poetjude
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My stories
Crematorium
Is this everything - your name printed on paper two bunches of flowers and thirty-one people with your genes? Stories were never written on a string of DNA.
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- 2536 reads
Longs Close
It is not you I mourn but the walk to your house through the wheat on Dodds lane and the haze on Pyrford roads in high summer. Now, bereft of my place in those times
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- 5157 reads
Anonymous Artists
And here on Oostende’s pallid beach They drew a circle in the sand With one word all could understand A sign within a doubter’s reach They came from Lille and Rome and all
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- 2219 reads
Prime Numbers
The day the world flinched, like sunlight through a coma they carried their dead on advertisement boards. Surgeons waited like ignoble cannibals to strip out their organs or lay them
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- 2248 reads
Winter of Discontent
How I covet the stucco fronted lives; soft lighting, desirable postcode of those who had chances and better parents. The acerbic brew spilled from my cups filled pages with resentments.
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- 2218 reads