The wind wraps me in to you. And I can stand this. For I am swept again. This isn't melancholy, crashing a wave, a lost riptide. I am clear on that. All of that.

Bow Boy Blues

A camp, lisping Spanish stilt walker geezer accosted me on the Roman Road about an hour ago, he was shaking a bucket for guide dogs but because of...


The guy is Zoot suited and Chelsea booted. He is drinking a South African red of a bad year that had travelled via Oslo on waves as tall as the...


Wanting ways to measure the broken pulses of her junkyard mind is as fitful as walking on needles Where sleep ends her terror will begin for she is a scored land that trips and swallows

The Song of Mickey Clemons

The soundtrack of a hip-hopped London. Bulgaria, Bhangra and bedlam. All the gruff, cherry red market boys sing along. ‘Oranges and lemons, poor...