Poetry

Fight Club

Fight Club In the dim back‑room of a weather‑beaten pub, the floor is a scar‑topped canvas of dust and old varnish. Behind the bartender’s window, the city exhales its grey stories, but inside the

Inception

Inception In London’s misty twilight, as the city’s thoughts fettle, The first spark is a whisper of a world yet unfurled— A seed, thin‑shaped as a dream in a mind’s gentle gravel, Planting in

Chide

Chide In a quiet London flat, the kettle hisses, The kettle that recites its loyal verse with steam— and in the kitchen air, a soft voice rises, A gentle hand that noses the boy's

The Matrix

In the quiet glow of a darkened room, the screens hum low, the cables loom, a cascade of green‑coded ghosts appear, and the illusion of the world is dear. Neo lies, a

GoodFellas

In a city that never sleeps, the nights are lit with shadows long where smokestacks bleed mist. “Goodfellas,” they whisper, a name that’s pure grit, a legend where loyalty and blood are the

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