I think I only walked down Fleet Street once,

my grubwork year in London. Not much wowed,

not like I’d heard - most rags no more ensconced

but fled to Docklands - the street name but a label          

for billionaire media magnates trumpeting loud

reactionary taunts and celebrity libel.

I had an inkling then: there was a proud

historic river, sadly much polluted,            

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Witnessing their eyes glimmer,

as their lacerated heart was bleeding,

trying. I couldn’t pressure ignorance to clot-

blood pulsing while they leered,

relishing it-

the plasma seeping those callous headlines,

exhibiting grief in a page spread

with the hatred that slowly kills.

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An Unexpected Ghost In The Yorkshire Post

She stares out at me from the page of white -
all pixels, paper, print and phantom eyes,
a child of contrasts under exposed skies
dancing somewhere between the dark and light.
I recognise the features well, despite
the brutal glare of histories disguise.
This archive feature caught me by surprise
for we are separated by times flight.
You are a g...

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`







news pa p e r s

lots of fluff-for-circumstance
wanting of substance


verbose kitty litter...
reflection of our day









`

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