N. P. Ryan

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Anxiety

I Don’t Understand

February 3, 2019September 15, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Following on from Perfect, nobody is; all of us have something we don’t understand. But is that what’s meant when the words are said? Continue reading →

Winter is Coming

December 16, 2018November 29, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Christmas is meant to be full of celebration and joy; for many, though, it can be a dark time brimming with morbidity and doom in a place far from fun and festivity.

Humbug, we say.

Bah humbug!

While calling these people Ebenezer Scrooge.

What the Dickens, then Continue reading →

All Along the Watchtowers

October 27, 2018September 15, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Welcome to a world of anxiety, anger and insecurity; a place where Abandonment Issues rule the day unknown.

Whether a first time visitor or previous—maybe even current—resident, The Medusa Protocol hopes to show as much as relate and commiserate.

Continue reading →

Motorcycle Despatch Riding Time Machine

August 26, 2018September 15, 2020 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Reflections on the Thames from an early 90s London Bridge.
Continue reading →

No Thanks

June 3, 2018October 31, 2018 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

This poem is inspired by one written a few weeks ago: Hollywood

Hollywood relied on a play of words to say something concise about a serious subject.

It also used a ‘playground metre’ to give it a ring-of-roses feel; the hope being to replicate the flippancy frequently shown dark matters. Continue reading →

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Drinking in a dingy bar by the sea, crumpled postcard from Her and World’s Biggest Ray Zero for company; then the son of a starts saying I’m cursed. Praise Be to lighting-up another smoke. Inhale, taste a foul brand: the Hex She put on me. Promised Heaven, delivered a dive nightclub Hell. Thank the Lord for liquor loving hot chicks. Though nothing compares to how it’ll feel catching up with Her.

Wanted a quick bit of business and gone. Bath had other ideas. First, battered and left for dead after a hundred heart-breaking truths. Then a Police Chief with a saggy old treasure chest of secrets to keep needs a scapegoat. Dumps me in the middle of corruption so deep it eases through bone to suck greedy at marrow. With every gun pointing my way, Hell, not even He’s gonna get me outta this one.

Recent Posts: N. P. Ryan

Horses for Courses

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In the early 90s I worked London’s markets; the following is an account of true events:

Things that might be better left unsaid

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Things I wouldn’t normally post and probably shouldn’t now

Riddled with Guilt

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A story of deceit and the sorry state it lead to.

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