WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY DEATH

Street fox by the bins chewing on a cigarette snarling at the lights that block out the night, he’s never seen the stars but he misses them. Death is kind of like getting your hair cut, you have to make chit chat and all that but you leave half satisfied, feeling small – you paid…

WHISKEY AND WATER

She’s in the bottle shop, again. Every Tuesday around four thirty she’ll be standing there, picking up bottles, reading the labels, placing them gently back on the shelf, umming and ahing over the malt, the strength, the price. Eventually she will settle on one, different each week; today, it’s Jamerson Black Barrel. Last week it…

ORIGINAL SIN

The tree of knowledge was a silent place. No aphids fed on its sap, no fungi bloomed from its roots, no ants or wasps buzzed and scuttled around its fallen fruit – they simply lay where they fell, sweetening the warm, still air until it was so thick you could gag on it, turning the…

HOPE

What are years if not measured by trees? What are weeks if not measured by the growth of a water lily, reaching up from a swollen seed, hoping to surface? What is hope if not a pot of soil, the growth of a single root? What if hope slipped through the letterbox, or jumped in…

L’APPEL DU VIDE

Healing is a form of necromancy; the revival of dead cells, a past pulling itself together, or a future tearing itself apart. I like to believe in the heat death of the universe; in a maximum of entropy, an expansive ending of silent matter drifting through the cold expanse of space. If you blur your…

TERMINAL VACANCY

the police station on platform one is empty. from the footbridge over the tracks, you can see the insides of rooms, roofless, overgrown. local boys gather there to smoke and talk about Pokémon, or football, or sex. one day it will be stripped back and rebuilt from rubble. the phone by the door will be…

STAGE DIRECTIONS FOR MORNING

i. Fatal archer shoots it’s golden rays, wakes a woman from her pavestone pillow. ii. Parakeets cry Mary, blessed mother are you with child again? What will he be this time, A king or a crook? They scream and shit their meaning to the Thames. iii. On a ferry deck a child cries. She doesn’t…

PEST CONTROL

A house mouse scuttles along the counter top, three crumbs from the toaster and some peanut butter, one last supper. Then the trap crunches shut, dark eyes chrome over oil black like freshwater pearls in a wave of brown fur. Other mice will take this as an act of warfare. They will assemble beneath the…

La Tempete

You feel the cold before you touch the wall, pushing your hand through the permanent blanket of icy air. The paint is rough to touch, it dries the oils from your fingertips as they graze along the surface. The wind breathes gently through the open French doors, the night air is mild and honeyed with…

ORANGES (an old poem)

i pass the time being depressed in bed and eating an inordinate amount of oranges there’s something cathartic in peeling away the skin, the pith, and ignoring the deadlines that loom in red marker at the top of my bedroom mirror i consume book after book fruit after fruit drinking only green tea and water…