Author and Publisher. I work in academic publishing. I live in London and am currently writing my second novel. I can be contacted at @gurdeepmattu and and would especially like to hear from literary agents interested in representing my work.

Category: Poetry

The Renaissance Vision of Man in the Cosmos



Yacuum is staring at

The colour television

While the adverts blare

Trumpets in the room.


We’re encouraged to try to

Envision these spiritual truths:

To buy is a good, to have

Is true, it soothes you —-


But Yacuum feels the age old

Pressure on his temples

From an angry Father in

The sky – who he resembles !


That weight that presses between the temples, smudgy
Grey smeared hands
Over the third eye
Pushing down like a burden.

Aren’t We In Love?


This is the feeling, (we think)
Such as
Feelings go, a feeling deeper
Than you’re used to, so
Come into the room, and
Sit with me. It’s a simple
Feeling, it is blue and red
And pink and scarlet.
Love, the tablet, passing my lips is
Wine and smashed peanuts
And beery, slippy kisses.
Your hair twisted in curls.
Your heart twisted in whorls.
Come inside:
It’s warmer here.

“The Drunk on The Plane”


There is something so sad
About the drunk woman
Next to me. (Sure, I’ve been there.)
I even have the T-shirt.

There are the loves I
Have seen ground down, and
It stabs at my heart,
Just as the cheering glass coddles it.

The thrashing, fitful
Drunken sleep of the
Middle aged Woman
next to me,

She leans to rest,
First on my shoulder,
Then grabs for my arm.
I push her back.

She kicks the chair in front,
Stretching her legs, then Down!
She headbutts
The chair in front.

She has had maybe
12 of those mini red wines.
She is blotto in Santa’s dirty grotto.
She is feeling fine.

This is where drunks go, to a
Land of spectral simplicity, of
Shadows and rumours and
Yelling night terrors.

I see her later at
Baggage Reclaim #7
(She made it!). She is
Wearing a turkey on her head.

Maybe that was all of it,
Her Christmas Party?
I feel hollow,
And I feel guilty –

Because I know what
Drove her on. Or I can guess.
It’s a sweet smoky dulling of
The exquisite pain of knowing.
No more – and sometimes much less.


Dolls House, Hoxton @deaddollshouse

I never thought to join a doll’s house.
I worried how I would fit in.
Such small places, Arcadian places,
Sylvanian places, so bereft of sin.
I’d never fit in.

Then I heard of another house of Dolls,
Near Old Street’s blessèd Doughnut City,
O Mother Hoxton!, sanctified even through all the booty calls.
But I was too late, (too late!)
To pass through this Gate.
Such a pity.

Rotating lists of food vendors
And dewy alcoholic splendours,
Now locked away from me
Like Doreen’s petty cash kitty.
This Kafka stands before the Law:
Seeking admission.

G. S. Mattu @gurdeepmattu

Liturgy of Modern Love: IV

If we’re clear on this,
And I think we’re clear on this,
Then we’ll proceed.

We’re not so mired in ourselves
To not know what we’re doing.
(We know what we’re doing)

Now, let me talk about this One:
You’re the only One:

When you smile
Your crooked Joker’s smile
And put that trapper hat over those
Corn-fed locks and cowlick hair
I’m yours.

Our schooling without direction
Passions without erections

Sense of duty
With its d e r e liction
Oh elixir of the still point
Pour your honeyed lies
Into my open Eyes: do you feel all right now?

Now, let me talk about this one;

Now, let me talk about this one:

Liturgy of Modern Love: III (prose interval)

It occurs to me as slanted Autumn sun comes into the carriage that a lot of people who have said that they would keep in touch have not kept in touch and that makes me sad.  What use were the crazed confessions of love now that days are spent in front of Excel edifices?  I track my dissonant lovers through an ether previously unavailable to me.  It is Web 2.0, an awkward and gauche term for what might well be termed your living history.  Ghosts tangle and dangle in front of your weary senses and you press a button to exit a screen.  Slanted Autumn sun has told me all things must fade but that the beauty and Love is there like the dust on the rose bowl: you must disturb it.  Look at the glitter (dust) ! Look at the glitter (dust) as it falls to the ground.

Liturgy of Modern Love: I & II


It is visceral, this feeling
Of memory, and mistake.
You have eviscerated yourself.
It was you who planted the kiss.


Simple aside: I have never enjoyed
Mouldy milk
With anyone
This much before.  I can’t recall, if so.

The blue cheese cooks a fire
Through the bread and butter and

I don’t mind the rain



I breathe numbers, my
Mouse click evenings are
Spent dawdling
On dwindling RAM.

I broke my first sector
On a BIOS detector.
You wanted me even then,
Disk-drive K E E N.

You dirty little bastard, your
Admonition halting

Snap –
Snap back metal sleeves;
Silky milky
ferrous tape

the fabric of my memories.

O am I unravelling ! !


When I feel that crushing loneliness
I know it is time to exhume the memories;
They alone will keep me.