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

MOMENTS OF PURE ASHTRAY

 

MAY 2016

 

And years later, in other tonnes of frustrated enjoyment, at a price,

Before you and your very eyes

The Youth is carefully lowered into society, appropriated...

 

Then suitable tones, flashes of genius from the nearby neighbour, even you, the night he ran out the front door, her heart lying on the front desk, Motown played in the background, in moments of pure ashtray, in memories soundtracked by the swig, the feint nod to with wine in hand, the nod to me, lying close to castration on wooden neu apartment floorboards, in the middle of idle conversation, the hour glasses were posed or passed around and survived, he told us his life’s dream, and survived, and in the middle of the apartment you had a cemetary interview by telephone, queue an imaginary audience roaring with laughter, biting their finger nails, off, then you turn it off –

 

Significance boarded the bus, had no ticket, and I watched Hopelessness lower its dress, sort itself out, I licked the golden sweat of it’s back, only to taste fabric, I saw what I want and what I once wanted, if only one knew these things - but my dream is to never dream you, my dream is to do what I have to do confidently and then afterwards do as I please– so I have written, he says, someone burps out that he’ll write plays, and I know a song we can play, someone else, the attractive girl, a Barcelona student, says - we all study towns you see - and her token friend on fire, the paranoia, and she’s right, we can all see that but lord knows no one will say that, it was a pleasant enough morning, it seemed still like night that day, and they all nod at that, one could presume cheerleaders danced on the window ledge, connosseurs waltzed in agreement, someone said to you – honey, look at me – a gallery of pure unadulterated, we presumed there was no, and yes, we were right, a glassed, a gloss, a glazed look of pure

 

Beggars asking you for advice, again not money – and no not meant ike that, still; the people - no one listens, who listens? no one has any, time no one cares, time of the don’t care, but you ask them, and they – hey, all tired here now, they have a failed recognition from an aesthete they stare at, the observer changes the song, if only my song could really sing itself now, then it’d be right, steps off the train, and steps soon left that board a bus, that walk a street, that step on a bicycle, and chase hours and hours of riding, stepping on and through, necessity steps on you too, and finally he is home – leave him, let him, just let him stay; tomorrow we will see him in different tones