Words in print

Good morning, happy whatever-day-it-is-when-you-read-this. The rain is pouring down here in York today and the trees are willing Autumn on to deliver their yearly release.

It’s been a while since I created and shared anything new on here. But I’ve been stretching my writing muscles in reviewing on other platforms, and performing in plays and other such nonsense.

This is a quick announcement to day that you can now buy physical, hold-in-your-hand-and-give-to-your-friends collections of my writing on Etsy at https://etsy.me/2LcKcsG

There are currently three items available: Victoriana-inspired love notes, break-up stories, and a collection of 100 poems that I wrote in two days. I’m working on a listing of all three as a package deal too, which will hopefully be up soon.

Even being back here in the post writer in WordPress makes me feel warm and welcome and heard. I missed this.

Please take a look and consider supporting my work, so I can continue to write. Spoons and time are hard to come by. But words are buxom, pressing. The magic of the world needs documenting.

I’m unsure yet, but I think I’d like to maintain this archive of my work online that is accessible for free. My printed books will be for those who have the means to supoort my work, and wish to hold something tangible, smooth, immediately present, to read with their hands and to show and tell with in the good old-fashioned way.

Thank you all, whomever is still here, for your continued commitment and support. You make the transient arts arts possible.

See you soon…

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25-11-17

I think about what kind of gift I would give her if I dared. An image comes into my mind of a glossy paperback with a rough stick wedged through it. Not placed inside but stuck through the cover and the pages, piercing them, almost sewn in like thread, right across the middle in a vertical line. Impossible, the inexplicable violence of it completely at odds with what it means about us, her, my feelings towards her, and yet it feels like the only right answer. Earthy, and all that mothers. Who’s to answer for our such wild notions? I picture her taking it from me, looking at it seriously, and at me, eyes asking, This Is For Me, From You, This Is The Answer? I almost nod, she almost reciprocates, taking the book. The air between us presses like a vacuum, compressing us into a still scene, each part of my intention crumbled like charcoal and dried into paint. She does not touch the stick, but we both feel it as if it were caught through our bodies. We are both here, but are we ready?

Ghosts of Partners Past

They say that every time you end a relationship, a ghost of the person stays with you. Every time. Can you imagine the noise? How crowded, how busy your space would be? And never mind you, how busy must those ghosts be? Do they have to split their time haunting all their other exes? Do they split their time or their essence? If their presence gets thinner, I suppose you can tell they have been through and ended another relationship.

Let’s not forget, you ended things with them for a reason. You decided not to spend the rest of your life with them. Surely they do not remain willingly either. Surely neither of you can move on while they linger. Do you get a say in who stays?

How do you quantify a relationship anyway? How long do you get to make up your mind before you have to either break things off or get stuck to a soul for eternity? Or both? And what qualifiers let you know that someone is an essence you do want to be doused in for the rest of time? Do vampires ever really know what they’re getting into when they turn someone? Why am I writing vapid questions like Carrie Bradshaw?

Perish the thought… can you ever leave yourself? And if you do, what kind of ghost are you left with?

I am followed by no less than Stephen, Stefan, James, Jamie, Ryan, Aaron, Nathan, Martyn, Chris, Tom (sorry, Thom), Pete, Pete, Pete (shut up), Jamie, Carl, Brindle, Mark and… phew, no, that’s it. So, that’s seventeen, if you’re counting, and some of them are rowdy fucks. God help me if they were all to surface at once. I think I’d be surrounded by the most intense of British unease of difference of character; the poets, the thugs, the clowns and the cheaters.

That sounds like not much that’s nice to say about you as a collective. Which is a shame, really, given my ethos of honouring the connection, of respecting one’s past decisions. Maybe I’m not so upstanding after all. Maybe I don’t practise what I preach. But there’s time.

#98

Dear Héloïse Letissier,

Having just watched your music video for the song Christine, I know that we are meant to be together. As sisters, lovers, soulmates.

Yours sincerely,

#57

Spotted in Sainsburys
The ghost of you hovering
In the aisle next to mine
An instance, flash reminder
In the big bright window
To warn me from treading
In the crocodile water
Just in time probably
To escape your notice
Thankful to keep this
Moment of inner terror
To myself and to the cigarettes
I want so badly to buy
Without you seeing
And judging that you were right
To fall out of love with me

#53

Lovers can be segregated
By big things
Like warring families
Broken countries
Or simply
By there being only
One comfy chair in the study
Relegating me to the sofa
For our day of writing
‘together’