Stuff that I have actually written – stories, reviews, that sort of thing.
Written, partially, on the walk to work during a recent bus drivers’ strike. Tweeted as a short poem on Friday, refined to this on the Monday. I say refined. Elongated.
Popped from my shell;
by action struck
out of a self-made bubble.
Forced to walk ancient paths
made modern, by face alone,
and modern roads burned
by history’s glow.
Continue reading Strike
Everyone is double-income now.
We can’t afford the past.
Milk and butter,
a flowing flower carpet unwinds
beneath confidently stumbling tread.
Thanks to @NathanHuman and @Orbette
Notes,
studied on the refrigerator door.
The cold hum,
drowned
by breakfast’s gleeful crackle.
Continue reading Bacon.
How wonderful,
I think,
To be a poet.
To move from town
To different town,
Each night to be ignored
Over indifferent tapas
In the bar of some
Chain arthouse cinema.
Wind billows
Rain grey
Through London streets
Chasing umbrellas
Making fools.
Continue reading Getting Home
And it’s been published! By me! There’s a book with my name printed on the cover, not just scrawled on in marker pen. Pretty sweet. Massively thrilling.
Going to write another one. See you back here in a year.
OI! Go and read my pop column on MostlyFilm.com. It’s pretty good, you know.
I’m self-publishing, not because it’s a vanity project but because I want a copy for my daughter and don’t care to hawk it round publishers in the forlorn hope of getting it one day, maybe, printed.
It’s a book of rhymes, called “Eleanor Kisses Crocodiles”. I wrote the rhymes (with able assistance from my wife, especially on the “snake” page) about my daughter, and my Dad has drawn and painted the accompanying pictures. I got the cover pic from him today. It is amazing, it’s just beautiful. I’m uploading the text as I type this, up to lulu.com, and soon I’ll put together a proper cover, with words and stuff.
I’m actually doing this. It’s a thing. It’s going to happen. I’m going to be published. YES, BY ME. I know. But still. It’s exciting, however it happens.
I was working on this, but it has come to nothing. Sorry. I’ll try to get my shit together for Christmas. Something spooky, misty. Maybe. I PROMISE NOTHING..
The rain bounced violently against the window, perhaps anxious to be out fo the greyblack October sky. Marchant stared out, his expression blank.
“Well?” he said, not turning round.
“Well,” said the little man at the desk, examining a small box. “It’s a lovely piece, in terms of craftsmanship. I couldn’t call it lovely in any other regard, though. The design is quite hideous.” He put the box down, distaste registering in the movement. The lacquered surfaces of the box gleamed in the firelight, cherrywood inlays dancing with flame.
“And the contents?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” shrugged the little man