I: A New Career In A New Town

II: Dream Life

III: Paintings As Prayers

IV: Late Summer Evening


Rose Crowned Evenings

Moments Of Pure Ashtray

The Personalised Circus

Berlin Undressing

Blind Children On Western Streets

Lucifer Says He Won't See Me


Absentee Note


Christmas Curtains



Swans On The Surface

Girl Smoking On Balcony

Stained Glass Window

Terrible Vision

The Insurance Was WILD

The Sea's Smile

Van Gogh's Lights

The Disappointed Prince


Tectonic Plates

Turkish Pizza

Cuddle Parties

A Night At The Circus

The Catch

Chekhov In Kreuzberg

A Stolen Dress

Two Contract Killers Get Arrested

My Uncle Dick

Death In The Cafe

Performing To The Curtain

Getting Past The Curtain


La Traviata

Babylon Berlin

Living With Samuel Beckett:

An Anti Essay





April 2016



Painting the world obnoxiously,

Cautiously, I and my sister

Take our seats;

Staring out the windows, sister:


I’m not scared of the road no more,

Nor scared of myself,

Who just there goes

To his singing street woman;


With nectarines in her eyes, and tenderness in my heart,

We sing Baltic sing-songs together,

And toast memories in the fire.


Years pass...

The singing street woman, now ferociously old,

Of crude remarks, I of impulse behaviour,

With melons in her eyes,

And no coins and cruelty in my heart,

We recite the Baltic plagues together.

Her eyes return, and then fill with tears:

She caresses my hair, and in her raspy old womanly voice,

Predicts my future, in a language I understand,

But never comprehend.


Hear yourself say,

‘I am captivated, make me your slave’,

Feel yourself dream,

‘Of a better and happier future.’


Now there’s always a party of some kind,

Something you would like,

Three different languages,

Three different personalities,

Ridiculous talk; beautiful people, awful times

And remember -

No souls will know you here,


‘And on three different occasions I…’

Drunk on tall tales and drinks,

Motivating yourself by a famous city bridge now,

Sister not scared -

Who are these blind children on western streets?

That I must travel with, always?


The truth:

I have always known the western streets to be trouble:

I have always wondered why certain things have to happen,

She next to me, oblivious, counting dolls, realising,

And I -  aren’t I clutching a toy car too?

It’s difficult, but I love you car, I love you grandma and sister,

Sister and I revisited from future remembrances,

The Western streets, when wickedly young,

How we would walk them together, you and I,

And through the moral gaps in Disney’s eyes,

We would peek at the litter, betrayals,

Murderous emotion, the pitiful notions,

The fugitive dream of eternal happy endings,

Tantrums, hysterics and quiet bliss thereafter,

All this at home, thus, love one another, thus;

Painting the world obnoxiously,

And my grandmother took us on the bus,

And granted, she greeted the driver magnanimously -

‘Hello Driver’, ‘Hello Ma’am’ -

And after burgers and toys,

And the other girls and boys,

Very cautiously, I and my sister,

With an eclipsed sun in our eyes,

Took our seats, and stared out the window,

And saw familiar streets flash past our eyes.