeter, that writing feels like picking at my soul until it bleeds, and that, when something genuinely good emerges, it leaves me feeling depleted — as though I left a part of myself on the page. She seemed shocked and didn’t relate at all. I was left feeling that I may be approaching the whole craft incorrectly, and am yet to be entirely convinced otherwise. However, I’ve also been unable to find a more efficient process which allows me to create work that I’m happy to share with the world.

Yet I’m not entirely alone in this, so can, perhaps, justify my use of the pluralised point of view. In his 1903 novella Tristan, Thomas Mann’s narrator opines:

… his words did not come in a rush; they came with such pathetic slowness, considering the man was a writer by trade, you would have drawn the conclusion, watching him, that a writer is one to whom writing comes harder than to anybody else.1

…which pretty much sums it up.

Obviously, the likes of Stephen King or James Patterson would disagree, but I have concluded that they are magical beings; mere mortals like myself may be damned to struggle on through a mire of existential self-analysis, forever doomed to sporadic output, poverty and madness.

A few years ago, I was tasked with reflecting upon my writing process in the form of poetry. After two weeks, I managed to produce a haiku:

Can you imagine trying to teach me?2

Yet, for all the frustration of my mentors and well-meaning friends, I can promise you that actually being me is more infuriating — at least you lot get to ignore me when it becomes too much.

Anyway, when I saw this call for submissions for Silent Nightmares, from Chuck Palahniuk (no less!), I figured I really should follow his advice to ‘plan ahead’. I started making notes on the barrage of new ideas, which predictably overwhelmed me in days. I’m sure some of them will stand up to future development, but with a deadline looming a mere two months away, and with intimate knowledge of the spiritual self-harm I’m about to embark upon by taking on another new project, I could really use a short cut.

Thanks then, is due to For the Writer’s Soul, and their lovely free weekly guided meditations, which last week focussed on ‘breathing new life into old ideas’.3 This reminded me of a short story I wrote last year, called O Watcher of Men, of which I was terrifically proud at the time, but which fell very flat with most beta readers. I completed it, to the best of my ability at the time, but it entirely failed to evoke the response I had hoped for, so I abandoned the piece. It, however, has never abandoned me, and has been scurrying around in the cobwebbed shadows of my hind-brain squealing horribly, like an injured rat, ever since.

It is, to my mind, a cosmic horror story — but that could probably fit into a liberal definition of ‘ghost story’, right? I mean, there’s no actual tentacles. Besides, the readers who saw last year’s draft didn’t really agree with my genre definition anyway.

The premise relies on the following principle:

People in Eastern religions, people who meditate, who practice occultism and who take psychedelic drugs, all report an experiential phenomenon referred to as the ‘third eye’, which allows spiritual insight, revelations etc. In Hinduism, this is known as the Ajna chakra, and is thought to link us directly to Brahman (which, in Judeo-Christian terms might be described as ‘God’). There is a general consensus that the various methods of ‘opening’ this eye are complex, and take years to master (without drugs).

So, if this experience of illumination, or activation of Ajna, is tapping into ‘divine sight’, I was left wondering why God would have Its eye shut in the first place. Which leads, of course, to the further question — if Brahman is the ultimate reality, and God is omnipresent and omnipotent, what else is there to even look at.

As my character Steffen Antonsen, a disgraced research psychologist, notes to the protagonist of the original story:

‘Nirvana. Enlightenment. Krishna consciousness. Every tribe, society, religion — all seek to open the third eye. The eye of God. The eye of Horus, or Ra. The lost eye of Odin. The Eye of Providence, Fatima… Hamsa. To open the eye of God is to see the true nature of things.

 ‘Yet nobody ever asked why it was closed!’

Despite the poor reception, I would go on to write a prequel, called Justin, in flash form. This proved equally unpopular with beta readers, but serves to show how much space this story was occupying in my head last year. In this piece, professor Antonsen explains to the eponymous hero:

‘Justin, my dear boy. Even within our whole, perfect, unified, divine self, there is darkness. For all that we try to re-assure ourselves of the transcendent power of universal love, God is terrified of finding Itself alone.

‘Yet the truth is more frightening still. You see, God is not alone…

‘And that is much, much, worse.’

I thought Justin was better than O Watcher of Men, but it’s inability to ensnare readers any more than the original would lead me to shelve the project, exiling it to that composting mountain of unfinished and unloved manuscripts I call ‘most of my work’, where it has squatted, glaring with malice ever since.

But here I am, still writing about it a year later. The disheartening process of beta-readings last year resulted in a huge amount of feedback and questions — an opportunity to repair those points that readers didn’t gel with, which, to date, I have squandered in an epic sulk. You see, from my point of view, those things were important mechanics of the plot… but they didn’t work.

So, is it a good idea to revive a failed project for something I would REALLY like to be a part of. Is it sensible to send even a reworked draft, of a story that has previously failed to land, to someone as important to me as bloody Chuck Palahniuk? Obviously, there’s a chance that last year’s beta readers were simply the wrong audience — I mean, it wasn’t universally despised.

But no, I think the points made were very valid, and exposed base level flaws in my delivery, so I don’t think patching it and submitting it for something I really care about would be clever. However, Justin and O Watcher of Men combined represent only 60% of the maximum word count for this submission, which gives me an awful lot of scope to approach from a different angle. Furthermore, while set in Winter, there is nothing to tie the original story to the festive season — but, the moment I considered that problem, I realised that not only is there scope to do so, but it might actually provide an angle that would address several of the problems!

So, the plan should be: take the premise, which is stuck in my head and begging for a story it can thrive in, and figure out an entirely new approach to reach the same, extremely transgressive and shocking climax as the original, but in a way that takes readers along with me this time.

You see, there’s two ways to look at this. Either I’m grubbing around in the trash, looking for ideas to recycle… or last year’s frustrating, soul-crushing work on these stories provides groundwork for a brand new project, which will be awesome and blow everybody’s mind! Hooray!

(I hope it’s the second option).

What do you lovely people of SubStack think? Should we kill our darlings and move on, or are ideas that haunt you after completion worth tackling again from new perspectives?

Leave a comment

Let me know what you think, and if you’ve made it this far, thank you! Please consider restacking/sharing it and/or subscribing (it’s entirely free) to see more nonsense like this in the future. I mean, obviously not consistently or regularly, but every now and then at least.

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A selection of (mostly) unpublished poems and stories.

‘Intriguing and captivating’

Miko Reed Collins (author of Eggshells in Soft Black Hands)

‘A must read.’

Kemlyn Tan Bappe (author of Between the Lines)

‘Richard is an outstanding and innovative poet. He has a talent and control over words which takes the reader to another world.’

Unmesh Mohitkar (author of Let’s Un-Mesh Life)

Cover price £10 (‘-ish’)

THIS EDITION IS SOLD OUT - to express interest in a reprint please contact the author or comment below.

Yeah, well, I didn’t do that, did I? I probably should, and I might yet, but what I actually did was start half a dozen bespoke articles and essays, which now squat, glowering at me with unabashed menace over the rim of my drafts folder, taunting me with visions of a burgeoning parallel pile of unpublished and unpublishable nonsense.

So, here’s a compromise. Today I went to the beach at Mumbles, a headland in Swansea Bay, South Wales. The unusual name means breasts, apparently. Poetry about the wild untamed Welsh coast is a solid staple for spoken word events around here, so I pulled out my notebook and thought I’d try my hand.

As a result, you, dear readers, get to be my workshop, for two unedited first drafts of poems inspired by a sunny day at the beach. I’m experimenting with more free verse and alliteration than my usual internal rhyming performance style, so apologies if it’s trash. Let me know what you think.

Mumbles

A different place to be alone:
Waves whoosh,
washing slick sands to muddy reduction.

At a distance,
waders edge slowly into slippery slopping splosh,
braving blessings of a million bowels.

A seal emerges,
curious, victorious,
envious of greener grass
beyond the wreckage of the rocky peninsula.

Quartz teeth grin
through red rock --
stone spewed forth from volcanic vulvae
now bursting wart-like
through coal-black cinders
and fossil offal.

Nothing lives in the rock-pool --
reports of claws unverified.
A decaying dance of shaggy trolls,
shambling, incrementally through eons
of illusory intent.

I'm tired.
I take a photograph,
and call it beauty.

Sand: Before and After

Sand flats smooth shell,
channeling crème brûlée
in polished abrasion.

Delights lurk beneath the silicon surface --
protean blubber,
sweet jellied albumen,
sticky with potential --
poised in promise of natural nutrition.

A confection concealed under cracknel crust,
bubbling temptation
in anticipation of spoon-fed delights.

Fleshy, pulsating fruit,
matured through millenia --
softening, slick, and gelatinous,
sliding oesophagal sponge
in mozerella strands,
shovelled indelicate.

Cream clogging clotted gluttony.
Ecstacy belies the choking truth,
and disappointment of a soft palate
serrated by soggy salted sand.

Past, present, and future, are all the same to me

‘cause I can’t tell what is now, what was, and what will be.

I first met Simon in 1984, when I was just 16.

I had put together a band with some school friends. We'd written some stuff and made some home recordings on a cassette deck. We called ourselves Three Dead Crows, but in reality we were clueless about what it meant to be in a band. One day, Kris, our guitarist, came across a news flyer for a band called M's Telegram, and, although we had no idea who they were or what they sounded like, the burned-out black and white photocopied image of the singer laying in a park seemed crazy exciting to our teenage post-punk sensibilities. It was a doorway to another world, where even we could be a real band. On the reverse of the flyer there was a contact number — a call out for any new bands looking for management or gigs. Could this be our big break?

We called the number and spoke to a nice-sounding guy called Pete, who suggested we meet up in a pub. At the arranged time, we nervously arrived clutching a home recorded 'demo' cassette, and hid in a snug. We quickly identified a massive, intimidating, punk rocker as Pete. He sat with a chubby guy who wore a beret and National Health glasses, looking more like a train-spotter than the anticipated rock star.

We dithered for ages, trying to find the courage to go over. Eventually, Pete just got up and introduced himself to the obviously underage, make-up wearing weirdos, who couldn't possibly be there for any other reason. Inviting us over to their table, he introduced the singer of M's Telegram: Simon.

We chatted. We floundered. When Pete asked about my influences, I said Thomas Hardy, irrecoverably blowing any cool I might have aspired to. We couldn't possibly have looked any more naïve, but they took the tape anyway and said they'd let us know.

A couple of days later Kris called, bursting with excitement. They liked the tape!

Things moved fast from there. The management deal we'd hoped for evaporated, when Pete joined The Nightingales soon afterwards, but they helped us to get our first proper public gig, booked us into a studio to record a proper demo, and offered far more encouragement than we probably deserved.

We were astonished to find that Simon seemed genuinely excited about our stuff. He compared us to cool sounding bands that we had never heard of — Wire and The Prats — noticing and praising details of arrangement that we probably weren't all that aware of ourselves. He made us feel like we genuinely had something to offer. His passion, and his ability to instantly 'get' what we were doing, in ridiculous critical detail, was inspiring and infectious. Soon we were gigging regularly and feeling like a real band.

Following the dissolution of M's Telegram, Simon had joined a band called Future. They quickly became more important to me than anything played on the radio. Simon’s swirling keyboard was hypnotic and sounded somehow dangerous, the afro-haired (white) guitarist played twiddling nonsense which bore little resemblance to the song, and the (female) singer was hot. It was a very exciting time. Simon seemed to be at every gig we played — down the front even if he was alone — cheering us on, dancing without reserve, calling for encores, yet always willing to offer advice after the set if something wasn't as good as it could’ve been. When our bass player left, he offered to join. He could already play all the songs, without even asking the key.

I had started to book rooms and draw posters to promote our gigs, DIY style, when Simon mentioned a 'side project' called Dog Food. I put together a bill with Future, us and Dog Food, calling it A Night Of Simon. Astonishingly, he was quite happy to play all three sets, variously on vocals, bass, and keyboards.

I had no idea what to expect from Dog Food. That night changed my life forever, and irrecoverably established Simon as my friend, mentor, inspiration — absolutely central and irreplaceable in my life.

Since they were on first, Dog Food sound-checked last. After checking basic levels, they played a run-through of a tune called The Song of the Mackerel. It was like nothing I had ever heard. I mean, at the time, I considered Gong to be the pinnacle of weirdness in music. Hearing a honking Farfisa organ, underpinning a cacophonous Charleston, with punk-rock vocals assuring me that Mr. Simon was, contrary to appearances, a grinning mackerel driving a car, imploring me to accompany him into mackerel-hood (mackereality?), all delivered in two minutes of manic pop, was too much for me.

I began to laugh — at the absurdity, the humour, the sheer bloody audacity, and most of all, an overwhelming incredulity that it somehow worked and sounded great. I continued laughing in the dressing room as punters filed in. I laughed throughout their bizarre set as Simon, in dressing gown and straw hat, Farfisa perched on an ironing board, painted bizarre Dada soundscapes. The audience were introduced to otherworldly wonders, such as the Waxy Muscle Tree, a donkey called Dobbin, who went shopping for custard, but required a piggyback home from a tadpole named Terry, whose diet consisted of oranges and string. Through tears of laughter I watched my entire idea of what music was shift from under me.

Nothing would ever be the same again. My band continued, but my musical sensibilities and lyrics changed. Songs of loneliness and decay gave way to puns about beer tasting notes and fantasies about utopian planets where the people wore only bubbles. Musical in-jokes sidled into my compositions. Dog Food became an obsession. I started turning up to every gig, then showing up at their rehearsals. I became more than a fan. I was a stalker. A fixture. Until finally Simon caved and decided maybe they needed a bass player.

And so began the next 30 years of my life, riding Simon's amazing wave of absurdist pop, lunatic visions, ridiculous in-jokes and most of all a sheer love of life and everything off kilter, strange and surreal, delivered in a chaotic, self-aware lo-fi deconstruction of all that is cool and pretentious in rock and roll. It became my personal quest to help deliver Simon's thoughts and visions to a bewildered world. Often disarmingly serious, even dark, but rarely malicious (and on the couple of occasions malice did enter the scene, Simon managed to disarm even that by pushing the limits of what anyone should dare, with such humour and skewed sense of reality as to make it beautifully harmless).

Without Simon, my life would have been a far more monochrome and depressingly serious affair. His sheer honesty, dramatically individual vision, and utterly uncompromising individuality never faltered. It forced anyone who worked with him to up their game, and drop their pretences. At the same time he never failed to support and encourage the ideas and art of those around him. His contributions to any work he was part of both complimented and transformed the piece — always for the better.

I remember many musical differences over the years. I can't think of an example where Simon turned out to be wrong. He could be very difficult to work with at times, but it was always worth it in the end. Genius is a word thrown around all too easily, but it's hard to find a better word for what he did.

Like all human stories, in the end, this one is a tragedy.

Simon was a light in the darkness for me and many others. A bizarre light refracted through rapidly changing filters for sure — projecting images of bad footballer's haircuts, cars with faces and obscure French movies — but always there, burning bright. Though we didn't work together much in the final decade of his life, I find myself drifting without direction since his passing. I still can't imagine a world without Simon in it, and yet here we are.

I can only be thankful that I had the good fortune to know him, work with him, and share his journey to some extent — that I witnessed him finally find his soul mate, and watched love transform his life into a bright shining magnesium beacon of happiness in his final years. There will never be another like Simon. My mentor, my inspiration, my guide, and most of all my friend — and yes, I really did like that green.

Rest well Simon. I love you. With Sleep Comes The Awesome Dream.

The Magnificent Mr. Vincent

by Richard Temple

As we wander through this world, it may seem madmen hold the reins —
half the populace is starving, and their leaders are deranged.
The rich exploit pandemics,
and now bigotry’s systemic,
and the future’s feeling futile, in our fetid flaccid brains.

But when we close our eyes, we find a better world inside,
where lovers ride in bumper cars and drink formaldehyde.
Here plastic bags of clothing hide in wardrobes and divide,
and secrets can’t be trusted to the honest master-spy.
If your parents’ treacle omelette starts to ooze a bluish pigment,
if your outhouse sports a banjo, and your hair is reminiscent
of Ian Britton or Rodney Fern, and your legs become translucent,
then you’ve joined me in the mind of the most marvellous Mr Vincent!

This world’s a place where happiness and darkness co-exist –
where a donkey’s main concern is with a mislaid shopping list –
where muscle-trees are waxy, and the people reminisce
about the band of Yogi Trumpet, in a Francophilic bliss.
You can see the smiling faces of the mackerel’s shiny car.
Aunt Lucy’s in a frenzy, since the dance is Reservoir.
If things get truly wretched there’s no question where you are:
it must be Metrasonic Monday, so all hail Mr Bizarre!

We must emulate the Bollard Man, no fool, more of a Saint.
Celebrate his love of life, embrace the innocence.
If you would be my friend, we could dispense with discontent.
We’re powered by Sonic Pineapple! We’re all magnificent!

Incandescent!
Effervescent!
We’ll remember Mr. Vincent.

I’ve been sitting on a blank SubStack for months, reading all the articles, watching all the videos, making mind-maps and ambitious plans, trying to decide whether to nail down a focus or break the stack into sections… and I’m not even trying to monetise the bloody thing.

I think my problem is that I genuinely think the SubStack model represents the future of publishing — even if you want to publish traditionally in the longer term. Therefore, I’ve built it up to be a thing that has to be perfect before I can consider a ‘launch’.

In all those months, I have 11 views and two subscribers (thank you!), which of course is hardly surprising since I’ve never published anything. However, realistically that likely won’t increase much unless I put serious effort into promoting the thing. So, for now (and with apologies to my two subscribers), I might as well just have fun!

1. Here Goes Nothing!

Here’s the deal. I’m a poet and writer. I’ve had several poems published and I do spoken word shows and stuff. I’m also a terrible businessman. Despite having none, I struggle to care much about money. As a result, the vast majority of my writing sits about in books and file folders gathering dust, having never been read, and with little chance of publication.

Sure, I’m working on some actual Projects, but my complete lack of organisation and rational strategy means that I also have a teetering mountain of prose, poetry and even academic essays looming over me, like an angry baboon seeking its place in the Universe.1 It occurred to me that this body of work might provide a viable foundation for the stack, especially since most of it is short-form.2

2. Messing Up the Paintwork

It seems to me, that the problem is ‘blank page syndrome’. By this I refer, of course, to the block which many writers experience while looking at a blank page and trying to work out how to move the wonderous visions inhabiting their head-jelly out into the world where other peoples’ eyes live. More specifically, I refer to the dilemma of trying to do this in a new notebook that you particularly like.

I’m sure I’m not alone, especially amongst writers, when I confess to having stacks of beautiful notebooks which lay empty, awaiting a project worthy of their splendour. I may even be in good company with the handful I began to use, writing slowly in beautiful copperplate as befits their station, only to make a spelling mistake halfway down the first page. Even if you are better than me, unless you’re a 13th Century monk the chances are that trying to keep your books looking perfect will negatively impact creativity.

I have found that the best way to overcome this — aside from leaving all the pretty notebooks pristine and writing only on old beermats — is to dive in with both feet and make a complete mess of the first page.

The moment this deflowering — this vile desecration — is complete, you can relax and enjoy having a cool notepad that is also a workhorse. Furthermore, once you’ve truly chilled about it, your scribbled notes and doodles might actually start to look kinda cool, by dint of their very presence in such a classy tome.

So, I figured perhaps I can use the same principle on SubStack. If I write a shoddy, unplanned blog post as the inaugural page, maybe it will evolve into a platform I’m more willing to use and abuse in creative ways, which may be more worthwhile in the end than carefully planned out and professional presentations. And, well… if not, perhaps the nameless mass of doodles and scribblings will at least look kinda cool.

3. So What Is ‘The Magick Temple’ All About

If you were paying attention, you would have noticed that the subtitle to this article is ‘How to launch a SubStack Without a Plan’, so how do you expect me to tell you what it’s about?

I should be less belligerent right? OK — it will evolve organically, but to begin with it will likely involve articles, reviews, poetry, short stories, and maybe even some academia. It will likely have no rational focus, and will meander wildly. But hey, it’ll be free, and I’ll do my very best to make it fun, interesting and worth your time.

Fiction will likely comprise Sci-Fi, Magic Realism, Horror or Modern Literature. Poetry might deal with themes of time, aging, neuroatypicality, pacifism and politics, Articles and academia might cover literature, punk rock, absurdist philosophy, and book or music reviews. Some of the poetry might be previously published — the rest won’t.

You might even get excerpts from my mysterious Projects. These are unfinished longer form works that I hope to publish in the future through more traditional media. They currently include a biographical memoir of a remarkable man, a Science Fiction novel, and an epic narrative folk-horror ballad.

It’ll be a mess — but if this sounds like a mess you’d like to roll around in, please consider restacking and/or Subscribing. It may spur me on to greater things!