Jackson

I live with a cat. Just me and a cat. Not a smoochy, soppy, rub-you-up male— a snooty lady cat. An opinionated Chinchilla: small toes and long silk. Her name is Simone but, like Eliot’s cats, she has a true name we will never know. I brush her platinum fur and listen to her philosophy. Read more

I often feel sad after dreaming. I wrote a novel when I was seventeen but did not publish it. I have a collection of teapots. I have a collection of peculiar old bottles. I have a collection of swiss army knives. I have a collection of my children’s baby teeth. I once went out with Read more

Between the calloused shortnailed thin fingertips stack all the pieces. On the tarmac path a stubby, smashed. It’s not That Sort Of Area, but this corner attracts the fling-and-smashems. Ten metres on there’s a house whose bins are kept in front. Stack all the pieces. A nice green, a lucent lightdark green. Too sharp to Read more

Why is it that I think of you when I’m scraping out the sink-strainer, digging with my first three fingers in the bits of pasta, cabbage, namelessness, scooping them into the compost? We can dream only what we know. In my dreams you are not always friendly but you’re never a threat in my dreams. Read more

i writing by numbers at hard tables handheld screened beyond sun birdsong ii Dead fire, dusty bin. Small girl with a bag of trash steps her red shirt song iii bird bird bird bird bird tree tree tree tree tree tree tree little girl in red iv Waiting for music, women carry old boxes. It’s Read more