Tony Stowers

Tony is one of the Old Guard Punk Poets who emerged in the original Punk Poet uprisings in the UK. Currently, he lives in France, where he does a handful of things associated with the arts – among them writing, theatre and directing. This work was selected principally because this site is very sympathetic to the immigrant experience, or the emigrant experience – whichever angle you choose to view it from. Leaving a country is very much about abandoning your old conditioning and this poem captures that better than many full-length immigrant memoirs. We look forward to publishing more from Tony. You can find more of his work at

Being British abroad

The thing about being British abroad’s though you never really
change everything else around you does – the familiar’s
suddenly strange. A square peg in a round hole, you cling like truth to a liar
trying to make your new world bend to your desire.

You can follow your national teams to bolster your ID
and sports you never cared about suddenly get priority.
You can wave a Union Jack or stick GB on your car,
try to hold the crowd back while queuing vainly at the bar,

insist on milk in your coffee and sweetener in your tea,
read English papers and Radio Four at three,
eat an English breakfast, spill ketchup on your vest,
boast about the good old days and on your laurels rest.

Accepted concepts taken as gospel melt like molten wax
dentist, banking, directions, car trouble, an ache, admin, tax.
Struggling to explain your needs within a dictionary’s pages,
you mime and grunt like a stupid twit, inside frustration rages.

You flounder in silly arguments trying to get your point across
and get into trouble at work by disagreeing with your Boss.
‘You don’t unders-tand!’ becomes your daily plea.
The penny drops: ‘Who don’t understand? O my God, it’s me!’

But it’s a losing battle ’cause the world is bigger than you,
grinds you down, wears you out like a walking stick or a shoe,
beats you up, slaps your chops and orders you to sober up
just because you won the war and once won the world cup.

You were told GB was everything, beyond a mere zoo,
a pond to dip your toes in but cloudy not clear and blue
yet the further you go away from it, the smaller GB gets
and all you held important shrinks and like a sun, it sets..

And you want to remain a part of it but must accept you are
abandon worn-out friendships but for new ones lose your heart.
‘This is the centre of the world!’ you think, but then you
stumble and fall
and live abroad and realise the world has no centre at all.

The less adventurous say: ‘Not me! I’d miss family and friends’
but that’s not hope of change talking, that’s fear of changing
Born and dead in the very same place while all you do is moan
but were you ever really challenged, ever left your comfort

If we all spoke the same language we’d end up saying the
same things,
a world of ‘Can’t’ and ‘Won’t’ and the negativity that brings.
A scientific experiment – labelled and analzyed,
trying to shape it to our ends instead of rationalized.

And those who stay behind get defensive when criticised,
they think you’re criticising them but you’re simply politicised!
Media, history, tradition, culture – it’s really a double-edged
it can make you strong at home but can be meaningless

The biggest surprise I ever had was teaching in a French
I asked a history question, was left looking a fool:
‘What happened in England in 1066?’ – I saw 30 faces blank
until one brave kid raised his hand and said ‘Ze English invented
ze bank?’

Nationalists talk of ‘us and them’, ‘foreigner’ clichés abound,
but we’re migrants in a rudderless boat going round and round
and round.If all you know is only one way then you never see the rest,
the Self is never challenged nor convictions put to the test.

British life is island life – a drawbridge and a moat,
pull it up, shut out the strife like an immigrant in a boat.
Drip-fed digital media, our attention’s soon diverted
and we end up talking to ourselves or preaching to the

Being British abroad is Pandora’s box –
once opened, never shut.
Do I regret opening it? Ha!
I’d like to say ‘no’, but . . .

Death is such a beautiful thing

The Punk Poet

Several years ago I started up this blog as a means of building up an online community of punk poets. I have published a few poets in the interim. However, not as much effort has gone into the project as I would have liked. Nonetheless, I have a body of work of my own I have never tried to publish here. From the start, the blog was intended to facilitate both written work and audio work. My work is recorded, to musical accompaniment. And so it’s appropriate I publish it here while re-opening channels for other punk poets to submit work, despite the neglect of recent years.

Here is my first entry – it forms part of a new album released this year, called COVID-19, under my non-de-plume/performance name The Punk Poet. It was the result of COVID-19, and one of the quirkier compositions on the album. It is also quite clearly a song in the bardic tradition, and a piece of punk poetry. I will be releasing more from this and previous albums intermittently, while renewing calls for entries from other writers.

You can find this work and more on my site, on CDBaby, on Amazon, on Spotify, on Youtube – in fact, just google. It’s everywhere.

  1. Death is such a beautiful thing

CE Hoffman II is delighted to publish a new entry by CE Hoffman. Describing her work as FemmePunk Poetry, CE Hoffman also has a volume of poetry available at – Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948. We look forward to seeing more.
Blue Blood (My Fairytale) 
Once upon a time, bluebirds slit my skin.
I cried and cried
afraid to let him in.
We rape what we take
and sow our own sins.
They all lived happily ever after.

Matthew Strimaitis is pleased to publish another work by Matthew Strimaitis, US-based poet with a self-evident punk sensibility. Enjoy.

Luther’s Creed (Restart)

The Lutheran Doctrine

framed on the chapel door

Read lines from the two shot rambles

You track in pamphlets and shoe snuffed camels

under your feet

Boots, snow and sleet, in Germany

A warm Summer, Miami Beach, in futon sandals


Turning loops at the round-about

I’ll have grown up by the time you see me

peeling dead skin in the nursery

RX agents and optimistic patients,

Framed hopes on the polished floor

Track in notes from the doc’s preamble


I am a drugged up child, the clock strikes

and the first leaper laced with broken lungs and virus pool blood

said “I am a hooker, please help me”

And died away from a family in the hospital streets


Turning loops at the round-about

I hope to hear your sermon

The feeling of it behind me as I’m being directed ahead

Moving along past to one last exhibit

And being hurried a path, leaving behind buried fads

I hope that your sermon’s as clear as their song