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It hit me like a punch, like a pang

like a Picasso.

Propelling me forward

disjointed pieces.

It dropped me like a whoosh, like

a wallop. A whipped, walloped


and held me on the floor whilst I

bled out beautifully.

It left me. Left me right there

right down in the blood and the

piss and the putrid vomit.

The beauty became black

and never came back but It –

It bore into bones.

My bones

and made a home there.

Birds of a feather

I could wrap us up and present us as pretty
but we, us pair – coupled up like birds on a wire
are just too brittle for that.

Parchment paper. Delicate, protected.

Not neglected.

And as that phoenix bursts through the words that you pen

time and time again

remember that.


They lie dormant

in the hollows of this dusty soul.


yet committed to vengeance upon the sun’s leave.

Serpent tongues hiss

Eyes sleep

and creatures



Hallmark has me stuck

The fizz of us bubbling

on folded paper.

Drawn up.

Aye, she said.

Aye. Am fine, honest.

Fine. Like a clear, English morning come the month of May?

Och, said she.

Like a Picasso.

Dawn chorus

I’ve got

wrestless hands and itchy feet

Sticky mind at times

when the days gone by

decide to wander on down through the

halls that we frequented so many times before

when we couldn’t get to sleep.

Lying here, wondering if you ever hear them creep?

I know that I do.

Certainly, I do.

Settle down, these twilight hours

bewitch the town that lies outside

these blissfully, mundane four walls

Always the same, old

cobbled town, of course

That never goes to sleep

The key

This old town, the shoes upon my feet

This food, these clothes, this seat

The blood in my veins

and the air I breathe


Absolutely minor

when you’re not in reach.