Girl In A Rose


There was a girl
Who fell asleep in a rose.
For a pillow she took a purple petal
And the blanket too
Was soft as a princess’s cheek.
And her dreams were fragrant
And brought about the soundest sleep
As if upon a leaf
All that might be
Could really come to pass.
And when she wakes,
For she will wake refreshed,
She will sip upon a perfect sphere
Held within a purple
Rose petal glass.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016



Nestled in the deep pocket
Of the Cotswolds
Lies a village
That can only be known
Via old tracks, footpaths
And bridleways.

Some say it was lost,
Loosing its footing in time.
And some say it is found
Disregarding time’s
Bustling runaway.

But all who walk
The sleepy streets
Are touched by the woodsmoke air
And the cottage gardens’
Homely claim

On old walls
In which the roses scramble
And flowers beds billowing rich
Beside the flagstone path.
And time appears

To flow unending
From pastoral histories
And more simple years
Where one year spent
Yielded freely
In the spending of the next.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

A Story From The Western Sea

Far off in the Western Sea of dreams and beginnings there was the birth of a story. It bubbled up from beneath, from deep in the gloom of a cold benthos, where strange things scuttle and make their homes. Some bubbles rise as stars while others are neutral. This one was like the very first born thought, as fresh as the newest thing, pale skinned and beautiful. From the waves of the Western Sea it rose high and caught prevailing winds. With birds and things airborne it navigated the Coriolis force and felt the call of land like a heart beat in its body. For days it watched and winged on blue ether and mist. And when it saw the brown earth it dropped like a stone and kissed the hard, dry soil and burrowed as its feeling decreed. And then it waited. And waited. And waited. And when the time was right it germinated on sweet water and the worlds urge to change and put up a shoot, then a leaf, then a flower: a new flower that no one had ever seen before.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Dr Paradox And The Theory Of Rhubarb

Dr Paradox had the enviable job of being a scientist. He found it both annoying and useful in equal measure. It was problematic because he had to conform to certain social stereotypes in order to be taken seriously: growing his eyebrows wild and unkempt, messing up his desk and house, sporting a wearisome and offensive halitosis and generally projecting an air of befuddlement: none of which were his personal preference or resembled who he really was. After visitors left his house he’d scrupulously rearrange the mayhem in to good order, tame his outlandish eyebrows with a comb and allow his patent mouthwash time to return his mouth to normality. He sometimes thought that his mouthwash was his single greatest achievement, for with but a minute of gargling it transformed his breath from inoffensive normality to a vile monster (which oddly tasted of delightful peppermint), only to return it to the sweet scent of herbs after exactly one hour. One swig just before guests arrived thus allowed him the odious authority of his position and projected the right and professional air expected of a man of his status: all that without the annoyance of permanent periodontal disease. It was a triumph, but one he could not yet see a wider practical application for. However, these social annoyances were outweighed by the positive aspects of his role.

Being a scientist gave him an unequivocal right to talk with absolute authority on any subject of his choosing. But more importantly, it allowed him to fabricate the truth, making new truth if the old truth were in anyway lacking. It meant he could say almost anything at all with total confidence, knowing that people would lap it up, even if it was a complete load of bollocks.  If anyone did think to question what he said, out would come his little notebook and the words: “hold on, I’ll just check the statistics”. The fact that there was nothing written in his notebook seemed not to matter in the slightest. He found that merely bringing out the the book caused 76% of people to switch off. The remaining dissenters could be put off with a twitch of his enormous eyebrow.  Even if someone did persist they almost never checked his statistics for fear of intense and painful boredom.  And if all else failed he could give the tricky bugger a blast of his scurrilous breath. If not stopped in their tracks by that point, there really was nothing to be done. As a scientist it was imperative to be able to talk bullshit in order that the theories added up to something approaching half sensible; the scientific community expected as much. And the public were no less hungry for anything ridiculous that could be passed off as a truth and were likely to become violent if they didn’t get it. He had a job to do and he’d do it to the best of his creative ability.

Dr Paradox was, of course, a man of theories. There were literally hundreds lining up in his mind ready to be explored and expanded upon. Unfortunately, he had the terrible affliction of being easily sidetracked. This was difficult in his personal and professional life alike. If he set off to brush his teeth he’d find himself inadvertently doing the hoovering. If he thought he might clean the windows he’d find himself watching TV. If he set off to buy a loaf of bread from the local shop he might find himself on a transatlantic flight, half way to New York, sipping G&T’s and flirting with the cabin crew. It was no better in his workplace.  He’d begin working on a project in the lab, only to find, three weeks later, that he was lying on a beach in Bali. It meant that his research was somewhat stunted, but on the bright side, he had a really great tan.

It was somewhat tricky to get to the bottom of the problem. He’d tried at least ten of the very fashionable techniques of self reflection and mindfulness. But being a man of theories and easily sidetracked, he never managed to get to the end of a single chain of thought without first taking a route to somewhere else equally interesting on the way. And while he’d booked all ten mind calming treatments, he’d not made a single appointment. All in all, it made his thoughts and his conversation infuriating, unexpected, enthralling, tedious and totally unfulfilling. But somehow everyone loved it that way and so there was no outside pressure to change.

Though he had not found a cure for his affliction he had given it the name of Rhubarb. It had become clear that his theorising was part of the problem. In order to explain any theory he was working on he found he needed to use another theory to get his point across. Unfortunately, half way through the second theory another theory would be needed, and so on and so on. This would continue until no one could remember where he had started or what the point was. He was liable to continue ad infinitum or at least until dinner time (which ever came first). When he did eventually arrive at the conclusion, he’d stand up and proclaim in a loud voice: “the state of Rhubarb has been reached”. (It’s like a theory impasse and can only be cured with three stiff G&T’s in quick succession or possibly a strong cup of tea laced with gin. And Tonic). This state of Rhubarb was applauded quite vigorously by anyone who knew him because the revelation of G&T’s was what everyone was waiting for. That was the point.

With G&T’s onboard bullshit is just easier for the brain to handle. And when pissed, everyone is a scientist and a statistician. In fact, that was where the fun usually began and consequently Dr Paradox had become a hit at parties and invites were delivered daily to his door. In someways Dr Paradox was quite satisfied. He’d attained some standing in the world. He could say what he needed to say and make up the rest with impunity. However, he couldn’t quite work out what the practical applications of Rhubarb were and how it would make his fortune.  But thinking about it didn’t get him anywhere. It just seemed to lead to drunkenness and an endless cycle of parties and drunken calls for more Rhubarb. And of course, the inevitable next day headache.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Horrible Novel

My novel has become somewhat unruly. Until this morning, I hadn’t seen it for a couple of days.  Then when I came down for breakfast, there it was, waiting for me, crouching at the bottom of the stairs. But oh my goodness, how it had grown. It was at least seventeen times bigger than I remember and its mouth parts were out of all measure and proportion.

I must say, it halted me in my sleepy decent. I was a little confused as to what to do. Was I to brush past as if it were normal size and without huge fangs and teeth in their multitude. Or was I to flee, scampering up the stairs to exit through the bathroom window. In the end, it made the decision. For as I pondered my choices, it pounced.

Luckily, my martial arts have taught me much. And so with the agility God has favoured me, I ducked and the beast flew straight over my head. I saw its underbelly as it went in a high arc and my worst fears were actualised. Its gut was plump with far too many words and bulged with a peculiar menace. I estimated that it must be a hundred weight, if not more. A terrible thought entered my mind at that point: I had conjured a monster. I was Frankenstein, and this thing, my work.

As it flew over, I took my chance, dashed below and slipped in to the kitchen where I found two things: a broom and poker from my wood burning stove. With these weapons I charged in to the fray. And all was violent ugliness. It bit and scraped and hit out with a rank verbiage and a mouth so full of words. Yet I parried, deflected, spun on the axis of a dance made of martial arts and hopefulness, and for a moment thought myself to be winning.

But then it unleashed its poetry. Oh God, how that hurt. A thousand lashes of its rhyming tongue. A thousand passages of its disappointments. Its woes fired like missiles to strike me down. All that awfulness rolled in to one grievous assault. Its power knocked me to the ground. I was paralysed. And then, it sat upon me with its full weight. It was a ton at least. A ton of words. A ton of sentences. The whole unedited mass crushing the breath from my lungs. Surely I was about to die.

But no. From beneath I saw its weakness. Its binding was not well strung. In fact, it was still in its crapy little ring folder. I took the knife, that I keep in my pyjamas, and stuck it in the gap. The clasps pinged open; so full was it stuffed. And in a instant the beast was done. It disintegrated before my eyes. Pages spewed and fluttered in the air. The chapters shuffled like a deck of cards. The whole thing punctured and deflating as if it were composed of hot air and nothing more.

But when I saw it dismembered and pitiful, I couldn’t strike the killing blow. Instead my heart went out to it. I gathered up its limbs and appendages. I nursed it as best I could, applying hot poultices and wiping away its tears. I collected the spare words (there were many) and hung the sentences out to dry (they were wet with sweat). When I left it on the sofa, watching shit TV, it looked as close to happy as ever I’ve seen. And when I popped a warm blanket across its first page, for comfort and warmth, I think it almost smiled at me.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The Rhinoceros Next Door

I mean really, what are they thinking? Their garden is tiny. I’m all for animal rights and rehoming strays, but a rhinoceros in suburban Oxford; that’s just not on!

Sometimes I think I’m going mad. I say this because no one else on my street seems to pay the slightest attention to the giant beast in their vicinity.  When the sun shines, my neighbours mill about on the road exchanging pleasantries, jars of plum jam, gossip etc, just as they always have. But no one ever mentions the rhinoceros. I’ve brought it up a few times but they just stare at me blankly as though I’ve spoken another language or were speaking out of turn. It makes me feel very uncomfortable so I’ve given up asking. There remains, of course, something unspoken in the air!

Bob and Joan, in whose garden the beast dwells, say hello to me every morning over the garden fence. And every morning there it is, right behind them. I wonder, do they not see my wild eyes flickering with confusion as the beast sways on its giant legs and snorts as it munches breakfast? How can they ignore its heavy breathing and occasional flatulence, passing off the whiff as just an unlucky farmyard breeze? And what about the truck loads of fodder arriving each day?

I mean, it would be fine if the rhinoceros had something to say: a point of view or a joke, even. God knows, I’ve tried to strike up conversation countless times. But it behaves as if it were from the jungle or the plain. Mostly it completely ignores my presence, even when I’ve been so kind as to offer it a mid morning coffee or an early evening beer (quite rude really). However, this morning there was something worse than being ignored.

I popped out to put the washing on the line and saw the rhinoceros rubbing its flank against my neighbours garage. I called out a hello and its ears twitched. I thought it might grace me with a chat. However, it did not. Instead it positioned its rump in my direction, lifted its tail, muttered something under its breath and then farted the fart of a two ton ruminator, which if you’ve not had the pleasure, is like the worst, moist hairdryer with a bowl of yesterdays sodden muesli thrown in to the mix. I would say that I was aghast but actually I was thickly coated. I felt like a fish-finger dipped in chocolate and showered in nuts. Only my two frightened eyes blinked naked of the foul and outrageous ejector. And so peppered, I felt an urge for sweet cleanliness that only a man thus dipped can know. I slid and dripped my sorry way to the bathroom, a shameful trail upon the kitchen floor.

Later on, when I’d cleaned up (in body if not in mind), I retaliated with a volley of insults thrown over the fence. But the beast is thick skinned indeed and swished me away, dismissing me with its tail.

I’m going to call the council. I really am. I mean, I’ve heard and used the elephant in the room metaphor many times, but a rhinoceros in the back garden is quite another thing.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Dr Paradox

Dr Paradox lives at number 13. I don’t know what he does all day but it appears he doesn’t work. I have coffee with him every Tuesday at eleven, sharp. He is a stickler for timeliness but remarkably relaxed when I’m late.

It’s hard to tell his age: somewhere between 1 and 89. That sounds ridiculous, I know. But you’ve not seen him. He sometimes wears a white moustache and sometimes a bib. He has one enormous bushy eyebrow while the other is trimmed. His skin looks soft as a babies and wrinkled with age. Often he wears a white robe in his house though when I’ve seen him in town he wears jeans and t-shirt. I think the robe may be for my benefit. Everyone else on the street just knows him as John, but he insists I refer to him as Dr Paradox.

I usually go over accompanied by my cat. He invites me in and we sit in his lounge. He’s had an enormous bath fitted in one corner and sometimes we sit in that – but bizarrely without any water and fully clothed. He often remarks on the beautiful buoyancy of air: how warm it is, how clean it makes you feel etc. He says that he only fully appreciates it when understood through the context of an empty bath. Generally, that cats don’t join us in the bath. I forgot to mention, he has a cat too. It’s named Inverse and he’s a ginger tom. I’m not sure if our cats get on or not. They seem to spend an awful lot of time attempting to out-squint each other or they play the strange mind game that cats enjoy, where they try to make each other invisible. And it appears that sometimes it works.

Generally on my arrival, Dr Paradox will ask if I’d like a coffee. To which my answer is invariably: yes. His stock response is: yes, but do you? My answer is: yes, I’d like a coffee. He then answers: yes, but do you really want a coffee? This interplay usually results (eventually) in a coffee, though not always. To be honest, I’ve not got the slightest clue what he’s up to and while it’s unfailingly annoying, some part of me enjoys it very much. Sometimes, even though I’ve asked for coffee he brings me tea instead, which I drink without complaint lest I have to go through the whole process again.

The weird thing is: I always feel refreshed after my visits. The coffee (when I get one) is great but somehow there is more to it than that. It’s as if the air really is buoyant and cleansing and contains a warmth, just as he says it does.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

A Wandering Poet

Today I fancied the life of a wandering bard and poet. And so with a spring in my step and the birds tweeting in the joyous air I selected my favourite knapsack, packed it with green cheese and a hunk or two of bread, some fine olives and a red apple, and slung it on a pole.

With provisions aplenty I went out the door, not forgetting my poets peaked cap, complete with a feather for inspiration. And of course I wore my best bard-ish jerkin, to keep me warm around the midriff and hopeful in mind. I went not empty handed: a book of plain pages clasped in my fingers, my quill expectant and quivering.

I strolled a good league before I met a (would be) patron in the village of Cowley. He leant nonchalant against a wall with fermentation thick about his person, a beverage loose in his hand. He smoked a Woodbine and had rummy eyes to see the world around. I thought him decent enough for a try of the rhythm in my mind. And so I said to him:

“Good sir, toss me a ducat and I shall sing a merry tune or write a rhyme in this book here, that once done will be yours for the keeping.”

And to this he said: “fuck off.”

“Good sir,” I said, “which ditch have you dug for those words that come tumbling, for I should have them for my book.”

And he said: “fuck off you twat.”

And I smiled and said:  “you sir, are a wit. I know it. You play with me as if I were a child. At first I thought those words were dirt, but you use them so well. They fall off your lip like watery cascade. They flow as nature’s voice in wind and breeze alike. Pray do tell me some more.”

And to this he said (you’ve guessed it): “Fuck off.”

And so with a salute and a smile I went on my merry way.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Grandfather Seaweed

Is the tidal law,
For it is ever commanding
And in some ways stronger
Than the day’s diurnal yaw
And opening and closing eye.

Half his time
In soporific muse
And daydream,
With his cheek
Wet to the grey glutin
Of sediments
And the cool sulphur stink
Of mud layered greasy.

There are birds in his daydream;
Seagulls and waders patterning
The slick shiny surfaces
With criss cross footprints.
If only he could raise himself up!
But his body is limp to the rock
And deflated on the mud flat.

But then on the turning tide:
First joy to his lifted toe tips,
In salt water push.
And then to his green weed calves,
And then his body
And his weighty sargasso clothes.

Soon the daydreams seep away
And all is bluegreen oxygen
And the free thoughts
Of kelp
Suspended in the water column.
He is fully awake
When his bladder rack fringe
Lifts from his barnacle face
And shimmers and depicts
The current flow
And the playfulness
Of water’s irregularity.

Now he breathes
His water-lung
Saltwater full,
And is bright in his octopus eye,
Excited in saline energy,
Full as the moon,
Full as Equinox:
His mind
Teaming with ideas
Of fish
And aquatic snails
And colourful sponge
And the jewels of anemones,
And the bright eyed shrimp
And the lobster’s wariness
And the majestic conger eel,
And the multitude nameless
Who peak tentative from beneath:

All of which he collects
With silver brown hands
And algal finger-leaves,
Adhering them
To his stone skin
And the nooks and crevices therein,
Making himself beautiful
And decorative.
The under-garden home,
His living benthic cloak,
Gathered up
And to the underworld
To his legacy
And grandchildren,
In wet plethora
And numerous cold blooded.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015 ‎