my queer noirish drunk novel now available on iBooks, as well as Kindle…
a different way of talking about literature
My novel is out on Kindle. Just doing the iBooks version. I hate advertisements.
“Do you feel like you’re getting stronger, darling?”
“No, not really.”
Just put my two entries into the Bristol Short Story Competition. Why is this stuff so difficult for me to do? I wonder.
Anyway, that’s done. Forget it. Now hang the washing on the radiators.
Is it in the nature of music to become more hectic?
Or merely an excuse for not having an end,
In the sense of resolution, so to let it
Fizzle out in grandiose disintegration?
The toy car I found in the street is motionless;
The only car I possess, I feel like adding.
On the window-sill, red and shiny and exciting,
Next to the Icon of the Triumph of Orthodoxy:
A golden postcard from the British Museum,
The Empress Theodora, the Virgin and Child –
The infant like a shrunken Athenian philosopher
With his receding hairline and toga –
And all the priests and administrators there
Against the cracked background scored with crosses.
Did Iconoclasm save the Empire? All that bling
Melted down to pay the armies in adequate coinage?
I’ll leave that question open. I pick up my toy car
And run it along the table beside my poem.
years old, but
acres and acres
– a ruddy
tinted green –
to a horizon
with the revolving
of the latest
to whom all
driver pass by
hand in greeting
on the edge
of the sky
Like so much
the image of
a family playing
on a summer day
in a sun-faded
and decades later
in a darkened room
as though the
was reaching us
taste of winkles
eaten with a
Punch and Judy
show on the beach
grit of sand
Augustus, the Divine, the Fortunate One,
Final surviver of the civil wars,
Last body left upright, he did a lot of building,
Created a marble simulacrum of himself.
The squatter, cross-legged, patient,
Behind her table-cloth of amulets,
Counts change from a velvet bag into
The palm of her hand; the ambergris of potions,
Murex and belladonna, washed from the Tyrian
Planisphere; the occult gear-wheels, the pathways through
To the different levels of Kabbalic illumination,
Represented in the symmetries of Tarot cards, the solar signs
Of the hanged man with a halo upside-down,
The tie-dyed circles in the breeze like purple flags;
There is the scent of lavender sprigs, and the raw smell
From bins in alleyways that back up restaurants
And sticky bars. How we wake, drenched in lilac,
Reeking of petrol, turning over a pillow in the night.