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…

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…