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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

ROSE CROWNED EVENINGS

 

NOVEMBER 2017

I remember rose crowned evenings of ice like manhood,

Finding solace and meaning in a place I was supposed to fill till empty

And those other evenings, drowning as the incessant fisherman casting nets throughout his perfect storm,

A role I arrogantly cherished,

‘You see boys, my catch was all that mattered,

But how my nets in the morning would stink of rotten, black seaweed…’

 

The red noons of bloody laughter

You would stick to me with tentacle precision, wrapped up now and forever then in a never-ending finale peak,

And the bitter white nights carried me away in a mocking funeral carriage of my own perverse design,

En route to my own presumed destiny,

A well directed festival of misery

 

And that unannounced funeral procession would forever pass us by,

And we’d look on humbly yet still make out the voices in disgusting bars,

Voices that would knowingly insult themselves into oblivion,

Saying things like, ash on that young phoenix babe,

And all bow down to the pitch perfect articulation of nothing.

You remember too, do you not?