Dark night. Street light. Rifle shot. Julian Knight.
Comments closedDark night. Street light. Rifle shot. Julian Knight.
Comments closed‘no apologies to George W. Bush’ If you look like an idiot, think like an idiot, speak like an idiot, and even walk like an…
Comments closed‘I parried, but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now.’ Wilfred Owen Between the trenches no-mans land. Strategies had us confront one…
Comments closedSay this to your woman every morning, even with her gooey eyes and early morning breath. Cos when she’s showered and ready to face the…
Comments closedPoor toad. You carry such a load of ugliness. A gash for a mouth, big bulging eyes, a fat, round body. It doesn’t surprise when…
Comments closedDuring two horrific world wars thousands of young men died, defending freedom and democracy? That’s what they were told as they marched off to a…
Comments closedWe put up the barriers, you and I, with some misguided notion that one of us was superior to the other. Prejudice based on colour,…
Comments closedThey walk in isolation. Who are these shadows? Nobody asks, nobody cares. He walks lamely. She with the easy elegance of a childhood discipline. He…
Comments closedO sad, yet happy people, your innate sense of humour was tested to the nth degree by bloody British treachery. Dance, Colleen, dance. Sing, Paddy,…
Comments closedTrees would speak to me I think, if I could speak with them. There is no one to forbid them, nor poison their souls with…
Comments closedFrom mewling and puking, nappy wetting and fouling, to standing and demanding. This miracle of procreation beautiful in construction, carries within her the beginning, and…
Comments closedLook how they walk apart, each to their lonely end. Not hand in hand as lovers do. So my darling, before distance widens beyond reach…
Comments closedOld Mrs Fancourt, gone to god, smelt of lavender and wees. I’m sure she wore those bloomers that came down to her knees. Her teeth…
Comments closedNIL DESPERANDUM It was cold and wet and there he was, sitting on a park bench, sorting his worldly posessions into a plastic bag. A…
Comments closedWhen I’m tired I hobble, symptomatic of the stroke. To remind me a few weeks ago I couldn’t walk at all. So when I hobble…
Comments closedInspired by Dylan Thomas’ poem ‘The Hunchback in the Park’ I’d seen him on many occasions throughout the seasons, sitting on a park bench, sipping…
Comments closedTime to say goodbye. Silence. Awful silence. Then. A last embrace. Emotions to the fore. Tears mixed with anger. The inevitable question. Why? Rationalising doesn’t…
Comments closedI was hungry, and you formed a committee to investigate my hunger. I was homeless, and you filed a report on my plight. I was…
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