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dVerse Quadrille #60
The Art of Scratching I’m an itcher, perfected as a child. Mum made me a coat from Dad’s old peacoat – worn during the war, only war worth fighting (he said), claimed every shot since was political mischief. Hated that coat. Scratched my neck raw. Like rope burn. dVerse Quadrille #60
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Haibun and a Twiglet
I. It’s hot. Like record-breaking hot. I want to chill my skin across cold marble. Like shortcrust pastry needs. Or submerge myself into a wave, into the sequinned imagination of a mermaid. Like a cold water fish. Like a big old lazy cod. I want to hibernate in a green grassy mirage before I falter…
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Three Thoughts on a Saturday Afternoon
Three Thoughts on a Saturday Afternoon I. As seen from Those folds and rolls Of clouds that skate The sky, a slate puzzle Fitted and tucked Jigged and jointed Like words strung Into long sentences Into a bridge from This horizon to where, I am your audience. [inspired by dVerse “Solstice Couplets” and…
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A Freedom Haibun for dVerse
A Last Gasp Breath I learned today that he died on Saturday. Liver cancer. He didn’t want to live in that soon-gone-body any more. Didn’t want those same wiry eyebrows that knitted together, a spiky caterpillar, when he frowned in pain. Didn’t want those same weak legs. Weak creaky knees that refused to hold his…
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31.05.18 Draft
Two draft versions. A work in progress… I. Individual Humour I heard your voice deep in the swirl of a nautilus shell, heard you laughing in a language I didn’t understand, as if humour was breath and blood. A priest’s liturgy. I often wonder which words leave you humourless. Which mantra unwraps you like…
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for Twiglet #78
Those Puzzles Is this what it feels like to be human — like a Battle Royale with dodgy coordination and reflexes, or an abandoned house or when you stay on a bus until its last stop, or you realise that you’re not Rambo, and you’re not epic, and you’re wood, not iron. Being human,…
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Wordle #353
Untitled He’s like stray murmurs, or a black-cat-fear that hides in black shadows. He’s silent. And invisible. He belongs to the walls. His thoughts tickle his ears. He laughs, the sound skips across the floor like marbles. Like truth stripped from little white lies. Life gets in his way – not living. This corner, this…
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for Twiglet #77
Going Nowhere The best part of being lost is not knowing you’re lost. And I’m going nowhere. The horizon is timid, and it’s lost its colour. Rain clings to the leaves. I might go watch the signets. They’re 2-weeks old today. for Twiglet #77
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dVerse Quadrille #57
Off a Duck’s back Here’s another list of water off a duck’s back. The sun’s glare, and crow’s feet. Rain on your picnic. Anything that’s faux. My memory. Ice cubes that melt too fast. Tepid tea. Armpits dark with sweat. Rain on your glasses. Tip-of-your-tongue words, and rain. for dVerse Quadrille #57
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for Sunday Whirl #352
The Other Side of the Road I remember that music as eagle-light, or drunk jazz dragged underwater, and the Queen of Hearts, as we called her, though her name was David, was brassy-loud, a belly animated by fat. She sang and laughed as the pianist coaxed voodoo from the minor keys, and the barman mixed…
It's Still Life 