HOME

WRITING

KEYS TO THE CITY

I: A New Career In A New Town

II: Dream Life

III: Paintings As Prayers

IV: Late Summer Evening

POETRY

Rose Crowned Evenings

Moments Of Pure Ashtray

The Personalised Circus

Berlin Undressing

Blind Children On Western Streets

Lucifer Says He Won't See Me

Say

Absentee Note

Boy

Christmas Curtains

Fountains

July

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

SHORT STORIES

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

OTHER

La Traviata

Babylon Berlin

Living With Samuel Beckett:

An Anti Essay

MUSIC

CONTACT

BOY

 

JULY 2013

 

Wooden rustic sliding planes finely structured

the table centres the room,

the volume of sunlight strong through the window,

the boy, always with himself,

with childhood rays, never so much light,

seeing, not conscious...awake!

are we nostalgic before birth?

 

Pink girly hands on the table,

obedient but hopelessly restless with his patience,

mud on shorts from the garden of course,

then the fruit is walking in a black patterned dish:

it must be alive.

The fruit is fake, the colours; Mediterranean,

of vineyards and harbours,

of fresh soot from shellfish

and the smoky air stolen from table candles;

remember when we all went on holiday that time

 

Fruit is real with all the ageing bananas and strange purple circles:

the boy doesn’t know what they are yet so he fears and thinks them;

Mother is here, and lunch is served on a green plate,

Nice now sitting in the kitchen,

the food in front of the black patterned dish,

its steam changing the feeling-look of the fake fruit.

While the ageing bananas and strange purple circles smile together warmly neglected

as the sun shines the boy’s mother says

‘don’t let your food go cold darling.’