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A woolly sunlight creeps acroass the rain sodden tarmac ootside the East chapel ay the crematorium, breakin through the clouds above, increasin in...

I walk around Waterlook Park and nearly always there will be someone else walking in the opposite direction, we'll have arrived at roughly the same...

THE BUSMAR ASTRAL Little Sis and I stood staring at the contraption. It resembled a fairy caravan and from that point of view we were thrilled. “Can...

Sir Clive Sinclair R.I.P.

Oh dear, I do feel glum. The mirror shows my reet big tum. No more chips for me - I'll just chew some gum. I'd walk tut shops now, to reduce me bum,...

Requiem assigned virgin penitent minds shackled to words with rimming pictures that shutter the lens storybook clutter now dead men talk their...

Books were burned in Canada [Canada!] last week. In protest at depictions of indigenous peoples. Now, I'm not defending these depictions and if Canada's school libraries want to remove Tintin and others from their shelves, that's fine. I just disagree with people burning books, because people who burn books, as a better writer than me once said, often end up burning people. Anyway, here's this. I wrote it last time I got wound up about book burning.

random notes played upon my piano, my cello bathed in midnight moonlight ; my sorrow, my joy, left upon each key struck by moonlight. Close my eyes,...

Streetlights in the night; late after the pubs and cafes have closed; voices and conversations long gone to slumber in houses a tumble within...