18 Jul 2019 / News
Itis and the Labyrinth
(Labyrinthitis: a self-limiting disorder of the inner ear)
Hitchcock angles start the pinwheel.
My room strobes past
like fast train windows on a loop.
Your intricate architecture
is haunted by hiss and murmur
around the curve
of semi-circular canals and otoliths,
cavities hollowed out,
lodged in the temporal bone, time out of mind.
So much of me is blobs of meat
but you are delicate as bird bones,
alien as sea-shells.
A labyrinth’s call is to be mysterious,
consumed by its own convolutions.
Mine is to cling to walls and wait.
05 Feb 2020 / The Stories We Tell
On Jotting – Ten Postcards
I once wrote a short story titled ‘Smote’. Actually,…
15 Jan 2020 / The Stories We Tell
Writing Stories, Writing Jokes
It might begin with a man buttering a slice of toast. Stories can begin anywhere,…
18 Dec 2019 / The Stories We Tell
The other day, my daughter told me she wants to be a writer. She is currently learning…