Poetry

Railway station in a country town, flagstones wide, dark and wet with rain. Cast iron bolts suffocated by thick beige …

My cashier was a tall woman of around 27, the tips of her hair were brittle as ice chips and …

We are the boys born in the bellies of hydrogen bombs swigging weekend beers and not worrying about the world, …

I listen to the senselessness of never-ending traffic, to the way the fridge murmurs its thanks between burps as it …

On my back Studying the ceiling cracks In a student’s house. Sent my love downstairs To fetch roasting carrots Spitting …

My ears are cupped in headphones, hood up, the radio’s drowned in the river of mid-morning cabs, buses, and rain. …

I’m outside, on the corner slate flower bed purple as burst plum, conjures mother, leant, exhausted on the speckled countertop, jousting …

Rambling mad under the threat of spring rain Dirty old field, ploughed, pulling up last year’s dirty jobs City slush …

You’re on the edge of my bed, I can’t describe it, you’re balled up and tomato pink, my baby my …

The relationship between this desk, these keys, that glass bottle there, touchable things, reassuring in the way they push against …

Reminded of steaming windows one inch rolled out, battery roulette, and music, always music that reminded us of places where …

Wouldn’t it be fine to slide down the side of your sofa cushion in complete and utter silence, to get smaller …

Most of us are awake in air that drills hot lightning blue idiot truths all the way to the core. …

The pram gets pushed with one hand, the hand lifts off the bar and the middle finger curls out like …

Pan au chocolat half eaten, lone toothpaste without a brush, peppermint tea atop red wine rings. Last biscuit in its empty pack, …

Something about you broke my heart. Something subtle stung me in the way you moved around that pond in the brick …

You were always petite, with your thirteen inch screen sometimes I had to squint to catch the fine print, though …

These days I hurry to keep myself in sight. Profile glances into restaurant windows often whisper me warnings. Ripples and …

You bastard you bastard, you predator gnawing at my sock – there’s flesh under there, blood skin nerves and pain, …

Your skin tweaks as if to the scuttle of a beetle’s touch, and the window is stuttering in the manner …