The mystery of our love is like a secret garden, always there and thriving but in secret, hidden from all public sight, like some virginity that can’t be touched but must be safeguarded and well not to be trodden on by ignorance and strangers. Still it is, we always were humiliated but still always rose again like every garden
» Read moreWho silenced you, old music treasure, spreader of such warmth and mirth? Who put an end to living music to replace it with but noise and junk box nonsense, yelling concerts and the soaps of television? Shall we never hear again the natural pure music that is live and soft, melodious and musical? I am afraid the evil goes
» Read moreA concrete pond in a torrid city drowning in rage. Harsh and pitiless. The skirl of sirens defiled our ears. The water’s foetid spurned by mallards, no kids dib their nets through floating debris. She gave my hand, a comforting squeeze. I squeezed hers back. ‘This was a lake. There used to be willows.’ ‘Did you fish
» Read moreIf I growled, “You are asking for a wallop, for me to thrash your face into a pulp, now shut your bagel-hole, you vole-brained trollop,” so my marshmallow of desire should gulp, the sisterhood would gather for the lynch since it’s a sin to turn your lover victim, to reduce your sweetheart to a flinch. But Man has cause to
» Read moreLost in a Durham Landscape I kicked my heels in the living room while Aoife was in the kitchen mulling wine a painting above the mantelpiece (where a mirror ought to be) drew my eye a watchman is walking through a gate pushing a rusted bike behind him tumble-down allotments ahead a row of cottages
» Read moreA pome about dysmorphia – I will rewrite this in a few months when it’s gone cold but not restrict it to 8 syllables per line – it is (in this case) too restrictive
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