Back at it

Jacko Fry is lying abed. He’s fourteen and it is Monday. The first one back after Christmas. All about the floor, around his bed, over the side of the couch, are clothes, tracksuits with arms and legs inside out, sock, boxer shorts, a vest. The narrow window is covered by wooden slat blinds, closed. It’s...

Fruit and Flesh

A thin, veined hand, knuckles and joints sprouting black hair like grass from the cracks in a path reaches into a box of Pink Ladies carefully removing a soft brown individual. It is half seven. Peter Butterbun, the owner of the hand, has been here since seven, packing out the fruit and veg, removing blackening...

Give it up

I'm not sure I can do this anymore. I'm too obsessive and the structure of blogging, particularly the 'likes' and 'followers' part gets into my head. I post. I check back then, again and again to see how many views it has. I'm pleased by likes and delighted when someone chooses to follow me. I...

The walls

The walls are a different colour now. They were one colour, purple bedroom, blue sitting-room, (you sit in that one), white kitchen, peach small room, (it is small) and orange big room, (kids sleep there). There were places were the paint was coming off, little scrapes, bits we're stuck up pictures fell off taking bits...

Get out

You'd get stuck in this shit, this pretend real, this it must be important because you do it so therefore it must be important self full-filling cycle. Why do I care about the budget and about what might happen if I don't fill in the right bits in right fucking spreadsheet cells. It's a load...

City of Cows

The mooing gets to me. The Artist is returned to work. To the grind. The cows are out in force this morning. Coffee cups in hoofs. Ear buds. Neat and tidy. The Artist recoils. It won't end until it ends. The brief interlude of holidays spent. It's over now, baby. I could look elsewhere. Yes,...

The moon and stars

Heading off

The road and the packed car. The sky is low, grey, prengant and due. Where's the heatwave when you need it. Plans are odd things, atttepts to structure the future. Cats can't make plans.It was filthy, sweaty hot yesterday and a thousand winged ants came up out of the cracked path pursued by tiny, scurrying...

The Artist Does what he can to get through the Morning

The Artist is in bed, beneath filthy sheets, fighting sadness. He slept well, he felt refreshed on waking, but as soon as he tried to get out of bed a wave of sadness came for him pushing him back down. Hours have passed. From time to time a great bluebottle lands on his head, cleans...

The Artist

The Artist Pays the Muse      Players The Artist: A beautiful man. The kind you want to fuck. You imagine being on top of him, him in you, riding. You imagine doing this behind your husbands back, sneaking him in through the back-door while he, (your husband) is out at work. You imagine doing...