|White flesh sweet potato|
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Friday, March 13, 2015
Monday, March 09, 2015
My handler organised a beach holiday for me, I think in Gaza. Yes, it was a bit rough and ready, but a beach is a beach. People were enjoying the surf, though it was a bit far out, not too far really. I had to go into a cabin in the water by the shore, which it turned out was a toilet. After the trip, when I thought about it at home, it occurred to me that it was a pity to have effluent in the sea, even only a bit, where a couple of hundred yards away there would be people swimming and playing. However, the call came again for another secret mission, this time to Israel. It was only when we reached the border and military guards let my handler proceed through the turnstile that I realised I'd forgotten my little passport. Oddly though, it didn't matter as they never checked and we found ourselves on a sort of pier, over another beach. Turn about and there was our destination, a pub called Szel's. It's a small place, almost dark as night inside. I leave my handler sitting at one of only a couple of tables in the bar. The staircase is unlit, and three chairs across one of the steps almost block the way. But there is a gap on one side and I continue on up to the next flight of stairs.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
The back row bench seat in a small arena. A young woman on my right closes the space and links my arm. It is pleasing. From the left, another even more sensual woman, in patterned leggings and top, rolls onto me and begins petting. I feel intense pleasure. But now a man comes up to the row below and remonstrates with her furiously. He takes her down. There is the prospect of violence and I must escape. Finding of the way out. It is found. I stop to see, between vertical panels of canvas, a broom sweeping the stage floor, ready for the dancers.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
A poem in The Stare’s Nest. At the time I wrote it I used to go to Leeds quite frequently for work and usually, though not always, stayed in the Hilton hotel beside the station. Sometimes I stayed at the Holiday Inn. Oh those expense account days!
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Everybody is dying to meet her. Literally. She scythes her way through the oddballs who answer her lonely hearts advert, who frequent singles bars or are merely fated to encounter her by chance. Still, it's no good to dwell on past misfortune, especially when it's not hers. (£0.77)