Poetry

Full Metal Jacket

Full Metal Jacket In the shell of a rural barrack, I hear the clang of turn‑stiff iron, the boot‑soled shuffle echoing like a drumbeat, a fat, dull thud of death, where a young

Die Hard

Ode to a Tower‑Burst Classic In the glossy glow of a Nakatomi Tower, a London‑spun sonnet but born in New York’s hour. John McClane, the porter of pints and rebellion, steps through

Fruit

In a garden where the mist still clings, the apple’s blush, a ruby grin, and pears that hum soft autumn songs, all turn sweet in the light of morning. The orange peels, a citrus

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

In the mist of a half‑lived Capital of adventure, Indiana Jones, bowler hat perched on head, Pondered the relic that tails the brave and the treacherous, A quest that led him cross‑facing his

A Clockwork Orange

A Clockwork Ontario? (A Poem in the Tongue of the Thames) In the soot‑strewn back alleys of a Coventry‑grade future, where the road‑signs blink in a neutral‑colour glare, a lanky lad strides—blue‑milk-faced,

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