The back lane, this new-year dawn, is littered, bleakly - tumbled bins, spent bottles, knuckled tabs, sodden boxes; hound shites, plastic wraps, a quilted headboard, yellowed hand towel; wrapping-paper tumbleweeds troubling parked cars; a bloody gown of herring gull (gutting something); and the last, the very last, or the first, Christmas tree, skulking and skittling … Continue reading The Wronged Tree.
in this narrow kitchen i dream a wild life with you. out there, he breathes. he loves you. i taste you and i believe, every evening, in everything. i don't know how we got here. but if this is where you find me, this narrow kitchen, with my heart on my sleeve. just whistle. .
i heard a man with a dry cough. i saw a dog with a leg hacked off. i forgot just what it was to wake up in a mess of hot cloth. the queen's speech don't cut it no more and north of yorkshire it is very rare. Life on the seashore / analogue collage … Continue reading mess of hot cloth
nickreeves 