Wednesday, 2 February 2011


'Chris Madoch, the talented, self-proclaimed 'Queer-Messiah' writes like no other poet we know... maybe the book should carry a Government Health Warning along the lines of; 'Warning! This book may seriously affect your current complacency!' ...if you don't buy it you'll have to be content with over-hearing people talking about it in bars, in cafes and on the streets of whatever City you happen to live in...' erbacce-press.

‘It is a beautiful book and one of the most terrible things (in the true sense of that word) I have been privileged to read. This book is a distillation of the truth; not ‘Truth’ with a capital fucking ‘T’. Not ‘Everyman’s Truth’ or the ‘Holy Truth’. This is Chris Madoch’s truth, one necessarily distorted by his queer and jaundiced perspective as a living suffering human being and all the more beautiful and all the more terrible for that.’ DAVE MITCHELL Publisher.

‘Clarity is rare, insight invaluable - Chris' writings cut through the crap, the ceremonial, the political, the affected and the disguised to reveal the guts and mechanics of life, sex and love. He tells it how it is in every bleak and human detail. Warm, terrifying, hot and hideous, gentle and caring by turns, he casts a mirror on us all. This writing is real. This writing is essential!’  MARC YEATS Classical Composer and Fine Artist

‘To read Chris Madoch is to understand music in a beautiful maelstrom. He deftly moves the reader from emotion to emotion through his tales of a life less ordinary with a confrontational grace and intrinsic power that belies the same perfection of narrative and language that you find with any master. Concrete and charismatic, Chris Madoch is a Poet who must be heard and must be read.’
LARRY KUECHLIN Poet and Broadcaster

‘Madoch's work is an uncompromising and unflinching mirror of the angles of modern society seldom talked about and pushed into the general malaise of amnesia and glossing over the rough edges. He will not shy of speaking loud bringing the skilful torch of his poetry to allow these things into the light. Intriguing, soul-searching work that will push the reader out of the comfort zone and force him/her to confront many important issues and come out at the other side as a more engaged person.’ PETRA WHITELEY, author of 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press) and 'Moulding of Seers (Shadow Archer Press) and a music journalist for Reflections of Darkness.

‘I've always appreciated Chris Madoch’s idealization of a radical, subversive individuality and the idea that one must demand of oneself a commitment to authenticity, vibrancy and vitality in the struggle for existence.’ NATHANIEL GALLEGOS

‘Chris Madoch, self-appointed Queer Messiah, announced his intention to lead a spiritual jihad against the corrupt and decadent literary establishment and a moribund and deceitful publishing industry. His followers were at first the few and strong in spirit, but such was their strength in unity that the world was not able to ignore their message.’ DAVE MITCHELL Co-owner of Paraphilia


‘At the onset of puberty I would have been over the moon for this book to have landed in my precocious lap. My incisive questioning then was largely forbidden. When I was at university the inspirational plays of Joe Orton were the toast of London’s West End- not so today where the ubiquitous ‘family friendly’ musical holds sway. A rather more self-satisfied society, too timid to grumble, dominates our lives and with it a rash of pacifiers from the arts that play to the masses- do not include me among them. I have not succumbed to dumbing down nor would I happily suck the dummies provided by the media who have colluded in the process. With good cause, I am seldom at peace and I am never afraid to make complaint. I am not just a rebel, a maverick and a sinner, I am very contentedly an amalgamation of all these things. I am the sum of my multi-various parts and experiences plus some, the whole underpinned by an unwavering truth; because of this, and despite my instinctive loathing of creeds, faiths, clubs and religions, I live a remarkably spiritual life from where I summon forth creations- writings, utterances and images, work I think of as Barddonieth. As The Queer Messiah I am the founder of a movement I call ‘The Shock Of The True’.’ CM

Publisher: erbacce-press
ISBN: 978-1-907878-07-7
128 pps Fine Paperback £11.50 or $18 incl., shipping.

There is a dedicated sales page on the publisher’s website which is the preferred pathway of purchase because that best guards the book’s royalties and profit margins.

There is now a dedicated Facebook Group for this book where all the essentials details can be found and readers can share feedback and comment; it is called 'A DANGEROUS AND BEAUTIFUL BOOK' and anyone is most welcome to join. Here is the link:- 


Snow blind baby
You go ‘cross that invisible line-
I think maybe you will find a bogey man.
There is no going back.
Ooh! Too scary.
Jesus Mary Mother Of God!
This tarnished incarnation has a shelf life
Not short of torture. Ow! Ow!

....This is how
....Gash and clit
....Cash and kids
....Trash can lids
....Tits this, tits that,
....Shit pillow chat
....As per her purr-
....Me outfit want.
....You fuck my cunt
....Me outfit wear.

....God so approves
....That Jesus grooves
....The twelve disciples

Inviting. Enticing. Hairy scrotal sacs.
Cut bell ends pressing closet buttons.
The Catholic hypocrites are in sex session.
Cross-dressers lifting cassocks.
Paedophiles in long files blinding us
To fuck-ups in the lea of wine and wafers.

....Black smoke
....White ascension puffs
....Has God’s virgin vicar balls enough
....To invent fresh means to be
....Demeaning to unclean women
....To perpetuate the myth
....That Onan was a naughty man
....A spliffed up wanker still ranked
....Higher than the whore of Babylon.

....Give her one up the bum son
....The way the priests gave you lessons
....When you least expected it
....In the crypt where your anus gripped
....His stiff Holy Father stick.
....Mummy, mummy give me dummy.
....Only women bleed. Steal seed.
....Spit it. Shit it. Leak it onto
....Gussets made complete with wings.
....In confession fat birds sing-
....Sick of dick, means to an end,
....We want to lick our lesbian friends.
....If I have a son I want him to be
....A brown one, a gay one.

There is the fear of just not seeing
The flutterbyes of being fearless,
Being found out to be queer
But queerless,
Accepting we are nearly boundless.
The Kama Sutra metaphysics
Makes you hesitate;
It makes you stumble
Makes life crumble into soundless dust.

Strayed saint
Your grey-strait’s silence
Is a cowardly way to confess.

Yes. A common enough mistake
Of the tragic progression
Made by man’s repressive
State of mind.
A predictable affliction
Of swervacious men unkind.

Tough on The Queer Messiah me-
Always driven,
Hammered into cruciform wood-
The virgin trees inside of me needing to be
Fancy free
To think, to blink and act on lust impulse,
To wink with an uncensored impunity,
Given my Poet’s immunity
From mortal sin. Tee BLOODY hee.

I can fucking see it clearly now
How repulsive
You find unbinding gene genie bonds,
Moving on,
In the yellow yolk and cum encumbered albumen
Set cracking in the nest of destiny.

I hear your gardener’s inner songs,
Classy lack-lustre,
The breves of boredom droning on;
You sing of loathing wings
And pug ugly baleful things-
The hideous and invidious imprintings
Parent BRED neurotic to fledgling SAID psychotic.
Baby crow’s feet set
In knee deep concrete.

You go to fly my love
And when the wailing pain of failing cries
Like bone splints
From your shackled heels-
All the world’s wise creatures
Will feel the evil crack
Of that soul poacher’s trap.
You know.
Better the devil you know-
Jesus Christ on Saturday nights,
Satan on the Sunday.
Fuck me Jehovah! It’s BLOODY Monday.
You got stuck on Wednesday baby.

When I am happy my tired smile
Drools grey noodles of congealing spunk-
Whose seed it is, I care not a toss.
Face and bum cheeks straining at the thought of
Counting back too many strange cocks.
COME ON! Game off.

To think I once
Believed it was conceivable
To magic up a mythic miracle
To dance outside your circumstantial
Trance state.
While we were being elevated to heaven.
I was shooting porn in Gran Canaria
Bungalow eleven.
It was a sensual leviathan of fun.

Now the whole idea of us
Is too bent out of shape,
Distant, far too far-fetched,
A wretched stretch of buttered butt
No more contemplated by you.
Ask Jack the way it works,
Jerks back and forth, an enemy
Of sexual stability.
It hurts. It hurts.

A pitying knell has rung to bring an end to play.
More lessons.
My Will-he-won’t-he Tell-tale bear
Has put his momentous bow and arrows away.
I take the untouched apple from my crown.
This is my cue-
I bite into the sour fruit to free myself from you-
Useless juice flows down my beard
Like tears turned into dry cider.

It’s been
An afternoon of summing up- mathematics,
A simple division of parting hearts.
Thought acrobatics with no safety net.
The sawdust circle begging for

That raw fact screams
At my already cheese-wired neck
Like your pet X-box vampire bat
Attempting to put back the BLOOD INK that you sucked
From my virtual cock
To pen me passionate letters with.

I’ve watched all those dried to rust brown
Words- bits of my river fluid self,
Like ghosts made of smoke
From a rained on
Half-dead bonfire of winter leaves.
Christmas still twinkling in red neon berries
On the frost buggered shrubs.
The New Year howling
Like a wolf-witch wielding his new broom
Looming at my bedroom window
Tongue out, dick in.

How small
Could this lost society be-
I am gone. Lofted way too tall,
Grown too fond of cock and arse-n-balls.
Fuck me!
I love my moral busting wanderlust minority.

You protesting too much suspect hets-
I shall not be parted from it.
Yes dear, queer dear,
Not ever worth the fuckin’ secret call
To arms.
Arms of deceit.
Arms in retreat,
Defeated ‘fore a shot of gizz was fired.

This love/hate/love is no longer war.
But you’ve let me unilaterally fashion a peace-
Our gay territory, I guess,
A stereotypical gift, ‘THE THEY’ repeatedly say,
IT of us

...Recidivist spunk alcoholics,
...Ginger bearded angels
...Touched by nature’s pink smudge stick.

I could never be
The beast to hurt you.
His unbidden hooves stir dirt
For no-one.
At the very least see
In letting me be me.

Chris Madoch © 2008

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‎'Put your hands up any heteros in the house. Ah bless. Now put your fists up any gays in the house! Wow! That's more like it- marvellous. I've got this day job, a nice little earner- sales rep for KY Jelly. Look- I know it's a stretch madam but this is supposed to be a laugh. Don't tell me your self-lubricating you're in the OAP seats.' CM

'The fossil stand-up with a walking frame, John Rivers- who thinks jewellery should yell CHEAP louder than fucking canaries on acid said of Yoko Ono- if she found her floating in her pool then she'd punish her dog. I knew that heartless bitch could be cruel to dogs.' CM


Soon to be in an HMV store near you- we wish. NO CHANCE this version with Lee Plonker was disbanded. It has risen like a phoenix from the fires of disappointment though. YAY!


It works. Course I have. Fab.


MORTAL INSTRUMENTS Such are the demands of Hollywood that Lily Collins has to continue to pretend that her former relationship with JCB is in fact alive. A little bird tells me it as a dead as a DODO which was a very big bird indeed. Ha. Just like the writer of Mortal Instruments. Believe me the best thing about this movie franchise will be LILY COLLINS who has just delivered the performance of her life in the soon to be released LOVE ROSIE. An Oscar nomination beckons I reckon. And yes, I am in a position to know. THE NEXT LAME DEVELOPMENT IN SELF-PUBLISHING Saddo outfits such as the much fanned ONEIROS BOOKS actually self-publish authors who are too cowardly, lazy, lousy or inept to self-publish themselves. HILARIOUS. Of course you have to get through the onerous filtering processes. Licking arse helps. Judging by this house's nauseatingly variable standard of output the filters in place are utterly worthless. The poetry editor has no understanding of POETRY per se and is a piss-poor poet by any standard. They openly applaud themselves for being revolutionary. Pathetic. They are but a further evolution of the self-affirmation model and the modernly sociopathic ego. Steer clear. Do not indulge their risible waste of tree.


until you're absolutely perfect at it.


with the total freedom to be and love who you are without complaint or restraint.





This is where the first tracks for the new band will shortly appear but meanwhile I will be showcasing songs from prior collaborations- this first one CALIFORNIAN QUEEN is from the album CERULEAN BLUE that I wrote with the genius Dominic Shaw. I do the spoken word and he does the lead vocals and instruments. He is not a gay man and is now heavily into ambient music. The album was loved by Phil Collins, Hit and Run Music and EMI- but eight years ago no-one had any idea how to market it.