The loom is a stave that cotton falls on,
sometimes looks like music notes to the whimsical.

We lie with our backs flat to the cold stone-
never take our eyes off it. Every so often
there is a hiss of movement as one of us skims
from our bottom G, climbs a note or two,
picks a semi-quaver, and falls fast.
All for a tuppence. Not even enough for fruit.
Sometimes one of us is s...

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It was dead, what they shared,
and he realized it as much as she.

With love like a coelacanth, gone
was the small butterfly that once nestled in their breast pocket,
occasionally fluttering its wings in a dizzy dance.
The fossil of their relationship was
far more easily located than the living specimen nowadays.
Now, loud nights spent tearing into each other’s ego
as a lion d...

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Somewhere, the 9 till 5 office worker stops me with a deadpan stare,
Fixes me with the times of timetables passed, the graph paper squares
Of tomorrow’s schedule. The high-rise offices never bother to look down.

I never liked the city.

Never really cared
for the city’s callousness, its daily suicide,
the shadow at the top of each building that watches with certainty.

C...

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Beneath the biscuit-bitten moon of dawn

Something’s coming.

There’s a hint of something unknown,

unprecedented enough that even the howling wind has flaked

To something spider-thin;

To the bare wire frames of lyricism.

Since then, the sky has darkened.

And static has started to  skitter across asphalt and window-frames.

L...

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