Pick of the day

The Tony Blair Problem

I was woken early one morning by a hammering on my back door.   ‘Who could that be?’ I wondered, as I dressed and rushed downstairs.   It was Alun.   “Why on Earth are you waking me at this hour?” I said, “You’d better have a good reason.”  Read more

Story of the week


‘I want you to sleep with me.’Read more

Poem of the week



Thirty degrees with no air con.
No wonder she fainted,
the girl from HR,
the one the young bucks
in IT spilled their
Gigabytes over,
the one for whom
all the Directors
sucked in their paunches
as if that was ever enough
to cut her out from the herd.

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Bee's Journey

Picks of the Month

Letters to Herself

I woke up speaking in riddles, heart raging
against a world shaking, changing, escaping
my mother cried soft lullabies of light and mystery
in a dream with infinite passages, all conflicted
by the bottle of prescription pills and history
on the borderline between racing time and chasing
the amnesia of memories, a billion theories
she birthed particles of stars, stories and spaces

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Strings (Part 1)

Three hundred, maybe four hundred, people have packed into this sweaty pub to see me.  I’ve been gigging all my life, but I’ve never had a crowd like this.  Finally, I’ve found an audience that gets me. 
I’m sat on a stool singing, ‘Isobel’, strumming my battered Gibson, arched over the guitar, mouth reaching for the mircophone. 

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