One of these days, thinks Arthur, I’ll write all this stuff down.

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose...

Cowboy Killer (6th January, 2009, 2.24pm) He strode in like a cold wind blowing through my mind, words slung from his hips like guns, bullets ready for firing; deadly, silver-tongued ones.

It was around the time I'd got into debt buying Marxist literature. I intended to sell it on, without profit, but couldn't even give it away. Nobody believed in politics anymore.

The aftermath of a love affair.

A poem of evaluation

A poem of release