MAKING EXCUSES

Everybody is an excuse maker. I won’t blog today because I have work in a few hours and I want to vegetate. I won’t tidy up the kitchen because I already cleaned it yesterday (and anyway it’s not that messy, the bin smells but I know that it’s the chicken from three days ago. I…

exppppppp.er (forget what you see it’s not important.)

From the badgering treetops To the lowly park bench Four youths Smoking Trees hang like butterfilies from Fillies a hatchery’s rooftop where the butterfly hatcher has poowerful values and lots of children, and poo. Listen to what I’m saying to you Make sense of it, make sense of this, I beg you Because I Can’t.…

Stories in Short #10 – Be Calm, Glassy Eyes

We haven’t sat on the sofa since you left. It was yours. We can’t touch it. For breakfast we all eat Weetabix with box-milk. No one has been to the shop. No one has left the house. There are tears at the bottom of the stairs each morning. We are determined to succeed for you.…

LOVE THIS CHRISTMAS

Christmas is not a new idea. The Romans held celebratory winter feasts and gave each other gifts 2,000 years ago. Hanukkah is a celebration of a victorious battle over 2,100 years ago. Ramadan marks the month that the prophet Mohammed had the holy book revealed to him by God. Other cultures, such as the Chinese,…

Our fortune is unfortunate

This has been a difficult week. I’ve had a lot to catch up on because I’ve been away. These words were the only way I could make sense of some of things that have happened this week. Drying silk smells like the seaside, did you know? A festering smell of fortune. This is their fortune.…

window to the falls, 2016

I can’t remember the name of the nature park this tree was in. It was on the second day of our motorbike tour from Da Lat to Nha Trang and we stopped at so many incredible places that the name of this area has slipped my mind. Through the hole you can see the side…

Daily Prompt: Folly

rolly cigarettes on a park bench you tell me that we shouldn’t be smoking smoking is bad for the heart   folding picnic chairs and spoiled sandwiches you tell me that we shouldn’t be out when the clouds are grey grey cloud means rain   dirty plates and greasy pound notes you tell me that…

ON HATING POETRY

I used to despise poetry. I refused to read it, let alone write it. For three years I studied poetry at university, because for whatever reason, I was half decent at analysing the stuff. Plagued by “this happens because of this,” or, “don’t write that, you can’t do that in a poem unless you’re experienced,”…