Beautiful Savage

Wild child, so innocent, my care-giving creature,

Your raw, animalistic essence, treasured.

The silhouette of delight, captured in the cot,

A result of primordial necessity, pleasured.

Myth-maker, heart breaker, secret, buried

on the island of imagination, the stillness of water

after turbulent storm and dance of sweet sadness,

Marries a son of chaos to destiny’s daughter,

And rhythm rattles relentlessly, an echo of heaven

thundering in hearts hurt by ethereal solitude,

A memory of a maniac in mother’s smile,

conjecture, your version, aversion, verisimilitude.


I wondered what chords you strummed in your dreams,

as your guitar lay sleeping in your arms, unharmed

by the arguments in my head. I fed you the lies

you wanted to hear, so you could feel safe.

Your fingers twitched and I feared you would wake, break

the silence with your violent orchestra, your frustrations

fuelled with the vast libations you practically inhaled.

The challenge of children and a ‘normal life’

aged you before it could be realised the shackles

were forged by a man wearing your face, sharing your shame

and whistling what you could only whisper;

whilst you mastered the art of faking.

You dashed your own dreams, instead of dusting them off,

and the motorbike man who didn’t give a damn, died

as your guitar lay sleeping in your arms, unharmed.

Searching for Sanity

There came a point in the story when I realised,

this was not entirely a work of fiction,

I touched the precious page, reaching into the book,

A compulsion to sniff the ink and be a part

of the person who bled for me to remember.

The character lay there in the desert, staring

up at the stars, with the world spinning beneath him,

the way I used to, by the lake or in the woods.

Becoming one with a universe that had forsaken me,

or so I thought, that perfect moment as I would

stare out to sea, find the horizon I could no longer chase,

and discover; the fracture in reality.

Where one could not discern where the ocean stopped

and the sky began,

that cataclysmic event, when complete clarity

exploded in my soul with violent silence.

I spent a life-time trying to recapture that instant,

Opening my throat to imbibe destiny

but forgetting to swallow, fate escaping as I

exhaled and choked down the urge to expire.

I forget to regret,

Searching for sanity.


Ardent, resolved,

Passion evolved,

Art involved,

World revolved,

Passion evolved.

Audience absolved,

Passion evolved,

Audience Dissolved,

Problem solved.

Ardent, resolved, enthusiastic, passionate, resolute, certain,

Passion evolved, dreams unfold, move, become,

Art involved, skills obtained, drained, necessary curtain,

World revolved, the words became the sun,

Passion evolved, hungry for text, vexed, consumed,

Audience absolved, they forgave, making me believe,

Passion evolved, corybantic, cantankerous mood mushroomed,

Audience dissolved, alone at last, let the poem breathe,

Problem solved, pass it on to paper so they can dissect

And rape her whilst you reflect,



I read so many books that I began

to wonder if I would ever have an

original thought of my own, my

head almost full of others’ inklings,

Their adventures and imaginings.

Concerned there was no room left

for my own creations,I became

paranoid that I was a plagiarist.

Every time I read something new

(to me), There was something on

the page that I had previously

Considered. I was convinced I

had thought of it first, but these

notions had been penned life-times

before mine. Each time, I cursed

the creators, loathing the word-smiths

I worshipped. Finally, I accepted

the possibility that more than one

mortal mind could conceive a clever

catalyst, I just had to deliver mine

a different way, hope my style made

it my own; or pray my manuscript

was read before those of my conjoined

thinkers. And all the time, I wondered

if they had these thoughts and fears,

These insecurities and doubts.

Literature is truly a precious baby,

And ultimately, even when produced

Through despair and dark desire,

It is always a loving conception.


The soldiers of sanity relinquish

Their hold on a tired version of me,



The weathered government of my grief

Gives up it’s right,

To rule my heart, swapping swords for shovels,

Shutting out the light,

And turning off the music,

Silencing my soul’s symphony,

As suicidal sycophants

Seek only to spit on sympathy,

The hypocrites will find empathy,

Cymbal sounds and symmetry,

Forgery, finds the bastard’s bakery,

Proving existence of the coward’s cemetery.

On Editing

On Editing

Where I lead, men follow, for great men make their own destiny and I have my pursuit of excellence.

Isacc Tarakai, The Chronicles of Cyralost.

Like all writers, I want everything that I produce to be a work of art. In my pursuit of excellence I need each manuscript to be perfect. Once we have bedded the muse and sated our creativity, the moment comes to polish our potential masterpieces and ensure they are worthy of publishing.

With regards to editing, we are blessed to live in an era where technology can point us in the right direction and time-saving corrective software can be found in abundance. However, we mortals are prone to human error and all manner of mistakes can still be made. Computers, can’t repair everything.

No matter how talented or well educated a writer may be, things like self-doubt, tiredness or even a slip of a finger on the keyboard can lead to an unprofessional looking document. Even the most anal and meticulous writer can err… and, that’s okay, because we all make mistakes. Just ask your folks (not that I am suggesting you were a mistake.).

Fortunately, we writers have a back-up. In my experience, I have been lucky to meet and befriend lots of writers (many of them, published authors) over the years. I have discovered that every writer procrastinates. The most common cause for this is fear of failure. The universally accepted cure for this is to write regardless. We are writers, we must write. The worry that anything we write might not be good, can be assuaged by the simple fact that ‘bad writing’ can be rectified.

The remedy that will ease your mind and make your manuscript the best that it can be, that back-up I referred to – is an editor (they’re human too).

Let me tell you about Steve of Steve Frost Editing (not to be confused with ‘Inflatable Steve’)

Steve Frost (clever bloke, he’s got letters after his name and a certificate to prove it) has been proof reading and editing my manuscript for some time now. His tireless work ethic produces a steady stream of polished writing, highlighting any incorrect punctuation or grammar and carefully reconstructing sentences appropriately.

I poured over my stories dozens of times and still didn’t catch all of the mistakes I made. Sometimes, a second pair of eyes is required. If one hopes for any success with publishing, a qualified ‘pair of eyes’ is necessary. Most writers are not able to view their own work objectively. Steve has pointed out potential changes to my writing, making educated suggestions to make the story flow. He has also removed unnecessary words and content (how many of us have heard the advice about omitting the words ‘very’ or ‘so’ and yet still discovered our manuscripts littered with them?).

Steve has been brutal with it. Brutal is good. Like many writers, I’m emotionally attached to my novel on some level. I need a professional to make the necessary changes that I cannot bring myself to perform. I need someone I trust to edit appropriately.

Mr Frost is that professional I trust. He has made my writing better. Steve is as friendly as he is professional and his correspondence reflects this. He provides a superior service along with constructive criticism. This is encouraging and I value that. His alterations are evident and suggestions are simple. I value that too.

Steve’s efforts on my behalf have given me a keen insight into the mechanics of writing and instilled a new sense of excitement for my project. I am humbled. I am grateful. I think Steve and I will have a long relationship (I’ll tell you about my relationship with ‘Inflatable Steve’ another time).

I encourage you to visit Steve Frost’s website:

Best wishes,

Kieran Davis (who also writes as Baldypoems)