Blair and James October 2013


Don’t do that. Every time you hold me – that is,

Both times you have – it’s been because of food.

You’re more apart than partner, for that much:

Dogs in the street afford me more affection…


But maybe, when you held my waist… what matters

Wasn’t the hold, but the holding. It was too good,

Just being there; your head-tilt; the warmth of such

Domestic grace: incident of perfection.



And this one, incidentally, was based on a “Cute” theme form August’s challenge. Self-indulgent, but only as most pursuits in the name of Cuteness are. I was tempted to write a silly ditty about an adorable field mouse called Bottom and his adventures, and to be honest I still might. But this will do for now. Love as ever to Blair. I adore you. Which is why I feed you. 







As precious as that disaster on the motorway

Which let you wait and consider, in passing,

The miracle of: There but for the grace of some

Uncaring God, goes I…


Or the catastrophe of it, the death of our only star,

Bleeding into the sky: a hemorrhage of cloud,

The gauze unable to staunch the sunlight flow

Of hot lifeblood from our sky: saturation.


There are other signs as well, from day to day:

How thieves steal, only enough to live as thieves;

And the lives of the prophets is a history

Of futures denied;


And oils and water are both used in ritual

When they cannot be together, and only share

The common property of solvency.

There are too various tragedies to mention.


And if the motorway cannot direct our paths

Nor the sun, in dying, saturate the sky

And visions, like prophets past, are overlooked

Then solvency must be our consolation.



September’s contribution to the weekly challenge between myself and Blair. To follow his work, check out his website:

This piece itself is based on a disparate internal monologue, a stream of consciousness which has been structured into stanzas. I sat in the dark (a luxury which Autumn and poverty provide us) and considered what, today, had made me feel a sense of loss. What was it, that made me feel like colours, or physical properties, were leaving me? The answer was human tragedy, on the one hand (the Schadenfreude of a car crash is particularly callous). But also beautiful non-tragedies, such as sunsets, can do it to me. They can also be quite life-affirming, not unlike (I am ashamed to say) surviving a car crash. The juxtaposition is quite unsettling. I think that’s what I wanted to stab at.



Head Transplant


As we eagerly anticipate the fascinating development of the world’s first head transplant – a genuine thing in the news, look it up – what could be more appropriate than a small silly poem in commemoration of this medical feat?


With head transplants, often the problem we face

Is finding the body to pair with one’s head.

But others, I think, would be far better placed

With a new head to think for their body, instead.



Just a small poem I came up with off the top of my YES YOU SEE WHERE THIS JOKE IS GOING