Sadness (Summertime)

photo credit: dead red via photopin (license)

photo credit: dead red via photopin (license)

Gathering of tears,
Obsidian, shroud of feeling
Keeping us apart,
That sun and I.

In shadow hides the fear.
Scarlet warning
Of the dangers.
Between the sun and I

The weight I bear,
Darkness waiting.
Shunned by the light
In the setting of the sun.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


I travelled the world
But I missed the sights and signs
Outside the window.

Closed my eyes, looked away
And never went back again.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Fledgling Moment

photo credit: Eagle Eye via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eagle Eye via photopin (license)

We’ve got a choice,
All of us,
Stood on the precipice
Waiting on the edge of eternity
Ready to step out into the void.
We can choose to fall
Spinning downward at the speed of doubt,
Crashing earthward, accepting the inevitability
Or take a chance
Accept the risk,
Start beating our wings
And try to soar.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

In Need of a Drink (Diary of a Descent Into Madness and Modern Art)

I’ve bought a colouring book. I hope it’s got join the dots in it, I used to like those as a child.


I think I’m beginning to understand this performance, video art malarkey now, its about showing loads of different vaginas, the odd penis (but then all penises seem pretty odd), wearing fetish clothing, inserting things into places they really, really shouldn’t go and bondage.


Or is that pornography?


Obviously very intellectual whatever it is about. As there are an awful lot of men with hipster beards and constipated expressions, walking around with their hands pushed deep into their pockets.


I’m abnormal I obviously don’t think about sex enough.


Per-vert. Is it even legal to do that in public?


Sigmund Freud was right… you sick twisted puppies


Seriously Rosary Beads and Swastikas!! Yeugh, I’ll be having nightmares for weeks.


Think Damien Hirst’s Pickled Egg was the sanest thing I’ve seen so far.


Now this is better, I like this. No sorry it’s not an exhibit it’s a fire extinguisher.


Seriously, a pile of bricks and a couple of pallets. I could have gone to the DIY store for that!


Why does Andy Warhol make me think of Popeye the Sailor Man?

Sandcastles, yep I am in a DIY store.


Soft furnishings and kitchen utensils now – what fresh hell, I’m in a branch of IKEA.


No scrub that; hell IS a branch of IKEA.


If I don’t make it out alive can someone feed my cat…


Yet more vaginas…


(A note found clutched in the hand of a gibbering wreck, who probably only hours before was a reasonably sane adult, but over indulged on modern art and was found slumped in a stairwell at Tate Modern in London earlier today, sobbing uncontrollably and asking to be taken to the nearest hostelry.

So please kids don’t do modern art, like all drugs it can do serious harm to an impressionable mind. Remember if it starts to make sense or you start speaking French ask a responsible adult to take you to the nearest exit tout suite)

Quote from 'High Rise' by JG Ballard. Art ' The Music from the Balconies' by Edward Ruscha. Photo by me!

Quote from ‘High Rise’ by JG Ballard. Art ‘ The Music from the Balconies’ by Edward Ruscha. Photo by me!

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.



When I was a child
I moved at the speed of light.
Like the Big Bang packaged into a cowboy costume,
Infinite energy, perpetual motion.

Now that I’m older, I am slower.
Like that mechanical bunny I’m still banging my drum
But with battery running down,
A little tatty and grey at the edges.

Then when I am old, I will just be,
I will stay where you wheel me
As long as you apply the brake.

Until one day I will wind down
To that inevitability
All energy spent, skin paper thin and grey,
Absolute zero, last breath.

photo credit: Sun via photopin (license)

photo credit: Sun via photopin (license)

Between now and then
There’s still a life to be lived
And while I might have put away some childish things
There’s no reason I can’t still laugh;
Enjoy life like a kid.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 22 August 2015 Edited 16 July 2016



photo credit: mantra via photopin (license)

photo credit: mantra via photopin (license)

It’s not worth the worry.
It’s not worth the stress.
It’ll soon be over.
This is as bad as it gets.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 25 July 2015




Object Number One

photo credit: Spotlight via photopin (license)

photo credit: Spotlight via photopin (license)

I want to strangle your babies
The seeds of your spirit,
Castrate you of thoughts
Until there is nothing left,
Naked and bare

Nothing left
But the hollow soul, the empty coffin
In to which I pour
The dead-eyed demands of this society.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

For the writers

I am not a poet

Write for the joy of it.
Simply because the grass is green,
Because the sky is blue,
Because the earth rotates
And you’ve nothing else to do.

Write for the audience,
No matter how big or how small.
Write for the critics
While in Hades they burn.

Write about rivers,
About Noah and floods,
Or write about loss,
Even write about love.

Write about anything
You damn well please.
For while words are flowing
I want to read.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 2 June 2015 Rewritten 13 July 2016


The usual suspect

photo credit: KRI 2013 via photopin (license)

photo credit: KRI 2013 via photopin (license)

I’ll rob a bank
You can be my alibi.

My getaway,
Partner in crime.

 © 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 11 May 2015



Inspiration Imagination Perspiration

Inspiration is strange. At best fleeting and unpredictable, at worst a minefield full of memory traps.

I remember a time back in my college days when I was sitting on a bus heading into lectures when the lyrics of a song began to come to me – I even began humming a tune to match as I created this song, and I knew it was good; I was literally shaking with excitement, not least because I didn’t even have a scrap of paper on me to write down the words and a bump in the road or screech of brakes might be enough to scare the willow the wisp of creation away. So I sat there, probably looking as if I was desperate to empty my bladder, as I rocked back and forth repeating my work of genius to myself over and over as the bus chugged its way up the hill towards campus.

As soon as the bus stopped I ran to the shop to buy a new pad on which to write down the lyrics, direct from my subconscious, between the pristine lines of the white paper. Pad in hand I headed straight for the library, lectures could wait. Finding a quiet corner I began to write, word after word spilling out to be scribbled down in feverish excitement on the page.

Make you cry

Make you break down

Shatter you illusions of love

Is it over now

Do you know how

To pick up the pieces and move on.

The rest of the day passed in a daze, I felt ten feet tall, as the strains of my magnum opus reverberated within.

It was not until I was on my way home and listening on the bus to the album Rumours by Fleetwood Mac on my Sony Walkman that I came back down to earth. But not until the very last song when Stevie Nicks began singing…

Did I realise that what I thought was my genius, was in fact a word for word copy of Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac; a great song, with great lyrics, but still I can’t listen to it without thinking it should have been mine.

I’ve had other moments like that over the years from creating Doctor Who, but without time travel, to coming up with the dance routines for Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love” video (though I think that is more of a recurring dream than any ability of mine to throw shapes on the dance floor).

I don’t think I’ve pressed send and posted anything on this blog yet, anything that was originally written by someone else, but it could happen as it is very crowded in my mind with stories and music and pictures too. And that is a very frightening thought when you are striving to be a writer, and an original one at that.

But isn’t it the fact that it was “Gold Dust Woman” that imprinted itself on my mind, as opposed to any other song, that gives me a chance of being original; or as an alternative to being original, then reinterpreting a genre through my own experiences. That is what will make my writing original the fact that I’m the only person to go out with the green eyed girl on April ninth 1996 or skin my knee and ruin my cowboy costume on that particular August day as a five year old.

I do know that another Stevie Nicks voiced Fleetwood Mac song started the process that led down the path towards the world described in Embers but that is just one of a myriad different influences music, film, book and even real life that fire the synapses into life.

It is the combination of all these experiences that gives me a distinctive voice, it doesn’t mean that that voice is worth listening to but they do make me who I am; for better or worse, a dreamer.

But not a writer, wandering about in a thunderstorm waiting for inspiration to strike doesn’t work, only hours spent over a keyboard or notebook do that and even then all you get is the bare bones and the beginnings, because that is when the real work begins.

You can find some of my influence over at Soundtracks but what about you all? What or who inspires you to write, paint, sculpt or simply to get up in the morning?

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.