New Wave artists aging gracefully. An 80’s world gone by…


Debbie+Harry+Vogue+Spain+May+2013+5Debbie Harry of Blondie [1st crossover new wave to hip-hop artist with “Rapture”-remember!]


59470508Stevie Nicks [sort of, kind of, new wavy…I guess]

marthaMartha Davis of The Motels

Patty+Smyth+HBO+Sports+Screening+McEnroe+Borg+d0yEIGZq8QSlPatty Smyth of Scandal

2400875_251049_3461507801_lSheena Easton

nunnTeri Nunn of Berlin

Kim+Carnes+41703663205000e699dd24a500bKim Carnes “Betty Davis Eyes”

kimwildesunriseKim Wilde

Catherine-RingerCatherine Ringer of Les Rita Mitsouko

Nina+Hagen+Anthony+Kiedis+dating+TxMyIBuG_GolNina Hagen

20-John-Judge-LeneLene Lovich

anne-dudleyAnne Dudley of Art of Noise [producer of some new wave hits too!]

the-cultThe Cult

sonic-youthSonic Youth

ScenBlonde__t640Concrete Blonde

public-image-limited-2012-500x250Johnny Rotten and PIL (Public Image Limited)

ME01bigModern English

cocteau twinsCocteau Twins [Note: not twins or triplets…]

nena14_v-contentgrossGabriela Kerner of Nena “99 Luftbaloons”

human-league_2409918bThe Human League

Ha+Westfield+Shopping+Center+lj3ufqp5g9clA-Ha “Take On Me”

Go+WestGo West

crowded-house_1635522cCrowded House

Feargal-Sharkey-001Feargal Sharkey

roland-gift-of-the-fine-young-cannibals_4119427Roland Gift of Fine Young Cannibals

JohnsonMatt Johnson of The The

2293364230Nick Heyward of Haircut One Hundred

the_church_B_smlThe Church

112When in Rome “The Promise”


Culture-ClubCulture Club (Note: Boy George is bearded on the left)

Screen shot 2013-12-03 at 10.09.46 PMJon Moss of Culture Club…

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Winter Dreams 2012

Last year I contributed some of my poetry to a book of photography by Peter Parkinson, entitled “Winter Dreams”, which is still available to buy for the bargainous price of £4.99, as follows :


The really great news is that I’ve just submitted 5 pieces of poetry, plus 2 from Scottish writer Samantha Reynolds, for “Winter Dreams Revisited” which we will see published in the very near future.   It will complement further photography from Peter Parkinson exploring not only themes of winter, but love and loss, landscape and time, and their relationship with the bleakest of seasons.  

I’m personally very excited to have worked with two outstanding creatives to produce what promises to be an outstanding collaborative piece, available to buy soon.  Watch this space for more details! 🙂

“My Rebellion” – a short story

1982 was definitely my year.  I’d just turned 18 and in my mind,
parental control was out of the suburban window, despite the fact
I was still living between their walls.  I was a self styled worshipper
at the church of New Romantic Goth; Numan, Siouxsie and
Marc Almond were my holy trinity.

I lived just south of Manchester, but its playground soon bored me.
I yearned for the glamour of London’s streets.  I’d read about the
“Blitz” club and its stylish sisters in “The Face”. Glamorous
weirdoes, whose parents didn’t pass judgement every time a new
version of me left the restrictions of their magnolia walls.
I yearned to be a beautiful stranger too, and it was my
immediate ambition to fulfil that dream.

Everyone made their own clothes in those days.  Everyone
who mattered.  Stray off-cuts of lace and velvet from
the local market stall, rare charity shop finds and my own lavish
embellishments formed my own unique designer garments.
They were admired and coveted by others, but worn only by me.

Finally, with a suitcase full of my individualistic clothes, and a
headful of optimism, I bade a fond farewell to my parents via a
carefully written note, propped on the mantelpiece.  “I’m going to
London.  Don’t worry”, it said.  Brief, but to the point, I thought.
Almost poetic.

I found myself at Euston station without a plan.  OK, I was in London
but what now?  My instinct instructed me to head for the King’s Road.
That was where it was at, so, I bought a Day Saver golden
tube ticket, dumped my belongings in left luggage, and set on the
metaphorical yellow brick road to my own Emerald City.

On the tube to my destination, I noticed that I wasn’t as “unique” as I
was up North.  Lots of people had the same look as me, and I was being
ignored.  I felt cheated; I was promised a magazine’s eye view of a London,
and what I’d got in reality was the throwaway free pull-out supplement. Highly styled individuals with no individuality, personality, or
commitment to their cause.  It was all just “a look”, copied to the last bangle
on their fashionable little wrists.

At Sloane Square, I hit the litter-strewn dirty streets in my widow’s weeds,
and sashayed along the infamous Kings Road in my customised Victorian
ankle boots.  The place was awash with goths, punks, skinheads; all looking the
same, just a variant on a theme of rebellion.  These were not “my people”; I
had nothing in common with them despite my appearance, or perhaps because
of it.

I decided to head back North to be the big fish, in a somewhat smaller part
of the ocean.  It was my personal rebellion against London, and its monoculture
magazine mannequins.  Of course I would lavishly embellish the success of
my visit, just as I did my clothes.

After all, at the end of the day, we’re all just putting together “a look”.

English: Euston Station
English: Euston Station (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

SOHO (The Commercialisation of a Character) – a poem

Has there ever been,
A more changing scene.
Than on the Soho streets 
In London Town?

In the 50’s and 60’s 
It was a classy affair
A place for artists and actors
To meet

Interesting characters to greet.
A place to retreat.
For the hustlers and the men 
who dared to fall in love.

In later years the landscape changed
It was a brassy affair
Where dealers and rogues
Would sliver in droves
Marking the territory
Like an alley cat.

Gangs would fight
And hatred prevail
By those to ignorant to care
About the lady of Soho.

In recent years it was a sassy affair
Women who flaunt their wares
Without a care
For the passing tourist
Eager to take a photo
To remind them of Soho
in London Town

Thaw – a poem


As winter wends its weary way,
Toward more Spring-like days,
Consider the beauty of nature’s frosty haze,
And icy sheets of purest glaze.
The Magician in Mother Nature,
Turning mere water
Into mystical forms,
And snowy blankets
Covering the truth that lies beneath.
Reality is blurred… And nature’s icy veil
Presents an illusion on the grandest scale,
Until the certainty of the thaw in later days.
All trees equal in the snow,
Ash, Oak, Yew, Pine.
All covered the same.
Until the thaw of their tomorrows.

The Walk of Shame – a poem

The harsh morning, after the fun night before

Feeling more jaded than you’ve got credit for

Clothes all dishevelled and head thick with pain

Just like you’ve been flattened by a runaway train

Last night’s mascara and last night’s expression

Far too little sleep you glide into depression

Too many drinks and too much passion with strangers

Beguilled by the night, ignoring the dangers

Your memory’s fading with the dark of the night

Selective retention in dawn’s early light

Awakening in surroundings completely bizarre

Sneaking away from the place that brought you from afar

No idea of your mind, or your current location

You  gaze at a map, and try to find a station

Others look at you sadly, eyes filled with pity 

You have no concern for them or this city

Sunglasses on, and your best party dress

You recall last night’s fun, a total success!