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Day 10.1 NovPAD
Where Do the Hours Go It’s just past 4pm, and the sun is going down, but for now it’s caught on crisses and crosses of aeroplane contrails. Those tic-tac-toe kisses, each trace an hour passing, rose-hued and translucent, and glued to the sky. Poetic Asides Day 10: Go Somewhere
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Day 10 NovPAD
Navidad en Bogotá We bought a cheap suitcase at Poundland. It’s a cavernous monster. Burgundy colour, which I suspect will bleed like beetroot all over everything at the first hint of rain, but no worries because we and it are heading to Bogotá next month, and although it can tip down rain there, it’s an…
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Day 9 NovPAD
What If I can’t think of a single blank-if thing to write – I’d drink a glass a water (7 more to go) check WhatsApp for overnight messages pace the kitchen floor from the fridge to the sink – helps me to think pick bread crumbs off the oriental and I’m thinking Prizzi’s Honor all…
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Day 8 NovPAD
A Crow’s Feast in that darkness in that silence in the simple of the night, the topmost branch escaped its clutch, it fumbled with the wind. it fell, it scrambled down the rattling air, fell upon the apple tree, where there upon the ground, now apples apples bounce, now a hop a hop by a…
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dVerse Looking Up
What Were You Thinking … that everyone felt that rise and fall, that it was breathing. waves in the sky, that my feet were on the ground so my head was safe in the stars, that you and I were safe because we turned the key between us, that the only way out is from…
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dVerse Quadrille #44
Kick Plastic no plastic, no kicking this plastic planet into the long grass. no scrapyard-plastic junkyard, no poisoned water pumps or floating microbeads. rising, rising, and how to hold back a tideline. we’re drinking from a madman’s glass, drinking up desert. nobody trusts a scorpion’s nose. dVerse Quadrille #44 “kick” 44 words
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Day 5 NovPAD
I. A Micro-narrative I was raised with a horror of talking about myself. Raised with my mother’s obsession for organisation, and so I’d never admit that I had no plan, that I’d invented myself, start to end. And secretly I wanted to try everything: given a chance I’d surf a coursing mudslide because I knew…
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Thank You Frank O’Hara
Thank You Frank O’Hara One day I am thinking of New York, and I am wondering if wet heat drifts through the afternoon. We dust the walls, squalid against the drapes. Welcome me, if you will. Eyelids have storms — it is still raining Found poetry: lines sourced from various poem by Frank…
It's Still Life 