Read

a poem about toast

a poem about chips

Outside the air is too bright and windy for this dead persons eyes, And trying to cover them ' and the death within them ' she demands "I want to go back now.

Stephen lived in a bedroom crawling with feelings. His duvet was shiny and slipped over him like a slug when he slept, and his headboard was hairy like a hyena and coarse if you stroked it the wrong way. Sometimes the headboard got a bit unruly and tried to eat him when he wasn't looking.

This (together with the Iceland and Camden pieces) completes a sort of tryptich of articles about watching rock bands and getting older. I'm done with that now.

We can't get through even one measly fucking day with out cross words. It gets to the point when were sitting in a café, restaurant or film, and the fact that we have had a nice time kicks me in the face until I remember that we never get through a day without a fight.

"You creep," those words smashed into my chest with the force of a blacksmith's blow. Was that what she really thought of me?

for Kit

My body arched as I stretched my rested limbs out, one leg at a time, my body awakening for a new day, I ritually swung round my arm to reach for my phone, as expected the alarm was just about to go off, but my body clock has been tuned in recently so I haven't had to listed to that annoying tune, that starts me in a bad mood rather than good.