Play with my hair

If it was a learnable skill, I’d show you how. That it starts from the nape, a tug from the roots out, fingers hooked into ends of questions. That it’s not sexual. It’s only the blood and guts of childhood. The sweep of your mother as she puts you in bunches. The half sun of autumn assembly. Girls lined up like…

Fake poem

Niall O’Sullivan‘s started a blog of fake poems (as well as editing my pamphlet, hosting London’s premier open mic night, teaching at London Met University, being a full-time dad and writing a few poems). My fake poem, The Smile, appears here. What’s a fake poem? Here’s what it says in the blog’s About section: when we say a poem is a “fake…

1.21 Gigawatts

Steal plutonium from Libyan terrorists. Leave them a shoddy bomb casing stuffed with the guts of an old pinball machine.   Take me to your bed sweats and dead end stories that get lost and end up in Morden.   Take me back to the future we’ll never have.   Give me ornamental sheep and waterlogged teeth so our kisses…