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My stories

From The Boundary

Victoria Park at dawn a chorus of leaves rustling her from whiskey sleep to dappled day the pipsqueak crows of midwicket long hop dewed worms as she crosses throws a stone

Shaved Grass: August 2006: St James’s Park

On shaved grass he lies. Under a bleached sun. Flicking pages like wasps. The dullness of late August, tires and twists hope. In this man-child. Waiting for the change, of turned leaves.

Long Way From Alice Springs

he red earth. Like baked blood, glowing behind her. Her gold freckled hands, shield the greenest eyes. Saluting the sun, as it drops. A dead weight. Flaming, in moments. Hemispheric.

Liverpool Street

I’m looking deep. Your eyes. Puffed and crowed. We sit on the step Blue plumed Silk Cut comforted. Grass marks on jeans. Your boots unpolished. Where they kicked me.

Lines

When work was getting heavy. The pressure homing hard. Billy would call up Jodie. A platinum credit card. Jodie would ask him to lie on the carpet, and shuffle with his senses

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