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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