With Authentic Stains


SKU e-book Category

156 in stock


By Peter Vealey

ISBN: 978-1-84747-372-1
Published: 2008
Pages: 50
Key Themes: poetry, addiction, depression, strength, recovery



The words in the music I have loved, have inspired and influenced me and are also paramount, which is why there are songs/lyrics within; their rhythm is in this collection.
My whole life has been and remains the search for a meaningful life, to challenge stigma and prejudice in society, to search for a fairer society with a better sense of social justice and community.

About the Author

I am Peter Clifford Vealey, now fifty five years old. I was born in post war Bishop’s Stortford, Hertfordshire.
I have had three breakdowns at 24, 40 and 51. I think, like many people, I had an underlying depression before my first hospitalisation in winter1976.
I have had various and varied employments, up to the early 1990`s, since leaving school at 16, without finding any real sense of belonging anywhere. The best part of that time of my life was the friends I made, many of whom I still have. I have never been particularly materialistic.
My abiding passions have been and remain poetry, football and music, not necessarily in that order.

Book Extract


Dead birds and fallen leaves.
Sleeping with you.
Time to wonder in the morning.
New locations.
Wondering just wondering
Where this life will end?
Songs of dirty linen.
Though you don’t belong,
It was inevitable.
You would fall here amongst the
Dead birds.
Trying so hard to be normal.
The run runs you blind.
I was told of your complaint.
Is it just a matter of time?
Both reminiscing of
Lighter days and fallen idols.
Bring me evaporated cups,
Quilt sorrows.
Am I as sad as the morning?


A nearly anorexic, depressed girl.
Swims furiously, angrily
To forget her fears.


I grew up in
Fields like these.
With pylons
As far as the eye could see.
Encroaching distrusted
Worlds of youth.
So hard to re-inhabit.
Foolish dreams and hopes
Of love not reciprocated.
Forlorn, lingering too long,
Way too long.
Let it pass, all past.
There’s nothing to be done.
The wild beautiful wind
Shakes my car effortlessly.
Rustles that old lonesome tune
Of way back lost.
About long-gone times.
Till now.
It never faded too fast.
But I was always built to last.
Stronger than those
Idols of glass.
Let them pass,
And grieve me no more.
As the sun
Remorselessly dips,
So slow
Into dusk light.


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