Jackson

Last week’s rose, aslant in a carafe, is puffed and piled like a 60s hairdo, curling at the edges into frills of delicate crescents like sad little lipstick smiles. Last week’s rose is dancing on the laminex, scattering scarlet tatters, oozing louche scent. Last week’s rose is on the pull. I extend a finger, mothkiss… Read more

Dream A cable strung across a room Songs pegged out to dry / Men practising music / Rockn Jaunty / Intense / Guitars Basses / Voices / I tried to join in / I tried to peg my voice to the line / But it wouldn’t hang / The drug man practised his drug music… Read more

If bliss is in the small things maybe I should stop trying to live as an artist and go work in the Post Shop or at some friendly trade like answering the phone or doing the hair of old ladies Nine to five from Monday to Friday The boss would call me Jan At six… Read more

I wake in the dusty light      to the deepcity cockcrow      of traffic and stair-thumping      housemates My bag’s by the wall My boots are on the floor My clothes are rumpled all over me I’m lying under a coat      I found up the road      and two thin throws that I wouldn’t      call blankets There’s empties on… Read more

That man and I      were standing on the street      with a group of fellow artists      watching a performance. I stood just in front of him. He put his hands on my shoulders,      slid them down my arms,      stroked my hands. I leaned back against him. He leaned against me. We didn’t say anything. He was… Read more