The Saga begins….



~~~~~~~~~NEW RELEASE ~~~~~~~~~


Sexy, edgy, beautifully written with masterful twists and turns”.

Vanessa de Largie Australian Actress and Author.


Dawn: Tuesday, 24th September

So, tell me my dear, have you ever wondered what a bullet tastes like? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to stare down the barrel of the gun? That hot metal, that twisted feeling of arousal with the barrel in your mouth, the metal on your tongue, hovering, touching, cradled by your tongue; your teeth ever so slightly embracing the metal. The machinery of the revolver, the wheeled chamber just so tantalizingly, out of touch with the rest of your lips. Suicide is not a coward’s way out—taking the chance, staring down the barrel of a gun, making the decision to blow your fucking brains out, is the bravest thing you can do. Taking that first step before the fatal plunge, the most courageous step you can ever take. Ending all of it on your own terms; fuck convention in the arse with a hot metal spike, having the power of G-d in your fingertips. Just the squeeze of the finger, the complicated process from thought to action. All of the little muscles, the miniscule atoms of the body, of the soul all at work. The cocked hammer hits the arse of the bullet in the chamber—the chemical explosion, the chain reaction. The metal



Tuesday Suicide—the ultimate party drug has hit the streets of Melbourne. More euphoric than smack, more addictive than crystal meth—does Tuesday Suicide really turn you into a vengeful God, or is it all a drug induced psychosis? John Booker is dead! Or is he death? Fading late night TV star John Booker is bored to death with life. No drug, no sexual conquest, nothing fulfils him anymore.

He wakes up one Friday with the clarity seldom found in the modern world… What would push you over the edge? What if you were losing your grip on sanity? What if you could travel through time, space and reality randomly without control? The first act of the Tuesday Suicide saga, Confessions sets up the narrative structure, sets up the motivations of John Booker and his only companion Helena Huntington-Dale—a dark angel of desire, lost, troubled, Heroin addict and the love of John’s life. As they embark on a drug fuelled violent and sexual frenzy through the streets of Melbourne on a quest for purity, justice and revenge.


On the hunt for the leaders of a notorious ring, will revenge bring clarity and transcendence or will their blood lust know no end? Who can they trust? Will their obsession, their devotion to each other be their undoing? And will Helena learn the truth about her best friend and drug dealer Ursula before it is too late?


Original images by James WF Roberts, featuring Rebecca Lee and Mikey Sutherland (c) 2015


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Free Blog Tour

Free Blog Tour.

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Valentine’s Day Poetry contest.

Valentine’s Day Poetry contest.




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Valentine’s Day Poetry contest.
Well it’s that time of year again, where we think of our loved ones, our special someone, the person
we put above all others…or it is the time of year where we mourn for lost love, or it is a day when we buy into the whole commercial-ness and the marketing of Chocolates, Flowers and tiny teddy bears, that say, “I wuv you”…

So, why not have a poetry contest for Valentine’s day…have your poems published on the Red Wolf Press blog site and always recited on on Valentine’s day/night.
 Theme; Valentine’s Day.
Any style of poetry, any variations on the theme accepted. It could be about love, or sex, or the loss of a relationship. It can be dirty, bawdy, sad, silly, beautiful—whatever the choice is yours. Can be in any style, sestina-to sonnet to odes to elegy to stream of consciousness. It’s up to the Author….swearing and sex is allowed but nothing too over the top.

The overly commercialised nature of Valentine’s Day…anything you like as long as it is about St. Valentine’s Day.

How to enter:

All you have to do is submit an email of no more than three poems, each poem no more than fifty lines and a brief bio of yourself

And email entries to:

Deadline is midnight 13th February Eastern Australian Time.

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Silent Girl (c) James WF Roberts

Silent Girl James WF Roberts


Silent Girl

Silent girl’s voice
deafened by the noise
of the world.
Burning tears,
hidden scars,
buried from the world,

Demon hands
the body remembers
every touch of water
of flesh. Of sunlight
of the breeze,
the body always remembers.

Whispered words
filled with dread,
“our little secret.
No-one will ever understand”.

Silent girl
cuts again tonight.
Every part sullied
has to burn, has to be carved.
Another hit quiets the world,
another dose brings her closer
to serene mist.

Medicated bliss
secrets hidden in plain sight.

Silent girl longs for the day,
yet, always craves the night.

Silent girl knows that nothing
will ever silence the dreams,
dull the memories.

Silent girl longs for the end
but knows the pain it will bring.
Not to her, but everyone
that doesn’t understand.

Silent girl loves the world,
but fears the future.

Silent girl reveals all
too she trusts the most,
he uses like a blunt knife,
threatens to ruin her life,
just so she will hate him,
like he hates himself.

Silent girl
with the forgiving heart,
can only go so far,
before the breaking point’s reached.

Silent girl forgives
but never forgets.
© James WF Roberts

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The guidelines for content are deliberately broad as Red Wold does not want content to be tailored to guidelines handed down to authors but for authors to submit work which they themselves want to write.
Content should have some originality.

Fiction content should be entertaining. Other content should be interesting and useful to people.
Content should NOT primarily be an attempt to comment on abstract ideas of ‘social structure’, ‘cultural conventions’ or ‘imagined collective identity’ so no pretentiousness! No masturbation on the page—except for poetry, because I mean let’s face it….

Content should NOT require elaborate symbolic codes on top of general language and understanding to interpret.

Send submissions to with the type of submission stated in the title of the email.
By submitting you agree that your submission can be displayed on Red Wolf poetry page and may be used on a corresponding community radio station,, Bendigo Australia.
Writers can re-submit work submitted and published on this site for other publications and websites as long as reference is made to this page.

Depictions of Rape, Child Abuse, Violations of Copyright writer–no Zombie Nazis will be tolerated.



Brief Bio.
Publication History.
Website if applicable.







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Crazy Talk/Word Berserk Poetry and spoken word radio show on

WRITERS AND SPOKEN WORD ARTISTS, MUSICIANS AND EXPERIMEDIA PEOPLE…We want your work….have your work broadcast, recited, read out on no more than 15 mins long for audio submissions. Poems upto 40 lines. Short Stories no more than 1500 words. Community radio puts you in the driver’s seat–your true community voice…; send in your work: tune in from 11pm-2am Eastern Australian Standard time–all genres accepted…Looking for murder,mayhem, erotica, the descent into maddness, joy, love–what does community mean to you–pretty much want whatever you have written as long as it’s good. All rights stay with the Author. Creative Commons Copyright allows us to broadcast or read out your work–we won’t change it, steal it or charge for it…YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO OVER EXPOSED as an artist–So when is  Crazy Talk/Word Berserk on again? Friday nights 11pm-2am Eastern Standard Australian Time…. 

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Refugee Kaddish © James WF Roberts

Refugee Kaddish
© James WF Roberts

Watch them on the news
marching two by two
to the rhythm of the mourning cry,
those tiny little boxes.

Ten years old,
too young to work,
don’t know life without bombs
and death, despair and a funeral procession
every other day of the week…

Innocents lost
drowning within sight
of the promised land.
Government’s change–
war crimes remain the same
not a war for land, for resources
or empire,
war on the innocent
perception of being tough

‘we have a right to decide
who arrives on a shores and how they come here…
Landing here on a boat is illegal…’

Why are we still so entrenched in White Australia?
more victims of our own pride—
Invading third world countries
dumping the displaced, the lost—
Creating another third world…

Just more slums in South East Asia
So we of the lucky country,
can indulge every lust,
every depraved act that burns within us
How much is a child worth in West Papua?

And, you our former Hero,
we’ve seen your colours now
we know what burns within you
don’t we, no matter what it takes to win?
Addicted to the chase, to the rage,

the arrogance, standing in front
of your own portrait as you give the news
we can’t believe you’re saying,
blinded by the scent of power
addicted to power for power’s sake
More boats will come

more children lost at sea…
they say the average
woman/man on the street
disgusted with the politicking
disenfranchised people
kicked around by right wing libertarians
and party of the working classes
Whose agenda do you really fight for now,
who do you represent man of all seasons

of all occasions—master of none!
Kev—the campaigner,
Rudd the Wrecker?

so it is now just a case of
better Devil you know
than the one we are all afraid of ,
rightly, or wrongly?

I couldn’t believe the footage
again, again
we just watch the boats smash
crash against the shore.

We film it. We tweet it
We just watch it happen…
but do we actually we do
anything about it?

We leave flowers
and cards, high school year book photos
along the roadside—when young country
kids full of speed and weed and cheap booze
wrap themselves around a tree…

Yet, when they show those little boxes on TV
how many of us change the channel?
how many rushed over to see the score of the Cricket,
Ashes Test, Australia V. England, sport’s oldest rivalry?
or the latest young celebrity, overdose in a hotel room.
How many of us just don’t care…
First occurrence was a tragedy,
the second, disgusting policy–
electioneering to the bottom of the bottom
most vile thing, ever seen—I hate to say it,
I dare not think it,
now has it become, not even a comedy
frozen in the slipstream of mediocrity?

In mother England, they say,
any man, anyone who sets foot
on British soil is free, except of the conventions
from the cradle to the grave…
Yet, no-one is welcome here now,
if they arrive by boat
a long and dangerous journey—
I am white, are you?
where do we come from?
seeking a better life?

or imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread?
guess we better pack our bags now
and go back where we came from?

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Kill me with your mouth © James WF Roberts 14th September 2013

Kill me with your mouth
© James WF Roberts
14th September 2013

Kill my with your mouth
burn me with your eyes,
kill me with your mouth;
praise me with your body.
But, oh please kill me with your mouth.

Speak no lies to me.
Devious heart and deceitful tongues,
will always freeze the beckoning flames.
But, I beg of you, kill me with your mouth,
the shudder of my breath—the electricity
of your touch, the shyness of the embrace,
the power of our restraining lust—just kill me.

Please—just kill me with your mouth
soft meadows of that dream realm,
are calling to you over and over again,
the line of friend and confidante,
blurs with confessor and co-conspirator.

Blushing moon speaks no lies;
bruised and black soul,
wandering—so lost. So wanting…

Just kill me with your mouth.
Never kill me with that blank stare,
body twisted, crooked yet standing tall,
floating between consciousness and the
Emerald Bar.
Don’t talk of the days of past,
or the dreams of tomorrow,
close the door, bolt the lock,
on all those memories of the deepest.
Deepest sorrows.

Don’t think of the winter,
just dream of the spring.
Wide eyed fears forgotten,
just listen to my voice,
feel my touch—
and just kill me with your mouth.

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October 2013

October 2013
James WF Roberts
October breathes in new air.
As the year slides away from us,
down the conveyor belt of time;
the machinery of life—leaving our souls
threadbare. Hopes of making it til the end
of tomorrow, floats away into the grey sky
of billboards and angels of desire seducing
you to get your man that something special,
so he’ll never leave you wanting more again.
Better family car will give you all the freedom
you need. With WiFi and Bluetooth—heads up displays
and voice mail—your cruel employer—will always have a way
of finding you.
No matter how far you run—you’re always at their disposal.
They always remind you—of how disposable you really are.

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“Memories of Us”…excerpt from Tuesday Suicide….

…Your hands are outstretched. Your glistening body, soft and tranquil, in the twilight. I sit here in this cushioned antique chair, fulfilling every cliché there is, smoking a joint, drinking neat Gin, yet all I crave, is another taste. Another embrace.Another touch of your skin. Can’t remember how it happened. Nor how, nor why; we allowed temptation to flirt with us again. I follow the light, as it dances down your body. I watch it roll over your curves, your legs, your arse, your thighs…I trace the light with my lips, you shudder in your sleep.
My half-mast cock is stirring. In my mind I’m reliving the encounter. All of our encounters rolling into one— Where does the dream end? Reality begin? You pushed up against the wall as I entered your apartment. Hand around my throat, biting my lip, the blood on your tongue ignites your rage. Swept up in the madness of it all, you tear off my shirt like it was on fire, your scent, your tongue, your body; the intoxication of your desire, you suck on my neck, drag your tongue across my face, floating as I feel your tongue and your lips, envelope my ear. Hands electric with frenzy, we didn’t undress we wrenched our clothing off one another. Both of us obsessed with flesh, with blood and sweat. stumbling to your room, darkened hall, the path we knew so well. Bodies entwining, breath becomes one.
Heart beats drive our rhythm; on my back, as you kiss down my neck, my chest .I feel your warm, wet tongue lapping up my sweat like a starving creature of the night.
I groan in wondrous delight. Arching back, your tongue travels down the treasure trail, your fingers, your teeth losing their way in my pubic hair. Your fingers wrapped around my balls, your hot wet tongue wrapped around my cock. I’m yours now. I am yours. But you’re still asleep… We had fought day and night, over everything and nothing. Just so pride would remain on my side, moral high ground with you. Do you remember the club? All those months ago? The pumping, jiving, jumping, driving rhythms of the night. That little pill on your tongue kissing in the sweating, heaving throng of the night. Surrounded by those creatures, surrounded by those self-inflicted voodoo dolls; wanna-be zombies and self-mocking vampires. Fucking you in the corner of the dance floor, my arse almost impaled my shot glasses on a shelf on the wall, your knee high boots and your short leather skirt, white tee glowing in the darkness. We fucked, as the DJ pumped the bass-line hard, dirty, fast; like a herd of stampeding Rhinos. I thrust hard and push you into the wall, you squeal and laugh, clawing at my back, biting my tongue. Your tongue on my ear, you gargle your commands; “Fuck me like a hurricane”. The animal inside, the roar, my hands almost ripping your arse cheeks apart, your legs locked around my hips.
Do you remember the train station?

Last service before dawn, wet and cold wintry night. Our desire devouring our sense of wrong and right. In the dark alcove—your black coat down to your arse. Wearing multiple layers all accessible as I lick and kiss down your neck.

Feeling your nipples grow taut as I tease them with my mouth, flicking each pinkish mound of flesh with my tongue, pinching them with my teeth sliding my fingernails down your sides, your goose pimply flesh blister with exaltation as I kiss and bite your skin.
Undoing the snap of your jeans and sliding them down your hips, I slide your panties down your legs; my mouth trailing down your belly, I lick inside your navel, you shudder shiver, electricity is palpable.
On that station, abandoned by modernism and life—even Rats and Junkies no longer linger in those squalid shadows. No warning. No foreplay. No kissing. You’re standing up floating, from the Mollys on your tongues dissolving with the vodka and all those shots—that turned Wednesday into Saturday three weeks ago…Still you’re floating—I expose your pink lips spread them with my fingers; touch your clit with the very tip of my tongue. Smelling your excitement you’re shivering from desire and the chill of the night. I had to taste it. The staccato tapping, touching, licking just the clit, just the clit—up and down.
Two strokes a second, my tongue dances to the rhythm of your heart pulsing through us.
Feeling it grow, sliding down to enter tasting you fully sucking your engorged lips back to clit.
Your hands on the back of my head, digging in your nails, pulling my hair squeezing my ears. I enter you, with three fingers. So tight. So wet licking, licking, licking finger probes your anus you shiver again, you try to protest…slowly till halfway feeling your contractions;
“MAKE ME CUM” you growl.
Your surrender to my tongue, my complete than you do my cock, with my tongue I control you.
My words. My voice. My desire. But, all we do is fuck….
All we do is fuck!
Can we go more than an hour before we’re shoving our tongues down each other’s throats?
Or tearing each other’s clothes off? These games we play….
Over and over and over again. All these fucking games we play. Bed. The kitchen table. The kitchen floor. More bed. More bed. Cock in cunt. Mouth on mouth, bodies as one… I’ve an itch developing, that even your soft warm lips can not save me from. Can not, rescue me from…. The madness of life. That cruellest addiction, obsession—lust of all—the bliss. The glow of us lying there, in the shadows, panting heavier and harder than one thought possible—our ejaculation of spirit, of the divine, arriving as the ejaculation of relief subsided—I’m thirty-one years old, and I still fucking tremble around you. I’m getting hard again, watching you sleep.
Not from any soft-necrophilic urge, but the memories,
the sensual memories of my body being touched maybe,
it’s just memory foam with an engorged cock really.
I’m hanging for it now. I feel my skin being filled with sand.
Bugs are crawling, scattered in my bloodstream.
I need a fix. I fucking need it now. Your eyes open, you lunge at me again.
Sensual overload—blissful torture enraptures me.
Sitting on my face, I taste that buzzing honeyed—velvet cream.
My cock in your hand, as you begin to suck on my balls. I’m floating. Hard. Pulsating.
Alive. We switch places. Again, you’re on top. Controlling. Commanding.
I’m on fire—but you are fire. You ignite my passions—
but, you are passion and dispassion. Are we fire and ice? I melt in your lips. My blood in your mouth—are we now as one? You pin my hands down on the bed—like I’m on the cross. Tying both of my hands to the headboard—with expert precision and deception.
I can feel the taste buds on your tongue, across my body—The hot sweet embrace of your mouth.
Your tongue—your mouth—your teeth working their way, ever, ever further south. Again, lost in the meadow of soft chest hair you whisper softly as you slither– “Oh, what’s awaiting me down there?”
Cock on fire—desperate for your touch. Heart beat racing, energy floating, fires burning so fucking strong. Time stands still, as I feel the sensation of your mouth on me— You kiss up my body again, still stroking my cock and rubbing my balls, your lips touch. You suck on my ear, I’m floating now. Completely under your spell. Under your control. I cum.

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