Marie de France's 'Bisclavret' howls at the moon like a wolf. 'The Assistant' mutters to itself in Yiddish. The window is full to the brim with stars, and poems rise up like unanswered prayers.
My first attempt at a pantoum - rules on structure seem to differ greatly from source to source, but this is based on the structure we looked at in a Poetry Society session last night.
Radiohead is playing on the overnight train somewhere between Moscow and St Petersburg, and I ask you to lay your hands into the soft cement of my stomach like a film star.
I wrote this to entertain myself when stuck on a train between Kings Cross and Leeds. "And the dark blue straits of the Piccadilly line, seeping towards Heathrow like spilled ink."
It's the morning after the night before, and Nicola's world becomes all the more surreal when she finds her one night stand's teenage brother helping himself to breakfast in the apartment.