Poet Introduction I compare poetry to painting, believing that I lack any drawing/painting skills but believing my imagination and training in writing has enabled me to transfer my love of visual art to the written word
Nights are bad, some worse than others. Tonight, she can't sleep. She longs for the summer, for the stillness of remote countryside, for the court case to end and the media interest to cease. Tomorrow, she will appear as a witness for the Prosecution.
The wind enters the bedroom through a crack in the windowsill, wintry like ice, freezing her hands and toes. Outside, a sprinkling of rain has turned to snow, grey and cheerless like the February sky.
Tonight, she keeps seeing it: the dark echoing space of the abandoned warehouse, the outline of soggy boxes visible only...
All In My Head, Blood Poisoning And Delirium (True Life)
All details imagined due to dangerously high temperature:
I'm not dying - but I've done something terrible. Now I must spend the next ten years in a secure psychiatric Unit seventy miles away from London. I don't know where the Unit is exactly or who the staff are.
I keep searching for the staff but can only find a couple of them. It's strange how the security guard looks like the man who lives above my flat in Palmers Green. Also, the hospital grounds look strangely familiar too almost like the London North Circular. Yet, I'm seventy miles away from London. ...
A Concert Pianist Trapped In The Past, North London 2002
Manchester Buildings ressembling cashew nuts. A church spire, matching in colour. A hill. I float restlessly, down the hill, past the brown-reddish buildings. The people have come for me. After all these years, they've tracked me down to London. They find me in the front room of a house. My home. It's over.The ringleader strikes me across the face. A backhander. It's years since anyone did that. They leave. Or, at least, I think they do. Nothing seems certain anymore. A few houses down, people sit in a square or a circle, praying. Afterwards, these...