From The Attic

A wooden chest, labelled ‘Uncle Jack’

Slowly I start to unpack:

Inside there sits some dusty books

Carefully placed so if someone looks

They will not see what’s underneath

A collection of human teeth

A fine, silken, black top hat

A jar half full of congealed fat

Some boiled sweets in a paper cone

Something that looks like a finger bone

Some...

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Bucks Row

gaslight lamps

cast pools of sickly yellow

and the cobble stones

glisten with evening rain

a smell of burnt stew

drifts in with the stirring

of fog and smoke

that wraps your legs

in cobwebs and candyfloss

a street sellers distant call

proclaiming hot chestnuts

while a dog pisses

against a bollard of black iron

blood spills from an alleyway

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The Trade Name.

When the green fairy

kisses my lips

with sweet anise,

I take the grand wormwood path

just for jolly, wouldn’t you?

Cachous,

to mask her breath

of juniper.

A road

to mothers ruin.

The gas-lit fog

cloaks the backstreet

opiate dens,

where wretched

addicts lie.

Pastry faced women,

lifting ski...

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