Tapping at the keyboard tiles - in the glow of the evening, pausing only for some hours; once to find inspiration in an unexpected shower and once again, to take a bath - these selected letters became these collected words; becoming a poem called steaming bao buns.
“I don’t like it.” No one hears him. No one sees him. He used to think they were ignoring him, but they're really not. He is concealed. He stands within the stinking flock garden among the yellowed roses depicted on the wallpaper of the Eight Kings' public bar. Grinner pokes his nose beyond the faux … Continue reading No Glass.
I purr her name deliciously, but dare not turn the page to read the words, preferring to believe the past is present in the future. I heard her playing yesterday beneath the window, but the room, of course, was empty; not even the piano. * She walked among the flowers depicted on the wall. She … Continue reading The Glass.
05/11/73 (Waddon) Guy Fawkes' Night - which will add some vague, visual and historical, romantic poetics to an otherwise quite commonplace tale - I discovered a cat, a tiny, shadow of a cat, on the front door mat. She mouthed a yellow miaow, which is cat chat for thank you (I picked up some cat, … Continue reading Cavalier With A Candle.
Voting nine to one in favour of, the members of the annual general meeting of the Mill Dam Seamen's Mission deemed that the sale of alcohol and bar food would be more advantageous to both the charity's future coffers and present patrons than the traditional offerings of hope, faith and charity, and so, later that … Continue reading Thug (with pinkie extended).
Fading This is from when he was still a young boy; hip-slung, just so; nothing very much to say. Three lances of sunlight, emanating from beyond the top right-hand corner, fall forever across the photograph, piercing a number of the sitters - pupils and teachers. The headmaster (Mr. D) - front row, centre - has … Continue reading Fading Beehive.