Hands are Dirty

Bleeding eyes

pointless tongue

a hunger sized from what we’ve become

drifters bingers sleepers in the rough

tough luck to midnight singers and swingers off the cuff

‘cos reason has gone from the treason of none

but a few -

so roll between finger and filthy thumb.



Over the basin columns of rain run thick against the dying land. A landscape bruised ochre by Autumn’s swinging fist. The trees shake. Coming darkness moans. We run.

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Image created using a plastic lens and old 35mm cinema stock.


Thick with tall grasses waving their solemn green heads in a slight of summer wind, the meadow is littered with purple orchids that dwell brazen between the slender blades, whilst buttercups reach their tender yellow heads for a taste of the warm breeze. At the edge, red campions tremble nervously beneath a gruesome brush of blackberry and gorse.

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I sit alone on the lichen-licked bench where we would spend those sad Sunday afternoons, our lives interlocked and flowing with foolish impossibility, the world rolled red carpet before us as we watched it sigh slowly by. Only a whisper of icy wind can be heard tonight, broken by the occasional drum-hum dour of humdrum soul passing home via headlight, unaware of my eye peering indifferent to the below.

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Caked-up in makeup, seventy-plus old standing cold under broken bus shelter, wishing it would fold -

already-drenched drunks huddled in midday hovels, illuminated by the flickers of TV sets, trapped in their liquid nets - 

then the sudden bell slap for noon, another sad Saturday -

Sunday soon.


Image created using a Lomokino.


Preacher stands at the fore, blazing light of truth on either side, directs this cut-down congregation to the up above commandments, carved on stone unseen.


Image taken using a Lomokino.


WATCH, as the clouds recede from dirty blues fringed with a dying red, as the sky shifts through a million and more cool tones
more welcome to the naked body than any ocean. The midges begin to nip at my flesh in desperation for a final meal before dark, to taste our blood and maybe my memories too. A bat begins to weave impossible through the hanging air, its plan laid to perfection whilst avoiding the sun’s sweet burn, a ballet before the revealing moon. 


Image created using a Lomokino. 



Estuary today is like wet between woman’s thigh.

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Image created through the wet lumen process.


The estuary is like man who sits quiet behind doldrum desk - flat, smooth, ruffled by a change in wind but barely changing himself, existing but rarely intruding,

yet beneath is a salt-strewn murk, where a myriad of secrets fury away within, all feeding and fighting - fucking - where most can only drift on the surface, occasionally dropping hook in and hoping for the best,

few plunge their bodies but ne'er more than an hour or so before fear takes grip on their once warm hearts: ESCAPE,

the mind screams fraught with shattered fear, drowning in filthy green.

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Image created through the wet lumen process


At night the shipyard blazes with light of sunken stars, creamed sweet from a galaxy not too distant to the milk of ours - cold, gnashing steel, suffocating to the brim - no place to go go gone.

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Image created through the wet lumen process.