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7 Days

It’s snowing David Bowie one humdrum Sunday later. Slow ashen clown drops unsettling everywhere over South London. Death’s the kabuki next door with its masks and mime, its dark carpet demanding you scatter more stars so the end makes sense which it will if you’re there standing by the wall.


She waited for the eclipse to dump him. It felt right with her light so hidden for so long by so changeable a man. She slipped orbit outside Caffè Nero on the Victoria Station concourse after buying him a full fat mocha. Soon the solar shadow closed over them. Southern Rail pigeons drifted widdershins in […]


A wedge of black hair between the blind and window, he waits for mum to come back with the shopping bags joining with the others in the kingdom under his bed. He names the cats patrolling the bins after his teachers, before they slide greased with night beyond teasing to become a blip on his […]