Ink crawls out of its afternoon puddle and onto her to do list The street spits its phlegm at the glass facade Of the little gallery at 83 A special delivery

The little coffee shop bell, tingles down my spine. Door hinges disagree with one another, Squawking like angry crows. The bored barista thinks about his

(This poem was written for The Listeners Project where the brief is to respond to a space that is about be demolished or changed. The

Unfinished Business The ice winks in the glassWarm thoughts freckle my shouldersMy mind melts into my veinsEyes shutter closeAs nostalgia has a lock-inPainted smiles chuckle

Your urbane strides Topped with a knowing countenance Covered in butterscotch skin Browned by your light.

Is it their emotion that scares you?Or yours?All those red shoes dancing the bluesWhat!? Not connoisseurs?

Shafts of dusty dawn light poke you in the eyeAn image, a flash but no recollection whyYour hair hugs your brain too tightly,But from the

He plays it as a blessing but knows it as a curse,The Charlatan knows his lines but he does not own the verse.Borrowed flesh illuminates

Sartorial ancestors of the preppy,Could hear the twenties roar along that shore.Moments of joy, who knows if happy?Where battles rage in that time post-war.

(NB. This was written for my friends and is about the first weekend I spent in Barcelona away from them. Anything capitalised is a name

A black and white bar receipt,From a moment in the grey.Reminder of the beatOf when you were carrying on your way.

The trees scratch their own itches,Unaware of the wind when he smiles,Only when he sighs.The clouds, they raise their eyebrows,In front of the sun’s smirking