Terminus Road

 

Prentice sleeps rough in a derelict coal cellar in Brighton UK. From one drink to the next, his aim is survival. Fully distrustful of authority, he has a humorous take on life.

In between battles to obtain booze, smokes, and money – by whatever means necessary – he is obsessed with the need to talk to his friend Mark. There’s something he needs to say to him.

Mark, however, is having problems of his own. These are only getting worse with his association with the repulsive dealer Phil Stringer. Everybody hates Stringer, but are too frightened to say so. Even the Police.

But Prentice and Mark share a very, very difficult secret. What can they say to each other when they finally meet up again? Will Prentice find anywhere to live and the companionship he craves? Will he find the next can of Super-Strength Lager?

And what about the enigmatic girl Sophie, interweaving through their lives? Is she just another victim, waiting to be run down by the juggernaut of exploitation? Or is she tougher than she looks?

This is a fast-paced noir epic of the Brighton streets. Funny and scary, it portrays addiction and survival, friendship and betrayal, punishment and getting away with it.

Through the eyes of Prentice we see Brighton and the world itself as we’ve never seen it before.

Eight Stones for Simone Weil

simone twice

1.
London is filled
with delicious little squares.
Sycamores rustle
above the lichened
bench, as I
weigh the
fullest possibilities
of self reduction.
Sparrows skip about
to search the paving.

 

2.
Whatever I can
do to myself,
will it balance out
whatever is
happening beyond
the perimeter of
this sunken garden?

 

3.
We consider, with
a lecturer’s wand,
the purest geometry
of existence:
cause and effect,
the mathematical
idealism of the arc.

 

4.
A worker raises aloft
his hammer
before the strike.

 

5.
It is painful
beyond any endurance
to feel this point.
To feel this
point is to know, with
an absolute clarity.

 

6.
The God withdraws
himself almost
in his entirety
to leave a
waste of
time and
space, so
as to create
an abandonment
across which he
can come to meet us.

 

7.
The humble and
obedient trees
being hacked
down to
construct the
slats of the
brutal instruments.

 

8.
I am just a
microscopic crumb
to affect the angle at
which the planet rests
on Christ’s
appalling fulcrum.

Theresa of Ávila

teresa 2 2

Always fading in and out

the myriad creatures

coming from the opened gates of creation

 

I look into the mouth, the entrance

and the fissure is opening

in what I thought was solid

 

in my own chest too

the wound is opening

in what I thought was solid

 

and the pain of it makes me still

and try and sit through it, please

I might cry to the hurting god

 

and the sitting through becomes

a kind of knowledge

and the god suffering through

 

whatever the god suffers too

becomes a kind of compassion

the companionship of passion

 

and the myriad creatures

between these twin gateposts

which I don’t need to spell out

 

for a reader such as yourself, I know,

come flowing out like

a spillage of blood,

 

spoilage of water, the beautiful

and the putrid, the vanity

and the superabundance of humility.