There are no pearls, only grains of sand.

I’m just stringing syllables together

and the thread I use is cheap and worn.

Nothing beautiful happens here.

Hey I have a laptop again, a shiny new laptop! Wooh. 

You are Older than I ever Knew.

I wear bruises under my skin

an aching, waking reminder

of your limbs

on my limbs


blind to you for years

out of the allies your creep

a man of blooming fruit

(I was the rot in the vine)


I close my eyes to you

but you are pin-pricks in eyelids

a rehearsal of our names

crudely stitched in paper. 

The Violets are Wilting.

There is something of her

in the slant of 

my letters

a hint of what-once-was

shimmering (momentarily) in the

onyx of drying ink.

I have a picture of her 


retouched with colour

her cheeks flush 

(my fathers mother, barely a child

standing at her feet)

I remember her older.

Soft faced

hiding money in sweet tins

she cut her clothes

crying ‘stranger’

We burned her with it. 

The Bronchial Catch. 

The Bronchial Catch.