Poem: Plectrum Found, London

I found a plectrum at Liverpool Street station; Bottom of the stairs rising up to Bishopsgate; A bottomless blue like…

Poem: 26

Sorry, is this seat taken? Errrha. Do you mind if I open. The next bus stop. Hurrff. A-a-hurrff. No no,…

‘The reflection had only existed for a matter of moments, but it already knew what it thought of the man.’

Your eyes have your age, but your ears have your father’s. The wisdom of words wears through the plains of…

Fevered fury creeps up my neck and throttles my words with filthy, scarred fingers. I’m chained powerless to a chair,…

I am not the same as you. I don’t have the same rhythm, The same tempest, The same dreams.

‘Everything about that time of morning, from the way my eyes work, to the way my limbs move, is just so easy I don’t even consider it.’

‘The beginning (unless you’re Kurt Vonnegut or perhaps Martin Amis) is invariably a strong position from which to start.’

I could have written my defining work already, which is a terrifying thought considering my quantifiable lack of achievement.

What grows from the wars we wage? Fields of poppies grew before, blood red and swaying brittle and fragile on…

Death is loneliest, After buried or scattered. Life seems more sociable.

I found a familiar yet new solace (and it found me) hard to confront, hard to embrace, harder yet to…

Death always gets the wrong ones: Always reaching out a cold, bony finger pointing his aim at the voice of…

I ran back to you the first time that we met. I ran back, with my cheeks flushed and asked…

Oh, Inglorious Miracle! Born in an utterly unpretentious anti-natal ward of screaming spitting smoking meat and a temptation to continue…