Hackney

Tuesday. Hackney smells like gravy, bus flies past a man who’s waving – frantically hailing ’til we slow to a halt and he folds his paper to save for later. It’s under his arm, and he’s gripping it tight, then with his free hand, he gives his Oyster a swipe. The man with the blue

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Punch Drunk Love

I’m drunk from our love; the concoction of romance is sweet like a punch ladled delicately into my open mouth (waiting) to be quenched from its thirst – to have love poured in spoonfuls whilst it gushes t’ward my heart. Drunk Giddy from intoxication, slurring from inebriation, which slows my reactions and captures my thoughts.

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Repeated Journeys

Our magical journey through wilderness and the wonders of nature which pricked up our eyes and our hearts and left imprints of romance and whirlwinds of beauty has suddenly been tainted by an accidental insight. Delightful memories come crashing back down like a hail storm, which is bruising my ego and soul. I assumed we’d

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Swallow Me Whole

Eat me for dinner and feel me slide down your wide-girthed esophagus into the depths of your rumbling stomach it’s yearning for tenderness, which I can provide – with delight – and I’ll hide in your internal organs and feel your blood pump, stare up at your heart and i’ll watch it expand then I’ll

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Royal Mail

I love writing letters and postcards and posting them to people with a stamp on. Royal Mail makes that possible. But there have been a few incidents of late that have made me question whether or not Royal Mail are still up to the job. Early November I was waiting for the antique brass door

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