Resistant Literature

A pick and mix of ideas from the back of my mind. (That's just a pretentious way of saying 'I dunno what on earth I'm writing').

Angels write in poetry, Demons write in prose

As I lie beneath the blanket Of a heavy Devon sky That has breached its secret contract With the local weatherman And begun to bleed
Cherry

A Thief in the Country

They keep them hidden Within those rolling hills Their dirty little things That not even the hoarding Claws of Magpies will touch
Cherry

Apollo in his cottons

His imagination was crushed to a pulp, Between the pages of a GCSE maths book, And his eyes were dug out of his face, By lines and lines of twisting jargon,
Cherry

At Eternity's Gate

In a pool Of sweat and dark memories A lone swimmer Carves out lengths On the quivering surface

Cigarette

It is the smell that takes you first, That gentle odour of dry tobacco, That whispers into the air And tiptoes into your nose,
Cherry

Small pieces of England

I hold the pebbles in my hands, thinking of how, one day, I shall have just enough small, perfect pieces to make a whole England.