The Flip Side – Editing the Archives
The flip side when Everything is a film and the Kodak squares overlap Sunlight on railing legs and you cross the road without pressing the button *pause breath birds wind cars* light headed head y d a z e w h e […]
Collage, your pieces do not quite Fit
You, rehearsed cynic at 18, lamented about modern poetry. ‘Not everything is like something else.’ No, but too naive to omit The unbearable likeness of your being. A facsimile of a facsimile, A patchwork hand-sewn man with hidden seams, An ego built on historicity and a hai
All That’s Left
After Liberty Brignall She fills the Emma Bridgewater mug with hot water—her daily cup of English breakfast tea, with more than a splash of milk. The mug has a permanent home on her desk, its polka dots striking as ever—red, yellow, green and the blueish purplish grey—which was it? They c
Dockyard Hymnal
You learned to love London at sixteen. All of it: from the streets around your home that your father wanted cleaned by baptism to the sludge of my banks. You had a love for that, though—the grubby, the many-sided. The only form of sacrament these streets ever get is when I am summoned to [&
Anna and Mary
Anna put her index finger to her mouth, found the sore molar and pressed down on it. The layer of phlegm in the back of her throat was still faintly sweet. She put the jar of honey back in the cupboard. As a child, she had ground her teeth as she slept; she couldn’t help […]
Alone in the House
No, I hadn’t left the downstairs light on. Had I? I hang a few paces outside my doorway. Before this I was stewing in my bedroom. I could have been doing a million other things than rolling around on my bed, intermittently swapping phone, book and laptop between my hands, wondering if this was wha
The Blood of the Beast
A crude drawing of God lies in your lap, the limp hand of a father cut in half by a fold and hastily scribbled over. Those brutish lines are shadows on my wall, chanting Gregorian hymns until their thousand shadowed heads erupt with horns. Your towering tongue speaks viscous words, confessing a toni
love letter from home
no it’s not what you think it is; not batter rolled in a tight embrace every lunar new year (but you hear the lid slipping off already, so it could be). it’s adding the clock and weather apps as widgets (go to bed, wear extra layers, you know we can’t take the cold). it’s receiving […
After the Storm
They have black tongues, arteries which are rumoured to pumpcinders and tar. As they summon the gale, words drip like treaclefrom their blaspheming mouths, weaving a tale of two horses who gallop the town: one black, the other white,like a negative impression. With eyelashes wet from the storm,they