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Nasty Little Press, a very excellent small press run by Luke Wright and Sally Roe
started something called Nasty Little Intros in 2011

They published some of my performance poems

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

Dear Mr. Married

I’m not quite sure what we are negotiating –
more that you are kissing me, and I have not moved
my mouth.

Good practice for when your soul gets up and leaves your skin
like laundry at the train station.
Mr. married, you magnet kissed me.

I wish I did not enjoy the moving of your eyelids
like little washing machines,
turning round want washing.

Actually, this is boring. You are kissing me.
I have not moved my mouth,
I am staring at the ceiling and you are sleeping.

When you leave, turn on the forgetting


More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

What I wanted to shout while the steps were moving

Dear beautiful stranger who stared at me
on the escalator –

I think we could make something happen.
I have seen a house with walls white as pages.
We could take it.

I have a lot of belongings.
You might like my poems.
I might admire your ambition.

We could swim in each other,
compare our crap drawings of trees.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

Future pessimist

What are you doing Wednesday?
Let’s see ‘The Future’.

Our faces squint in the dark-
skin headlines, cancer victims, texting machines.

I send you missives ‘that willow we planted by the river,
will blow down in the great winds of 2083.’

Our children will forgot what to call us,
give the cat to the man who fits the technology.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

I fell in love with a Chinese communist

He looked like he knew about decisions –
his hair was square and he was oddly ancient in conversation.

The courtship was modest, his kisses like sesames,
we sat legs origami on blankets watching them wash tarmac for officials.

We were married – agreed on proceedings,
made plans for where things would live domestically.

We were ergonomic, worked tirelessly wearing uniform affection
and were positive about the preventions for tall thin lipless children.

We were optimistic about all the changes,
followed the leaflet instructions and put the Buddha’s out on the street,

filled in forms about income and heritage,
draped the computers in red velvet each night before sleep.

We were meticulous with hygienics and made love
silently breathing into each other’s lips.
All the pictures we gave to the museum
and satisfied with atrophy gave ourselves over to the new flat blocks.

Oh what we said to the visitors was articulate
if we were like something, it was acres of complex under concrete.

We gave our hopes up like sofas which we left out in the street
and in the dark pressed the valves repeatedly.

It wasn’t that we didn’t feel, more that our spines were compacted
and we couldn’t look up.

We gave birth to a son who collapsed into our arms like perfect.
We fed him rice and jasmine and he grew telescopic.

We taught him humility, manners, money,
had table conversations about testing tomb linings.

He went to discos, spoke slangy,
and was angry all the time at everything.

He said we didn’t really get it and nor did the town planners,
that we were the parameters of productivity.

We just kept growing grass in hexagons, covering the carpets,
and he fell eventually in love with Christmas, trainers, cigarettes.

One evening, we crept in to see him dreaming hoping to still see some good
in the ancient decision of having made him.

But we caught him power pointing slides onto his duvet,
finger tracing sky scrapers of halogen along his penis.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.


He combs the Covent Garden cafes, pockets full of pens and postcards
looking for girls whose poems feature
the colour of their hearts, their favourite moment of sky.

He teas them, buys cream cakes,
proffers tepid tap water as if it were saliva.
He asks them if they like their body, if they’ve ever really loved,
when the last time was, they gripped a table and asked everyone to be quiet.

If they fit, they fall right in
amongst the Bics and the pictures.
And there he holds them
until home,

when, spread like milk across his bed,
he follows logic from shoulder
to neck
to ear

where mouth open and dry
he hovers and says:
‘you know,
you’re no one’s favourite person.’

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

Let’s not miss any opportunity

Dear Joe and John,
How about I stop smoking,
and we could go sit in the Victorian gardens
black globular berries sticking to the soles of our shoes,
you could tell me about olives and tapes,
we could lie back look at the sky
palm spread our fingers out behind our heads
like fans in old photographs.
We could dress up and go to the beach
do the Charleston on the sand dunes
and not mind if it rains on us like dogs,
we could write down all the red houses,
grin until people ask us in for tea
and we will tell them about similies
and nuzzle their sofas.
And when we get tired,
and we will get tired,
we can all get on one bike and tuck our legs in.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

Throwing rocks at shop signs

When I was a kid I used to love Asterix, it was like my thing. We would go round lane corners yelling beep dropping poo sticks off bridges, high fiving soft wood trees, quartering our ankles in ice streams.

The dirt was all cake. The old suitcase we found by the lake, the spider plants bought from church yards, the cress grown on egg cups sills, the red bucket in conversation with waves, meant there was no dark in the woods, the animals all liked us.

We didn’t know yet about charts, or how to tell good stories or care about who liked us.

We ate days like packed lunches blew seed umbrellas into battle ditches like those pictures of the wind with chubby cheeks.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

Fill me in

Dear Edinburgh,
I will write you no poems to tell you how alarming familiarity is.
No ways to tell about corner shops, castles, print piles guttering.

Don’t ring on Sundays to have supermarket conversations.
I am lying on the carpet of your brain watching flies do plays.
Don’t ring to say you’re  ____________________
Just be here, wearing all your expressions,
refuse to cue with sudden gentle rain to mark the place where critics ____________________

O Edinburgh, you tough aunt, ambition ATM, torrid auditorium, let me tell you ____________________

Here, download my brain tape – your sky is ____________________
your sky is old lace over a lamp.
You in a taxi of tartan blankets your face a _____________________ tipped to the night,
you in a collar of sodium, days of brown-white light.

Your currency is concrete, let me lay you sideways, let me resurface  ____________________ Teach me how to let go of ____________________
how to record the formal feeling of ____________________
How to tell when ____________________ is ____________________
Today is not a day to ____________________ outside is ____________________ an outro of ____________________

Today is a ____________________ for ___________________
My face does expressions because every day I find it a miracle that I am ____________________ in this ____________________ of ____________________

With blank admiration

Yours ____________________

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

It is never the right time

To buy a crochet blanket or bikini or attend a self- assessment training course.
It is always the right time for lying on a duvet and naming ceiling cracks and drinking rum.
It is never the right time to set up direct debits.

It is always the right time to make playlists to kiss and kiss

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.