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

CHRISTMAS CURTAINS

 

DECEMBER 2013

 

What about the street scene,

my sketches of accidents,

the Christmas chorus on the cobblestone paths,

and that

oh

so

early

evening,

catching us unawares,

cloaking us soon in night,

but what about Christmas?

 

Shuffling steps fleeing skuffling away from the sing-song Christmas carols,

it just caught me by surprise.

The chariot makes its annual landing:

the surprise of another year.

 

‘O little town of Bethlehem…’

 

O miraculously put together nativity plays

so meek and childish,

the infants and parents go by

 

And those printed out pamphlets,

see them fall hollowly through chilled hands,

the Gospel meeting ghosts on the street,

the church and the family,

all quite familiar.

 

Walking now through confused and blinding car headlights,

radios playing and are they out of their minds so lonely down

dead end streets, mumbling somewhere over the cobblestones just now

and fumbling soon through the curtains of the cafe;

‘am I alone or lonely?’ the spirits say,

making their way together through all the dreadful processions.

 

Yes, I remember now, that long gone sweet smoke of living room fire,

I remember and remember the 5th of November,

mimicking and miming my way through the real ‘accidents’ of time and place,

warm smoke, mulled wine, fireworks, childhood choirs, high-pitched family squabbling

- this is all here, but I’m not, ‘tis for me no longer,

I’m from another place now.