The Magic Act
Hold me close and I disappear! It’s my most famous trick. My thin lips grin at their gasps and their cries as I vanish from your arms. There you are, as the night begins, wrapped up in show-girl spangles, and I’m pulling flowers from my wrist, a rabbit from a hat, tricks crafted [&
He Cried (Story)
I always have more to say to my friend when I’m not talking to him. He’s been having a really hard time. Today was a special case, an Essex blizzard scuffing muddy patches up hillsides. Today he hid his face in my side so he could cry: a quiet upheaval in the thick [&hellip
When we leave we need to pass this on
When we leave we need to pass this on To hop the twig with two handfuls, Head bent to follow the echo Whether an other’s or our own. When you’ve got this, then we’ll go Wading the tough river with its noise Underfoot, clay between toes Toward the jutted bank, the hang-tooth of s
I Saw the Son of Man
I I saw the Son of Man lying on the 95 – probably one of a dozen prints, someone’s elementary school project now splayed like a fossil ripely excavated, blanching in the sun – his sheltering apple strudelized. It reminds me of how the sky is, its sheer-blue polythene perforated
Nebuchadnezzar
Ah, so you want to dream better! I’m your man, I’m the one to ask, for dreaming is all about asking the right questions without knowing that one oneself questions! The point of the exercise, excuse me, sir, is stop that thinking, which you, learned sir! do so much of. Instead you must wor
The Art of Conversation
This table is heavy, laden with your pithy thoughts. You gurgle your Pinot Grigio as you laugh, apple crumble sliding down, easy does it, two halves each one ought to leave at nine it does not do in this place to overstay one’s welcome and you’ll have waxed your lyrical on p
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 [&
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