Wild Black Curly Hair
A mystery white boy a timepiece he may be there still on the moor a tanker broke in two spilling death on Catalonia shores so useless a striking...
A decent pace over the marshes away from the numbers the noise a concerto for bedlam his first death was this odour of a stranger clinging to his...
He looked like a cardboard Romeo when they threw him on the slab all buttoned up with brilliantine the comb before the dance no one knew his name but...
Victoria Park at dawn a chorus of leaves rustling her from whiskey sleep to dappled day the pipsqueak crows of midwicket long hop dewed worms as she crosses throws a stone
Sickle moon hangs cockeye over the valley. Bubbling pots, sweating out sweet mists. The rosy boy poised proudly for dinner. As sunset hobo shuffles in for his piece.
He stood, at the bottom, of the Helter Skelter. Waiting. She will not be long, he thought. Then they can go, get some candyfloss, perhaps win a goldfish.
Dead in the house fire. Nineteen seventy two. A girl, six years old. No remains. Today. The Father. A man of sadness, age and rheumatism, celebrates her life. Walking streets,
The Question “Yes. She lived opposite Number thirty two. Didn’t really know her. We minded our own business. But, I recall this odd thing though. She would wait at the window,
Walking with the tide, against an estuary wind. I step dented cans, broken bottles. Plastic bags posing as jellyfish. And I think of you, all of you. What you meant.