The general state of things in 2010-2011...
Night: its cross-hatching of antilight behind the eyes; its white-noise hiss of unused sound.
Streaked and grey with speed and rain; cut up by pylon cables which tense and wane
In the warm cabin, The girl swept the crepe mixture round the circular griddle like a World War II radar. The other side of the counter, the air was crisp and cold.
The kettle's on, and now I've shot the glow into you on this unexpectedly yellow spring day - us holding coats and jumpers in the shock of its sudden hot coming - your undoing
Long Distance The bay window evenings eying cold hills through world-muting glass, love ordered numbers I dial shakily: 0141 [her city, its termini and gum freckled pavements]
And as evening weighs its tender jaw on lambent streets, now bristling with twilight enterprise my gaze again meets the bus’s...
Garden toys, algaed; ponds putrid with dank leaves; door slams echoing for want of company, and a world home to the busiest, sullenest most double- yoked nothingness I have ever known.
The evening light tan-coloured on the high-rise draws out its Sky dishes like blackheads;
Even depression these days is branded in London. Mine is delivered as a blank parcel to the mind, its contents an image of the Hanger Lane Gyratory...
Snowed hills: white waves breaking thickly on the horizon.