they could not have been better moisture in the wheat riots in Belfast and Derry best to refuse she trained herself not to ask figures running in agreement memories of Morris a calm, hovering force a nun at some point too many notes let the piano do the grace notes this solemnity what? dignified on(…)
from grey-pink heavily nibbled by mice and then, then it’s furry breath over the cloister roof a slammed door the gate of sorrows that short slope into searing light impossible to know as moisture is drawn from it not once finally footprints to the horizon built of mud bricks only when the(…)
the terrible events unparalleled national humiliation looking, and looking away at the same time had he lived wooden crosses still stood greater and stronger this shortage Jean Améry the true nature marked out as a victim islands of amnesia bodily being under its wheel it was and is turn back time the extravagant(…)
mother was an author black and white checkerboard in benzine in July our ears a mixture of red and purple before the auction
it wasn’t allowed by the Maharaja another titled visitor the discovery without a knowledge of time whiskey for both of them smart talk a landlord standards of wealth in a sickroom ‘poor Sarojini’ full of the pain he felt for their circumstances Spaniards or part-Spaniards her lover no one among us young nipples sticking up(…)
have the stomach for it awake or asleep scaly ancestors private white flesh he’s mistaken drunk on the word of God worse than Welsh as if her hand slackens in his learning Polish start to plait it are, were all the world’s a menial close the gates when to give up bring the eels
he was an s.o.b. a shot at happiness invariably late this time a time before Eddie waited for her with Alma that sick dog look in his eyes ‘my father said the same thing he always says’ it’s okay after all never much of a friend
they were the first in the cafe a trace of scent made do discomfiture had flecked of necessity at twenty to six in the Running Footman lies of silence Spanish shoes coming in the bedroom window battered briefcase light dust brushed Spanish shoes on the way to York a whiff of Marmite the afternoon that(…)
the ashes of DH Lawrence secret maps in Inverness in 1970s ‘cycling my bike home from the station’ filled with live ants women and stallions ridiculous, glorious connection burning and impatient fury with birdsong left the poem behind it a holy place freely available the pile was going to topple birds hot dinners a woman,(…)
