unless it's fictions

i have a bit of a thing about kitchens at the moment. i think it's because i spend so much time cleaning mine.

The kitchen is a six-foot squared box of utilities James does not know how to use. He contemplates the science of it all; of ovens, kettles and tumble dryers. The unseen processes which occur within them to make them work, like a body. The image of his mother at the stove superimposes itself over the scene, stirring a saucepan which boils steamily at the closest hob. He marvels at her magic.

i am having fun in my life.

(a haiku)

everyone thinks you're contemporary but i think you're an avant-'tard

i wish there was a
postmodern theory for your
pretentious bullshit

i'm back, i think

small apples

on a lunchtime squeezed
between vinyl LPs he saw
them together and said she
looked dour, with a frown
that would taste sour
like small apples,
puckered and brown.

comforted by the concern
of his angry words -
“i could have killed him”
made moralities blur, as
i practised my sneer
in the rear view mirror
thinking how nice it would be
to soften in the sun.