"An ever-intriguing writer."
"A genuine talent."



Just Another Wretched Sunday Morning

You'd think I might be used to this by now.
My head all alone on the pillow.
A carpet of last night's bourbon on my tongue.
You'd think I might be used to this by now, but no.
I've been behaving like a puppy-dog chasing it's own tail.
Like a fool.
Like a chump.
Like a patsy.
Like a motherfucking shmuck.
There are simply too many people in London and not enough space.
Bottom line. There’s no way around it. It’s just the way of things.
We live all ontop of each other; stacked corpses in our private catacombs.
On some mornings, the walls and the ceilings feel paper thin.
I can hear the neighbours breathing in the flat upstairs.
I can hear the neighbours in the flat next door slurping tea.
Above and to the left of me I can hear my neighbours laughing.
Through the wall. Through the ceiling.
And it feels like they're laughing at me.



Some Of The Very Best S-E-X That I Ever Did Have

Some of the best S-E-X I ever had
came as a direct result of reading Bukowski.
She sat on the unmade bed
in the corner of the bedroom, and read aloud to me
from the pages of Hank's third published novel (1978).
It was a Friday afternoon, and that's what got it all started.
That’s what got the juices a-bubbling.
Boy, it’s hard to beat a spot of afternoon S-E-X.
I find myself growing to love Bukowski
more and more with every passing year.
I find myself seduced tirelessly
by The Old Sot’s genuine self-loathing
and his weary disdain for his fellow man.
And I have nothing but admiration for his
constant striving for purity-of-expression upon the blank page.
I’ve had S-E-X whilst on prozac. And the S-E-X was good.
I’ve had S-E-X whilst on psilocybian mushrooms.
And it was good S-E-X.
Really good S-E-X.
Some of the very best.
But only once have I had S-E-X fueled by
the words and the grammar and the sentence structure
of a pock-marked 71-year-old drunk from Andernach in Germany.
Rest in Peace Chinaski.