I'm a poet. I'm published in various forms of media and currently working on my first novel.

This blog will display my work as it is written, before being submitted for publication, as well as expressing my thoughts and feelings on the dull.



Some will have heard, some won’t have heard; all should have heard.

Howlers, four-piece from Minneapolis; nothing new, but better than the rest.

Semi-colons aside, Howler’s are the Mark II of the low-fi surf vibe that has arisen in recent times, with the like of Wavves and Lovvers leading the charge. The ‘W’ in Howler elegantly unites the double ‘V’ which seems so adamant in representing this progression in chilled out indie.

Clean swept melodies trickle from the necks of electric guitars, before evolving into a gritty fuzz, while the gentle sway of chords, often torn prematurely from the keyboard’s womb, compliment drum beats that are as simplistic and addictive as lego. All shit aside, Howler attain to a simple, practiced recipe of summer, beach music, but instead of using supermarket ingredients, they grow their own. 

Imagine for a second, a troupe on the beach of California, wind swept surfer hair on every guy, the odd tattoo on a bikini clad girl here and there, paste in a ghetto blaster with a better version of the Strokes/Vaccines playing low-fi and loud, with all present jumping about and making out; you have the scene that Howler’s songs create.

This is a band for happy days, a band that bring together friends to drink and dance a little, if nothing else. This is a child’s wet dream upon knowing in the morning they’re going to Disney Land (Florida, not Paris).

Howler’s debut album is ‘America Give Up’, out Jan 16th. 



I’m back after a year away


This cunt has taken me a week to write. It’s a piece of coursework for the creative writing part of my degree. 

“All I want to do is fuck and look good,”
sighed Life to a burka, ebony and
cleaning white teeth with a coral petal.
“Salmon Rushdie didn’t die for you, whore,”
replied :nickname: Disgrace, with tears
that stained emerald skin the first shade of grey;

the first scene of Shakespeare’s  rewritten play,
enticing Classic to reveal mud
under UV lights and Boredom’s beer.
“I deserve to give a fuck!,” heckled Hand,
gripped around an aging cock, before doors
spread distorted legs and welcomed Mental,

skin a pale blue hue and fag of menthol,
with Dadas  assaulting the stage, all gay
and dissecting digits, quills calling Floor.
“I want to be naked.” Burka, in hoods
of eyes, cried, blind by crimson seats of sand
to start Scene Two; Hand, the critic, sheared.

Lines bled from greater birds, perverts and fear,
copied by priests of Dead Modern, nasal
in hearing, repeating scenes of dry land.
Actors salvage the fleeing Groundhog Day,
as recorded Scene Two shits in the woods
and shits in the woods, more and more  and more,

till Grace is said and youth rejects the spores
of comb overs and bedroom walls, of seers
and Voltaire’s cum greased recital; Love.
“Jesus, I never read your book!” Metal,
encased in cotton, called, under brown hay,
before the crusade descended and sang

from rafters - Metal making her fanned-
self move towards a Burka Worship Core,
battle blooming on stage, without a frayed
naked body insight, house lights rearing
naked choke holds by the lake and nettles;
beat the tempest and temptress back for good.

To a prince’s land, entice flattered fear
in galleries and reject fatal
May days when all the ships have gone for good.


Who let the flatterer into the gallery,
whip bent and tearing paintings from the new ceiling,
cast iron shackles arresting the dead bed maid
as the salary of feelings is considered -

the bed’s lungs won’t last tonight by the filth and bride;
poor poet at the pinnacle of passion; fail
the dragging of the lake, which hides under fat thighs
and cringes at the creaks of epileptic springs.


Convulsing by sand banks, as castles die,
seduced by crimson tendrils and rag-tag
charm; the chase that kills the hunter; blundered
distance that caresses tear stained, dry cheeks.

Vanishing like a cloud, while choking cubes
of white sugar, indebted to a bag of
unformed chords. Drown in machismo colours
as phrases empty the pockets of Us;

Cascading rolls of the drummer over
lonely sheets and creeping pillars. Fillet
the fungal core and emerald eyes of ages:
greet Mark 2., lithe and tits of an angel.

Open flood gates of Melancholy to
abandon sacks of flour and untuned
sandcastles, semi colons and island;
bargain at the band stand for open hives.


I haven’t wrote a poem for about 4 months so this is my first attempt at it.

Paper flowers tied to aching letters,
licked and sealed in starless sewers
while suits stumble from wine to wire.

“Are we sugar lumps in lungs,” the town crier,
port and sad, bellows to buttons,
torn from suits like eyes and trotters.

All this, sung on cloud nights
by paralytic pirates at the end of their life.
Open eyes to look like the blind.

Lewis Dalton


Morning all.

I’m in the south of France, have been for a week and will be for another two. I look like a well cooked piece of beef. I apologize in advance for the lack of quality this message will hold due to my lack of writing the last few weeks.

Well, first thing to say is that I can understand why so many art movements happened in France, because the amount of little bars that flow out into the streets and seem opened at every God forsaken hour, which is every hour in this fifth level of hell, allow for 24/7 drinking without realizing and great discussion.

The language barrier isn’t proving too much of a problem, as the good ol’ English ignorance prevails; talk a little louder and slower in English. I’ve acquired an old love for swimming and have spent too many hours being slow cooked in water too hot to boil potatoes in.

Anyway, once again, the pathetic excuse of a post that this is, is all that you’re getting for now. Next week we’re off to Toulouse or some other crazy place and I’ll make sure I document my days so I can throw the report out into the fiend-like hands of no body, clutching, not from behind their empty cowardice screens, as they don’t exist.


It wasn’t a rose in winter
It was a dirty piece of tissue
caught in a hawthorn bush
but somehow it was
better than a rose

Billy Childish

Mutiny Aboard SS. Heart Attack

“All I want to do is fuck and look good!”
Said the wood to Captain Goose, wing on an
empty noose, by the bin, behind the blood,
between thighs of steel and weeping lice.

“Shit stains sip on soda water,” replied
sipping on her soda water, trucker
clamped, half devoured by Sour Cunt,
signing lists on the hunt of the hooker.

Lewis Dalton

Reflecting Reflections

Bambi; bootlegged black by a bag of bones
amidst fears of gloss and conscious,
while tin choirs rape with shaped wire,
newly born negatives named: Delicious.

Scenes of bone, home to ebony etchings,
sketched upon dry plateaus of flakes,
left to canker, Je m’appelle cheveux;
dark and thick like the yard of black we take.

All the mirrors dancers will sing,
“Among illusions of cosmeticized
orphans, under the fifth apple,
rotating a lush rouge, you’ll find
the open heart of arrogance and lies.”

Lewis Dalton