Ice Cream in Tarantula Country when I lived in a car, my father hid us away across broken tarmac in tarantula country and I watched migrations in the headlights south of Tucumcari he stopped, only to collect to confine palmfuls of legs / spinnerets / book lungs / futile fangs behind the plastic of a Safeway ice cream tub, two holes punched in its lid and I watched struggle decay into resignation stillness still he released t

Doing My Bit clean separate glass food some plastic some plastic tins vacuum dust paper and used scourers card other Recycle recycle to save the planet if it’s yellow let it flush, wet for double figures with lined-up plastic: condition foliate clean Recycle recycle to save the planet dormant clothes, soon stagnant, cheap labou

My mind's maze is filled with smoke, each turn a memory to deep-throat at dusk, children turn to coy witches to guide dead dreams up chimneys before they turn rancid as black oil on brooms to remind them of the flames that, cackling, rose above their lost city's rooftops — an untimely fate still cursing the air, too charred to be kind What has my singed soul banished before I even tasted the name of God? Saturated by saltwater we poured on ourselves, we sought to be the ones

You find the place without getting lost, even though it was just off the edge of the map. It is discrete enough, tucked away from the bustle of the high street. You look around to check that no one is following you and enter the building with the button and scissors on the signage. A bell alerts the owner to your presence—they shortly emerge from a door in the wall, a fabric measuring tape and a stick of chalk in their hands. You present them with the package you have brought

These shiny shoes are bleeding Hesitating by the M&S cake aisle (chocolate fudge or 4-pack blueberry muffins?) I had a sensation of sticky wetness on my heel, crimson seeping into my hold up stocking from those shiny black shoes three inch heels decorative chains (gold-plated) crossing diagonally worn with acrylic leg warmers (it was the 80s) The wound cut deeper than I realised continuous & sustained friction over a long period of time yet it was only when pain manifest

The Sun Ate Your Smile Turn the tables around, there’s too much shadow. Roses line the window— petals dripping monochrome ash on the carpet. Don’t look at me like that, your boots drink lava like cyanide. If you don’t close the curtains, the wasps will come. I’ve changed my mind, blueberries do taste like memories. Tell me that lie again. The one where you’re bleeding and can’t reach the moon. It was early. The dogs wouldn’t quit yapping. Swallow my heart, I dare you. Taste t

I find myself walking down the stairs to the terminal for the eighth time this year. The rails on either side are still empty by the time I reach my usual spot on the bench, and I offer a small smile to the woman occupying the space beside it. Typically, I sit with my thoughts for some time and inevitably take the same train back home. However, she cuts right to the chase this time. “Are you taking the P train again?” she asks, slouching against the back of her seat. Her expr

Golden Vine Every eye keeps down at the burning stones & fresh bricks along the golden line tin promise of dream lights burst out the greenery on the abandoned tire yard neon spits show lights in the heart of dandelion salad behind the red rock fence mornings of bird song & trash compactors blister blue on the flares of clover while the winded paths echo into the night carving imperfect hearts & shaky smiles on a charcoal wall as memories of the lavender & pepper trees that u

‘Life and soul, Old Dai,’ they said down in the village. ‘Life and soul.’ Old Dai always said funny things. Funny things like, ‘You know what they say – what doesn’t kill you has got the wrong address!’ and everyone laughed, raucously. ‘Life and soul, Old Dai.’ Old Dai was my grandad. I was nearly nine-years old at his side in his front garden when he called out to the stranger – ‘You be careful, that’s proper Welsh weather up there on that mountain. You can die up there.’ I

Low on ink. Low on pills (pharmaceutical or otherwise). High on resentment towards the way things have been going lately. High on half an idea. Low on Vitamin C and serotonin. Low on red and white blood cells, or maybe it was platelets; something that means I might be dying. High on habits. High on having to make the transition between real and unreal. Low on hope. Low on stamina when the woods are as dense as the fog in my dreams. High on having to resume from where I left o