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July 15, 2018

2 am. It's Miriam on the phone. To her it's 9 pm. She's in Peru and sounds stressed. I'm in England, dream cracked open, asking her what's wrong. When I opened a restaurant eight years ago, 10000 ft up an Andean mountain, a knock on our door was the usual signal of a d...

June 14, 2018

Heavily they fly

necks broken

by their realism

thudding into

the glass of a sketch.

Black pallette

and darker,

vista approximate,

future crippled by

an unexpected surface.

Their tangible presence

creating perspective

mapping distance

from here to there

as the crow once flew.

June 14, 2018

until the final seven days. From the moment my mother dies, terror becomes an added instrument of torture. Everything stays the same, propped up in bed, no cooling fan ever quite strong enough or in the right place and a reluctance to eat that turns his face the colour...

June 14, 2018

Life in the hospice is death by white. Pleasantly clinical, agreeably antiseptic. What happened once we had eaten her biscuits, passed the greetings card stand and turned left through a reception area empty but full of limbo? As I reversed the car into the ambulance ba...

June 14, 2018

On leaving Psychiatric hospital and entering six months rehab

For ten years I am Travis Bickle. Staring out exposition as bubbles pop and fizz. Surface bursts, not Magic Kingdom fireworks. I tell my therapist answers to questions he has yet to ask. His discomfort shuffl...

June 14, 2018

Honestly,

it depends

who's

asking.

The Iggy Pop

7" action figure

is there for that special day

of no fun.

I can't bear to delete

the cinema style popcorn maker,

despite the garish way it shouts 

no style, no cinema, rotten snack.

And a Wild Star

awesome unicorn

double/twin duvet and...

June 13, 2018

The deadly serious suicide attempt that left me alive was back on the agenda.

Blister packs of pills stroked my fingertips, antibacterial cleaner filled my nose and the sound of duct tape tacking off a roll sent a shiver up ears.

The pills were ready, ant eggs on my duve...

April 13, 2018

She's gone away,

lost control,

my James Dean

Spyder

woman.

Shrugs kerbs,

subs me, this way

and these ways,

bouncing back into 

oncoming traffic.

Her wreckage,

my lesson,

in speed and slow.

And throttle bruise

light, chasing.

Footwells tacky, bloody.

Brakes scream

through pads, discs, 

r...

January 2, 2018

Little usherette, piping hot drinks positioned like a cow-catcher at the front of your brushed steel trolley.

In this world of narrow aisles and apoplectic travellers, you are a purveyor of overpriced beverages and snacks attempting to slice your way from rear toilet t...

December 31, 2017

Little usherette fix bayonet and head for Ramsgate

you are the first line of defence against marauding Syrians

migrating economically north

instead of battling barrel bombs south.

With your tin hat and floppy vegetation fascinator

you will find them on the beaches,

the axles...

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