Sunday, 6 November 2016


They whisper here

They whisper there

Some words they

Leave unsaid

But whispered words

Are always best

When whispered

By the dead

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard



On the 26th of October, my 6 foot Christmas tree was joyously decorated with baubles and erected in the window of my living room...much to the amazement of passers-by whose gaping maws mouthed incredulity more, I suspect, than they would have had I suctioned my naked form in a Garfield stance to that very pane. 

Now then, there were several reasons for my doing this and each of those reasons comprises entirely of the words " because I f*****g can!"

As for my being told by some "it's too early" well, maybe it could be deemed so had I erected it in THEIR living room...but I didn't...did I? No!

So, I tell you about YOU don't tell me when it's the right time to put my tree up and I won't tell all of you pyrotechnical premature ejaculates to stick your fireworks in an orifice of my choosing when you're frightening the shite out of my dog weeks before bonfire night, which is bad enough in itself!



Thank you for tuning into Lynn's Rant...

Ps: No animals were harmed during the erecting of my Christmas tree!

Pps: Merry Christmas!!

©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 5 November 2016

Gargoylian Update...

So then, life and its ever evolving madness has overwhelmed my senses recently and thus my presence, physically, mentally, emotionally, realistically, virtually....and in all other aspects of sentience has been rather jaded and spasmodic, to say the least.

No need to bore you with the details of my fugue state, suffice to say that I am dealing with stuff in my own peculiar way and taking note of each diverse nuance of its mitherage for future writings of the crazy and the creepy!

Speaking of 'future writings'...the third book in my poetry series is to be launched at the mid/latter end of next year...*air punches*...I'll let you know more about that, including launch venue etc...nearer the time.

As for now, well, currently I am poised to resume work on my debut novel (as yet untitled and very much a work in progress) the content of which will incorporate a fusion of mystery, macabre, malevolence, mirth and any other M words I find to be of appropriate usage.

Now, whilst I don't want to give too much away regarding storyline, at this point, what I will reveal is the setting for my eerie tale...

This is a place where my mother would take me for picnics when I was a little girl and, subsequently, where I would take my own children for similar moments of quietude and calm accompanied by a modest assortment of sandwiches and a hamper packed with thoughtful contemplation for the respected companions in our midst.

It is a place where I would once run to, literally, for solace, day or night, when the vicious world of the living weighed heavily upon me. 

It is a place where I continue to walk each day and most evenings, finding the company of the residents therein both comforting and, indeed, inspiring.

And it is a place where I myself will reside one day and, consequently, embark upon my journey to the Otherside guided, no doubt, by the very souls whose ethereal state has, I suspect, on many occasion lifted my spirits higher than their own!

No! This is not to be a tale of Tesco Extra and its walking dread!

This is a tale of grave and graveyard...particularly my graveyard, as I prefer to think of it, although the local council would be quick to challenge such thoughts.

Set in the present a fleeting glimpse at one of the main characters would draw your attention towards the degraded shape of Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher (1582-1648) whose zeal as a Witchfinder is as rampant in death as it was in life.

In their, as yet, raw state a couple of excerpts from the opening chapter of my book read thusly... 

"Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher peered over the crumbling, graveyard wall through sharp, narrowed eyes. The events unfolding before his scrutinous gaze were a source of much interest to him as he witnessed the solemn interment of yet another sinner.

Death had done nothing to alter Nathaniel’s sour nature nor dull his devious manner. Indeed, he remained to be the bitter, disgruntled man he had been in life, fiercely suspicious of everyone and everything, particularly that which lay beyond the walled confines of what he considered to be his exclusive property, the Chantry..............

..............Yes, Nathaniel’s demise in 1648 in his 66th year, had not quashed his passion for Witch-hunting,  if anything Nathaniel believed his present state was testament to God's will that he remain Witchfinder and continue with his noble quest to defeat the Devil and his minions, ultimately purging the wicked influences which sought to possess mankind".

And that's as much of the narrative I'm sharing at the moment, however, I will share with you a few photographs, taken a day or so ago whilst on my walk, of the very graveyard from where Nathanial's prying eyes are boring into the souls of the sinfully deceased.

As for now, what more is there to say but...."Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" cue menacing laughter....

  ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Thursday, 29 September 2016

No Tears...

Another tangent poem of mine that's a work in progress best suited, I feel, to song rather than word, but until such time I find the melody....I shall share with you the piece in its VERY raw state!


I won't cry now you are leaving

 I swore you'd never see me cry.

I'll wear this smile that's so deceiving

But the pretence helps me get by.

I won't walk into our bedroom

And see us lying there

I'll close my eyes on all the good times

And let you think that I don't care.

I won't listen to our old songs

I'll find new ones of my own

Even though the music we made

Plays in my mind when I'm alone

I won't linger over old photographs

Reliving how we used to be

You don't need to know those images

Are etched in my memory

I won't see you both together

And die some more inside

I'll be stronger now than ever

Just too weak to lift that lie

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sunday, 11 September 2016

Banquet Of The Damned...


Where I wait

Beneath your bed

Dust lies thick and heavy

A luxuriously

Perverse carpet

Of your desquamated flesh.

Each foul flake

Of your body's detritus

Sits well upon my tongue

A tasty reminder

Of your ever decaying state.


A groan

And your shape shifts above me

As troubled slumbers scurry

To warn you of my presence.

An impotent gesture

For already

The sinuous tendrils

Of my unholy appetite

Hasten to hold fast

And devour

Your squirming soul.

Exquisite .

A whimper

As the seeds of your discomfort

Bury themselves deeper

Into the fetid treacle

Of your prickly dreams

Allowing a restless foot

Escape from its weighted trappings

To dangle tauntingly

Towards my eager maw

And through this offering

Sweet ecstasies are reached

As I pull your feeble form asunder

Dragging it greedily to my septic lair

To share with me the banquet

Of Hells savageries. 

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Mrs Chitter Chatter...

She's Mrs Chitter Chatter

With the gaily painted banter

Who befriends you

So you'll tell her all your stuff

And when that's done and over

She'll move on because she's bored now

Once her gossip coffers bulging

You're rebuffed!

Then she'll move on to another

Whilst their secrets she uncovers

Before sharing theirs and yours

With victims new

And through her twisted dealings

Caring nothing for folks feelings

She'll exaggerate the truth

To suit her mood

Then devouring the attention

Of her scandalous inventions

With the knife she used

To stab you in the back

She'll dissect your reputation

To seek others adoration

As compensation for the character

She lacks!

But feel not bruised nor bitter

By Mrs Chitter Chatters chitter

'Cos it's pity

That she needs above all else

As she'll never know true friendship

Her ways undone all pals will exit

And she'll end her days

In the company of herself.

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 3 September 2016

The Awakening...

(My original title for this ode was 'F**k Them All'...general consensus suggests that I should have stuck with that....and I concur!) 

I have wasted

Too many years

And I have shed

Far too many tears

Tolerating those

Who don't deserve

The enduring compassion

Of my mental reserves

And so no more

Will I withstand

The self-centered slap

Of their hypocritical hand

I'll live my life

For me and mine

No more encumbered

By their wasting my time

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard