Publications…

March 31, 2008

Readers of my boyfriend’s blog will know that he’s always posting up one exciting publication or other (clever bugger;) Well, guess what?! I’ve got some!!

Click here to go to Great Works – a groovy online journal, edited by Peter Philpott. If you stroll down the side bar you’ll see some of my work.

Also, just this morning – an acceptance from Goblin Fruit for Chicken Ship! Very excited as not only do I really like the journal, it was also mentioned in Ellen Datlow, Gavin Grant and Kelly Link’s ‘Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror’. The piece will be appearing in the journal this Summer and they’ve asked me to do a recording to go with it. I also have to say what my favourite fruit is:)

The Last Teabag

March 28, 2008

I love you so much that I left you the last teabag.
There weren’t two, there was only one
and I left it you. That’s how much I love you.
And also how nice I am.

Don’t really want to get wet
but suspect that it’s warmer in there
than it is out here. I won’t wash my hair –

look, I’ve tied it back.
You shouldn’t wash your hair
if you’re putting it up.

Just before he left
I talked about the song by Radiohead –
the one that

use to fly
like Peter Pan

Ricky Gervais once said,
it raised a lump in his mouth.

I’d mentioned this
and then he’d left…

and it began to play.

Which only goes to show
coincidence alive and well –
inside of bars and random chat.

It was like the pair of gloves –
the ones we’d watched
being rollered by the tractor just outside:

The way the orange canvas
pressed against the tarmac.

You would have got
the metaphor
if you’d been drinking at the bar.

After he left the bar

March 27, 2008

Just before he left
I’d talked about the song by Radiohead –
the one that –

use to fly like Peter Pan
that Ricky Gervais
once had said

raised a lump
in his mouth.
Anyhow,

I’d mentioned this
and then he’d left…

and it began to play.

Which only goes to show
coincidence alive and well –
inside of bars and random chat.

It was a little like the pair of gloves –
the ones we’d watched –
rollered by the tractor just outside.

You would have got
the metaphor
if you’d been drinking at the bar.

Wales to Egypt (redraft)

March 27, 2008

The small stone house
with it’s hard to light engine.
The cold pine floor
with it’s warm kitchen.

The carpet covered lift,
seventh floor balcony, huge room
with the white sheets, tea
we got from room service.

We remember:

cycling down hill,
rain hammering
plastic rivers over overalls –
collecting in the collars of our hoods.

We remember:

Hatshepsuit – the female ruler with the
stone beard. Wedding cake of
wide stairs, Egyptian children
running down them with their

arms spread full tilt.

At five in the morning, listening to the
sigh of traffic – waiting for the
sky to lighten
meaning work –

I can’t not think –

of the wind trapped hill, walk along the Nile,
man who asked for money
’cause he knew us from the
hotel.

I can’t not think –

of the place we bought the calibir
the freezing cold November pier
the crammed souks,
and the dark mud,

the lost coat;
things found.

Sunday Service (redraft)

March 26, 2008

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds –
but then it was there-

the proverbial mountain of gold dust
lit up like a dancing girl –

and everywhere else was closed –
it being a religious day

and only the church of Ronald McDonald,
was sending it’s teenage priests to pray.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds
with it’s choices of burger

or burger and fries.
it’s dark eyed and listless workers

it’s glossy bright awning
the same in Dubai.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds
where they serve only minimum wage

where expectations are swollen with chip fat
and people collect coupons for more of the same.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds
but everywhere else was closed

and I couldn’t believe it was really that awful –
till I’d unwrapped the burger,

bleak as the lino.

Wales to Egypt

March 26, 2008

As with Aberystwith,
we find it quite insistent
in our spaces of
remembering:

The small stone house
with it’s hard to light engine,
cold pine floor,
but warm kitchen –

is the same –

as the carpet covered lift,
seventh floor balcony, huge room
with the white sheets, tea
we got from room service.

We have vivid memories –

of cycling down hill,
rain hammering –
plastic rivers over overalls
collecting in the collars of our hoods.

We have vivid memories –

of Hatshepsuit – the female ruler with the
stone beard. The wedding cake of
wide stairs, Egyptian children
running down them with their –

arms spread full tilt.

At 5 in the morning,
listening to the – sigh of traffic –
waiting for the – sky to lighten
meaning work –

I can’t not think –

of the wind trapped hill, walk along the Nile,
man who asked for money
’cause he knew us from the
hotel.

I can’t not think

of the place we bought the calibir
the freezing cold November pier
the crammed souks,
and the dark mud –

the coat I lost –

somewhere vague
between the valley
and the deep,
of the burnt desert.

Sunday Service

March 23, 2008

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds –
but then it was there-

the proverbial mountain of gold dust
lit up like a dancing girl –

and everywhere else was closed –
it being a religious day

and only the church of Ronald McDonald,
was sending it’s teenage priests to pray.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds

but my boyfriend was hungry
with nowhere nearby –

I said it was hardly a place I would favour
but thought for his sake I should give it a try.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds

with it’s choices of burger
or burger and fries.

When I asked them the options
for veggie and diet –

they told me the Salad McChicken was nice.

Go Between (50 billion)

March 22, 2008

I met one of your teachers
just the other day –

the one with the name
like gosling –

soft feathers of baby birds,
corsage worn by bride or girl –

Mr Gossage,
showed me to the room –

where we were taught,
asked me how our mother was –

said he’d kept
the paper that you wrote

for years and years
until –

it fell apart.

He’d always thought you’d
work in Academia –

so I told him –

about your education,
your Oxford Don and

Doctorate winning thesis
something to do with

literary criticism
and Walter de la Mare.

You should know:

they hold your face,
somewhere safe in slanting boards –

a young man –
with a pipe,

a jacket patched with corduroy.

Your teacher said
he’d never known such a writer –

fifteen years – and already a rival.
Tell me about it –

I said

and told him that
you’d never smoked.