Marjorie Razorblade

The Wardrobe


I could Never be a Poet-  For You- "Silence"- His Testicles Must be Enormous - Warning Bell-The Three Theological Virtues are Pissed Off- Lucifer - On The Mountain-Tiger Lily- I wish he wasn't Dead See Saw Marjorie Whore- Sprog Me Up -Hothouse Flower - wings- Lemon Tree- The Life of Ivy- She Who Must Note be Named


I could Never be a Poet

The need for constant self evaluation would do my brain in;

Pick yourself to pieces- reassemble- leave bits out, wedge bits in, bits are missing

Dissect life in the shallow Petri dish of you brain

Read constantly, eat words, consume words steal words

Word Stealer. Vowel thief.

* gasp *





Think yourself stupid seem clever to others

Swallow your own intellect- spew words of pointless nonsense

Appreciate Art (do not understand art) maybe it’s not Art? Maybe it’s…Science!  Analyse/Cross examine. Give up Science go back to Art, try Maths for answers to artful scientific questions you can’t find….

Abstain from Logic

Choose Passion

Passion+ Maths + Words – Logic  / Life + your own objective opinion and no-one else’s = Misguided Fiction.

Alternate characters, create Nom De Plume/Alter Ego/Scape Goat/Dual Personality

And we all know one shell cannot contain two souls with double lives, double meanings and double negatives

Enter Cynical Stanley

(quite cutting but not enough, male, difficult to develop testosterone)

Enter Violet Browning

(Colourful gun idiom needs something sharper)

Enter Marjorie Razorblade


Try something else- Insult instead, show no fear, no mercy, defend inner sanctum of ruined castle like the ghost of King Arthur running around headless with invisible sword attacking Japanese tourists in the 21st century- oblivious,

Raise battlements in order to protect small thumb sucking girl with no pink safety blanket to hide behind terrified of a creaking doorway and the wardrobe full of bogey men, create shield of armour plated words.

Men! Of course! That will work- good for poetry good for the soul either/or; date, fail, love, fail, love again, unrequited love, fall in love, heartbreak, poetry about wailing, good poetry, fall in love, terrible poetry, break up , bad poetry, develop bullet proof façade raise guard, drop guard, be caught off guard, drop defences, find love, loose love, find alcohol, bottom of the bottle holds all the answers to chronic liver removal, twisted peptic ulcer and pancreatic failure in repeating fluctuating self inflicted 2nd round circumstance

Alcohol + words + gun = Ernest Hemmingway- Hunter S Thompson – Primo Levi.

Contemplate buying a gun.

Do the decent thing


* Phew. *


Move away

Live alone

Eat Words

Write words

Swallow your own self-obsessive words

And Never


Believe in yourself




I could Never be a poet.


(C) Marjorie Razorblade 2007

For You


You say we’re friends- we never speak

Around you I’m nothing but defenceless and meek

You never smile when I compliment you

You never thank me for what I do


You’re a Bastard.


© Marjorie Razorblade 2000

Comments: This is an oldie- written for a friend of mine who just used to piss me off with her incredible aloofness (originally ending in "You're a Bitch"). I find this poem fits all manner of people- male and female alike, hence it's recent upgrade to "You're a Bastard"







Time flies when you're having fun

Both hands of the clock are moving as one

Nobody moves

Nobody speaks

Minutes and hours

Are turning to weeks

Tick follows Tock

As each second passes

No coloured prints

No flowers in vases

Grey faces move without any reaction

Like a Mantis preying

For a moments distraction.



(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2000


Comments: One of my first published pieces. I wrote this ten minutes into an office job which I loathed enormously. Ten minutes later I left the job with this poem. At least something vaguely fulfilling came out of it.



His Testicles Must be Enormous

I've never seen such nerve-such gall
And secret writing on the wall
Denotes your time for "fun" is grounded
Revealed your truth and I'm dumbfounded

You slur your friends, I name no name
You point but only you're to blame
For nothing ventured, you've less to gain
You'll die alone

You'll die of shame

Love and truth combined no more,
Your heart becomes an empty door
My time is wasted, you thief and fraud
They'll worship me now
And I'm adored

You've broken me- I slowly shatter
To you somehow this doesn't matter
To fuck with me;
To be slightly pedantic,

Your fucking balls must be gigantic.

(c) Marjorie Razorblade




Warning Bell

Have a friend and treat her such

But never let her know too much

For if your friend should turn to foe,

Around the world your secrets go...

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2000


The Three Theological Virtues are Pissed Off

When the vaguest insults plagued my soul
And you filled me with that empty hole
When unlikely it seemed I could forgive,
You stole my perfect will to live,

When i've got on my knees to a Lord above,
Prayed for burning light, for burning love
Through secrets of you, and all my tears
Seems they both fell on the deafest ears,

When immoral things had dominated
My Hope my Faith were celebrated,
I respond with my soul torn in two-
If I were half a man Love

I'd be like you.

(c) Marjorie Razorblade


Carrying your torch you walk on
Over dropping bombs and walkways paved in violets
Corpses and Violins
Bringing light to those around you
Bringing hope
And recognition of peoples troubles
Covered by a page of history
Chronicled and recorded
You will go down as the guardian of faith in humanity
My Personal
Shelter from the storm;
This my single thought on a sleepless night-
Uncover yourself from the half shadow
Stand up and be counted
And never extinguish
The very last light.

© Marjorie Razorblade, 2003-08-26
If you're fairly well educated you will know that Lucifer was once the bringing of light. Nothing more . If you hold far reaching Christian views and find this an abomination, may you find truth in
Genesis 4:9- for you see, I am not.
This poem was/still is for a person who is the bringer of light and my personal shelter from the storm. Lucifer carried the torch for himself- this person carries it for everyone else in a selfless manner not seen before or since. 

On The Mountain
I was climbing the mountain;
A foothold here,
A handhold there
And far above me a solitary Eagle soared overhead
Screaming his song into the blue beyond
And I close my eyes and feel St Christopher
Protecting the weary traveller
Not carrying me across the water
But guiding my hand to touch the stubble and the rock
And silhouetted against the white hot sun,
A few strands of gold

Around your head.

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2005

Comments: For someone who brought out my natural mountaineering instincts. Mountains are there to be climbed, once you break the back of the pinnacle its always downhill. The Man- the Mountain etcetera etcetera...


Tiger Lily
You brought me the love of a tiger..
At amber light as we drink water
By the harbour
Where the smell of Patchouli fills my head
And the cold sting of salt suspends itself in the air
A whisper clings to the curve of your back and looses itself in the centre of your soul
Tonight I have been here before
And closed my eyes for fractures of time
To follow you barefoot is now the only reason I have
Thoughtful and poetic
A look worth a thousand deaths
I come to you with nothing
But give everything-
You stroke my side with your head

I have wanted you for so long

And this is how the tigers live in pools of moonlight
In the Indian summer and sirens song

c) Marjorie Razorblade 2005

Comments: Written long long ago For DC.



I wish he wasn't Dead
I was reading a book and thought about you,
Yellow and faded like a four-year-old white shirt under the arms
And I drank whisky and regretted opening a bottle of beer
It didn't last five minutes
(I wish he wasn't dead, I think he's great,)
Like that SAS soldier that no one talked about...
But me, I talked about him, didn't I?
Painted him too-and smashed up the canvas because we fell in love
That wasn't supposed to happen
Ah well, that's done and dusted and besides...
I don't paint anymore
But I think that he might be somewhere nice where he can kick cats and throw empty bottles at fat illegal immigrants from a window
I can see smoke coming out of the road and a yellow taxi
And endless stairways of black metal and a houseplant,
Probably an aspidistra because I think liked George Orwell
Scribbling poems about women and shit jobs in a little black book he carried around in his back pocket
And maybe he'd drink tea
And say
"What the fuck is this Jasmine?"
I'd have laughed and told him not to be such a miserable cunt
And he would have laughed back

Yeah.... he would have

I wish he wasn't dead
He could have liberated the thousand words I have still for him
From inside my pretty, but frustrated head.

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2003

Comments: For Charles Bukowski.


Formerly the 'Self-Portrait' Poetry...
See-Saw Marjorie Whore
On the emotional scale of one to ten
One being the lowest a cynic of men
A nice stable number would be seven or eight
And I would be married and naked look great,
Stuck here on this see-saw my friends are on five,
They don't get no action but waist down are alive,
My mothers advice-to get there as well
My crack sees less action than Old Liberty Bell,
Yes serial bell ringing soloist me,
Stuck here on my see-saw at a sad number three.

© marjorierazorblade, 2001-05-05

I wrote this a few months ago when I was feeling alone and unloved. This remains one of my favourite poems so far- oh and it still rings a few bells...
Sprog Me Up
I'm ready to have babies
I'm grown up to do that stuff
I'm almost hitting thirty
Feeling dirty

Sprog me up

I don't care if it's ginger
I'll make it wear a hat
I'll put up with the stretch marks
And six months of being fat
I'll stop smoking- i'll stop drinking
I'll stop staying out all night
I'll stop gambling cheating lying
I'll stop because I know it's right

And when I think of England on my back I won't complain
If I don't come cos that's alright
Because I never will again...

Babies really change you...and then they poo a lot and cry

I'm not saying that i've changed my mind
It's just an if and but and why
Oh I'm sure that you'll still like me when i'm fat in bed all day
When the housework gets ignored and all the bills won't go away
When my hair is turning greyer and my tracksuits are all beige
When I spend the night in Bingo Halls
When you haven't got a wage
I'm indoors watching Corrie
You're drinking from another ladies cup

Tonight lets use a condom love



Sprog me up.

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2004
Comments: Sometimes it seems like a good idea until I remember that i'm not sure I actually like children.
I'm too rock and roll for Tellytubbies...well now I am- come back in three years or so...


Hothouse Flower

The study of Botany will not find me quoting classifications of Latin names in wet whispers from rare plants, Licking my lips..
It will not remind me in sexual overtones of phallic stamens and stalks, of lobelia with deepest scarlet and warm purple interiors like velvet on your fingers;
Parting slowly for cross pollination
Sprayed lightly with a de-mister
Propagated on a loose bed

And oh..


Curling leaves ripening berries scattering seeds
And heavily scented lilies
And pine needles
I'll get on my knees to The Green Man- The Botanical God from the Garden of Eden let me never mention in passing
These most biological matters

This fertile Hothouse Flower.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2004

Comments: I was studying Botany-everything was turning me on.

Somewhere in the middle of everything lies me...
Dreaming of violent lovers in rooms of bleeding hearts
Suffocating under my skin
Swimming in the ocean at night
Under stars
Which put on their show for me and a longed for lover

How I've longed for you lover...

I'm becoming remote and distant, withdrawn and anxious
I've been - such - great - things
I've been an angel all along,

It's you who have had such filthy wings.

© marjorierazorblade, 2003-08-14
Comments: Truly.

Lemon Tree

Waking to the sound of screaming from downstairs babys spilling lungs celebrating last decicion change of circumstances outside abortion clinics shaking plaster off the walls waking yellow eyed sleeping cats stretching in orange sun through slatted blinds as road drills happily dance the trumpet daffodils in empty parks below and sirens call faithful recluses to windows as plant pots shatter to the ground in mini tsunamis of terracotta and bits of black mud darker than the empress of all the skies with diamonds on her fingers and stardust in her eyes

When it’s dark:

The Lemon Tree bears you fruit as a comet sails silently across your skies....

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2006

Comments: very freudian

The Life of Ivy
My feet would leave no footprints in the sand
No fingerprints in the dust
I pass through hearts and minds as a whisper
Such complexities make life disdainful
Ivy clinging to a stone facade of ancient ruins;
Stripped of former glory, bombed from wars of mankind, pillaged of sanity,
raped by God
decorating a place where nothing else choses to grow
Clinging to things past
Too slow to move to things future
Always stuck in things present
Longing to be uprooted and placed somewhere important,
Casting shadows on imovable obstacles
And secrets unearthed from random factors and veined fingers
Invisible to tourists
In photos
On the face of humanity
Days and nights
Under broken stars
Just Ivy
Just Ivy
Nothing more to you.

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2004



This is a long one- get comfortable- it was never meant to be read- this is spoken poem, beat club style poetry for stand up only. If it reads wrong or you fuck up- start from the begining and speak up we can't hear you at the back- let it go!!

She Who Must not be Named
Who made the break and crawled into a town full of reprobates
Who marched a secret salmon army upstream and waited patiently for colours of the rainbow to span the bridges and light the way to Mecca
Who's fertility took the last hope of mankind and killed it
Who cries alone
Who lives alone
Who dies alone

Who gave a shit what you thought or what you think right now or what you'll think tomorrow or the next day or the next or the next etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,
Who with conscious voice lied down on a striped mattress and was fucked by the system, and nuclear sounds and holocaust of love in blind alleyways and who enjoyed it asking for more
Who stripped the sin off your shoulders- who spoiled the body- who stole the mind- who broke © the heart
Who left you wandering streets with no poetry no art no noise no sense no feeling
As life rolled by like an orange falling off a box stacked in the corner of Sainsbury's where life promises to always taste better-freedom of the mouth
Who in their youth and wasted wisdom of the young swore it would be forever and carved a name into your arm
A name on a tree
A name on your geography homework- a map of Brazil
A name, long forgotten
Who married, except you, who saw their future, except you, who waited for something wonderful, who, if only you would, accept you, except you



Who even gives a fuck what you think?

I do I do I do that's who

Who in kaleidoscopic moments of clarity and vision could see the world for all of its beauty and despaired of it's filth and disease, the barrier reef and shoals of blue fish turning, turning, against the tide against the coral, across the sun alive and living, the joy of living! The sanctity of life which cannot be grasped!

Who marked the end of one passage and beginning of another passage with needle-point of the arm of love
Who made the grade
Who never made the smile fade
Who is never afraid- of the face of adversity a curse to me a full bottle in front of me a full frontal lobotomy
Hydrotherapy- shock and awe therapy- absolution of sin therapy- a new life awaits at the seventh circle of nirvana therapy
Who went to Spain to paint cypress trees behind stone walls and drink free margaritas in the failing light, with payment in kind, a kind of payment mothers and fathers gave to bring you all here; Kindness, who lacks kindness for love suffers slings and arrows and love is blindness who painted until the sun set who covered their bodies in scarlet who has indigo running through the veins and veridian in part of the iris that looks out at the world jaded naked on a picnic table under scented pines
Who loves you baby, who will love you inside out baby, who will slide in and out baby, who loves and despairs of love who needs love who breeds love who lays on their back for love who worships at the crack for love who lacks love those who want love those who preach love, says he* - do not have love
Who jumped trains to find it, who would swim rivers and oceans to be beside it, who is so close to it, who cannot see it, who wants to be free of it, who for the thrill of it

For-love-of-God does not have it

Who works a dead job for money, who fucks the dead people for money, who makes dead money who dances a greasy pole for dead money who dances for the dead and decaying God of Money the Casino God the Russian Roulette God the empty soulless voice of the Metatron God the God who threw money from the gambling house onto the stone steps of the Holy Bible God the worship no other idols God Love Charity and Goodwill God the lost God the dead peoples God for dead peoples money, the all dancing all singing shit of the world God of money
I know this cause God knows this (In Tyler we Trust)
Who dreamt of colours of clinics of animals of black dogs of heartbreaking boyfriends of evil violent lovers of no comfort of a bite mark on the back of love a mark of pity a black beauty spot on the face of ugliness who dreamt of being held in dark rooms and bathrooms steam rooms and dream rooms obscene rooms where love has never been wanted and never been touched under filthy windows and bleeding walls who wept in silence for your life to be different for your lover to be different for your mother to have raised you to be different to be indifferent for it not to matter for it not to split and shatter your heart in two a bruise purple and black bruise green and black bruise yellow and brown bruise, fading, fading a bruise is all I have as a reminder of who

Who will stand on a statue bigger than God, arms outstretched to scream who will wait for their freedom who will, face to the clouds wait for birds to land,


Who in this fucking world


Will ever understand?

© Marjorie razorblade 2004

Comments: A version of "Howl" from the pit of my stomach
something I think Allen Ginsberg would probably kick my arse for but fuck him he's already dead and I'm alive and loving it. Quotations from Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski (Mr Bukowski being the only poet to ever get it right in one take. Sir, I salute you.)