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

FOUNTAINS

 

DECEMBER 2013

 

You can find me in broken pathways,

in alleyways musings,

with nightmares of my choice,

and echoes as my audience;

 

I am the kind of spirit who thrives at night,

whose feelings pour and fall,

and drown themselves empty like water,

 

I insist on fountains having ridiculous

and wholly inappropriate flames,

and evenings where the air tastes like

dozens of future memories scare me -

I have been like this for years and don’t fancy a change.

 

During a silly fateful night,

a door was dragged through the street,

and I was invited inside -

there was no inside, but this does not matter:

I still went downstairs.

 

I met Baudelaire there. He was sitting magnificently bored drinking tea,

and we,

looked at the women together,

for a while.

 

They were all gradually loosening their dresses.

 

As the unveiling took place,

he said, “this does not surprise me.”

To this I just dumbly nodded,

and watched the fountains produce flames.