Shooting up from the oceans


I first wrote this poem about a writer, tortured by outside forces and unable to write. But the medium of poetry – with its minimal structure – means that each word needs to carry more than its singular weight. I realised the paradox of a writer writing about struggling to write, when it dawned on me that it’s prose for anyone who writes stories in their heads, when they have time to break from life. To those about to dream…


Gas Station Horror PoemGas Station Horror

We’re all the same, with or without a pen, syringe, or a gun. There ain’t no genie in the bottle, nor in the magazine.

If you can’t write your dreams, remember to live them. Then maybe someone can write them for you.


They’ve gone away on holiday


We’re only gone when we’re forgotten, but when we remember, sometimes they visit us. They still walk among us. You just have to keep your eyes open to notice them.


In a moment3

Dog catches car, drives it off cliff


If a dog ever caught up with the car it was chasing, would it know how to drive? A poetic analogy of Brexit…

Dog Driving2

It’s raining salt in my eyes…


…and Mr Sandman leaves hailstones

Raining eyes

Nominative determinism in life


I’ve called this ‘What’s the matter with us?’

Nominative determinism 2 columns

Anxiety and despair in 3 words


A 45 RPM I wrote, which spins for about 14 seconds. It’s about stumbling back into life in Tonbridge after ten years in London, and all that’s meant over the last five years. I made it black and orange, as a kind of reflection of a one-way train ticket. Off the rails and onto the streets, but from where I live now, there’s a direct ThamesLink train line straight back to Catford…

Tonbridge Station Poem 6

If I’m eating my dessert with a teaspoon, please don’t give me a big spoon. I’m having a great time and I know what I’m doing.

These are the streets…


On my head

Words © Steve Laker. Photo by Ellen Rostant. September in 2016 My London calendar (CafeArt)