I shared a flat with three sisters Who all loved me as a brother We thrived as we all loved film posters Ours was a free but platonic existence Which surprised all of those who visited us On my wall I hung the movie posters From Zabriskie Point to Easy Rider As I longed to…

He had dreams of growing  Hundreds of olive trees In the shadows Of our volcano

It is the seven string lyre of Apollo  An instrument that heals  Antiquity suggests that therapy  Was done using music 

Eith lived in Amsterdam in a top floor flat  Which overlooked one of the many canals  I often stayed in the flat in a small room That was totally dominated by a movie poster  Although slightly torn it was an impressive addition  That brightened up the tedium of the walls   

Leslie Van Houghton Wrote these words In his battered diary Just before he was killed The powerful play Are there any complaints I gave his diary to Lynda When I visited her She returned it to me A few months later And noted that I had shared this part Of his life and death And…

Is a paradise lost I had carved Proust Into the butt of my rifle If nothing else It made sense of the slaughter I had once loved my country But I feel almost nothing now Soldiers no longer smiled Except when dead They returned in coffins Covered in thin false flags

It is considered unfashionable to love Estonia And I am often teased about it by foreign students Who have not yet discovered the meaning of love Letter from Daphne (July 2026)

I have always been very impressed With the education system here in Estonia I feel that I have had a well rounded education I agree as in a month I will be in Greece At an art school with my sister Daphne It was awarded to us both by the mayor Letter from Victor/Victoria (July…

What are your dreams like Do you still even dream I no longer dream I have not had a dream Since I returned home That was nearly a year ago And I am beginning to realise That my war is now over And that rather strangely I was one of the lucky ones Nobody is…

When I looked at his flowers In my large English garden I found no Arabs or Jews I found no Negroes or Hispanics I found no Pederasts or Homosexuals I found little of much offence In this slim volume of his poetry in memory of my late father who died on this day in 1962