Poetry
Well I went. They speak on issues that are mine. They don’t realise it though. “Council housing” “The working class” That’s me! I’m here. Hello? They served me octopus terrine! Served. To me? And I’d never had terrine. And I didn’t
Poetry
I was Lord of a country no one cared for. The Queen fucked men for money, and the King dug graves. At luncheon, he played Death with his favourite courtiers, kissing them once on the forehead and then declaring them knaves – he buried them living. Nobody cared. A good King kills one man for [&
Sonnet for My Grandparents
You, doused in sugars from my papa’s cane. You, a sickening cinnamon burning. And this plum amidst your wet, fat folds: pain: It knows of none. Nonna’s dough is churning. Pubescent grand-kids shunned sugar-gnocchi All the while adults gorged, and nonna fed. Tongue-buds grew. Sweet-lover,
Poetry
<html> <body> He tells me online life is orgiastic, all mental spasms, congealing cancerous cysts licked by dread, self-flagellating until torn + tarred + turned on: – u ok? – Cossacks everywhere, hoofbeats, drumbeats, that ultraviolent noise, sensory deprivation up-regulated
Fiction
The following pages were found in the female toilets of the Wyevale Garden Centre Oxford, along with a large shopping bag containing goldfish food, a chimenea, and a kit to assemble an Alexander Rose Turnberry 2-Seater Bench. A friend of mine, who happens to work weekends in the Weed Control departm
Poetry
The hired car rolls, wriggling down south along the river, away from the colonial glamour of the Bund (among which is gemmed their hotel: young, alcoholic, cosmopolitan), towards, now visible in quiet prominence, the PSA, with its clean geometry: concrete box & long line of a smokestack, stickin
Poetry
reading your facial expressions i interpret screenplay, dramatizations of us rendered larger than life in a rousing performance of scientific discovery you softly diagnose anatomical anomalies: brow bone, lumbar vertebrae, clavicle – skin-adhered-eyes in lab-issue goggles, curiosity unchecked,
Short Fiction
The stone path stretched away around the sun-bleached rocks and out of sight. Scanning her eyes further up towards the Cloud Rock of La Cumbre, she could spy grey horizontal streaks and bobbing pips along the oblique route to Roque Nublo, betraying walkers making their slow journey. It was the symbo
Poetry
Don’t forget the hiding thought that made the moon so embarrassed. I’m embarrassed too moon, for you & your second-hand shine. Your eclipsing self-regard, your fictional solace above in a nova of salt angels & astronauts fucking on your aromatic moon belly washing away the footprints of