N. P. Ryan

Author ~ Poet ~ Music Lover

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Atheist

Jesus is a Clothes Peg (though some modern Christians claim a tumble dryer instead)

20/08/2023 / N. P. Ryan

Any true believers reading this may well think an atheist like me is trivialising their Lord; but I say unto them: REPENT! for it is you who doth not realise the Good Book for a metaphor!

With thanks to Missy Stinson for use of the header image (licensing). Continue reading →

Handsome Devil

21/05/202321/05/2023 / N. P. Ryan

handdevA.k.a. the vain atheist’s prayer.

With thanks to Максим Власенко for use of the header image (alt text; a man visible from the waist up, naked, painted red and wearing horns, he looks to the camera unamused). Continue reading →

Recent Posts: N. P. Ryan

Poem #84

Poem #84

Poem #84: a story of persons met on holiday and their initial similarity to restaurant cutlery

Scare Bears: Worse for Everyone – scorching debut E.P. reviewed

Scare Bears: Worse for Everyone – scorching debut E.P. reviewed

Opening track ‘Scapegoat’ is a heart fully on sleeve response to the rise of the far right and its claim to genuinely care about the welfare of women. For its deep dive into the personal, it becomes a sharp social commentary delivered through an intelligently formed lyrical narrative

Sock It to Me

Sock It to Me

    Are socks Not better Worn inside out? Converse:     Thanks for reading 🙂 N. P. Ryan • Facebook • Instagram • Linktree • For email subscription please go here

AGGROCULTURE: scrumpydrinking thrashcore gimps – West Country bumpkin powerviolence at its gert lush best!

AGGROCULTURE: scrumpydrinking thrashcore gimps – West Country bumpkin powerviolence at its gert lush best!

After this year’s exhilarating-as-ever Dean Lane Hardcore Day, I headed to the Chelsea Inn for the after show. It was there, while sat in the beer garden basking in the punk-Christmas-ness of it all, that someone

Nice Weather S.A.D. Times

Nice Weather S.A.D. Times

Written in essence on the 14th July   It’s better when The sun is out Not just warm But deep dry heat Holding the air World feels lighter Every

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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.

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