Cherrypicked stories

When you are gone I walk the hills in the changing robes of fog without letup, pick the last love-in-a-mist, tell my sadness to the careless eyes of dusk. When night falls, I hasp my windows fast against

I am the lad who killed your son Kuwait 1991 he had no time to parry his hands were not loath and cold for me and my mate Barry if the truth be told we gave him no chance when he put up his hands

200 words.

Pedalling a freewheel of thought, A cabaret of icons You stand across the water from Hoboken, a glittering knife

Everything has it's place. Even seagulls. Not so sure about journalists though.

Speed poem about the cafe near the British Library where I get my lunch.

And now, as you stand there splitting two worlds, high upon the aching shoulders of the void, what is behind you is everything you have ever done, your whole life, and ahead of you, glaring up at you, the abyss in the eye of a fish as big as the world and unknown and futureless and uneaten and unloved and all that other stuff and the difference is her, a few breaths between right now and never again, a few dumb breaths between two worlds, just one last swim she said, and as you stand there a voice reaches over from the dead world behind you and all that's gone before, and asks you if you need some help.

The confectionery of our lives...

I blame 'The Double Life of Veronica'. Had I not seen that a few Sundays ago, I'd not have bought it. But I did, so I did.