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
Like a pear with speckled skin. But pale anaemic and beaten – badly mistreated. Tasteless and yet sour swelled up and abused tossed into the corner – yesterday’s news. by Annie Ridout
She stands gracefully beneath the morning sun, kissed by the breeze as the peach blossom falls effortlessly into her open palms. Her mind wanders to a new realm of possibilities – should she pick the flowers? Or will the flowers pick her… by Annie Ridout
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.
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
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
I recently went to see Mel Bochner’s ‘If the Colour Changes’ exhibition at Whitechapel Gallery. It was pissing down with rain and so we were grateful that the free cloakroom allowed us to leave our satched coats, scarves, extra jumpers and umbrellas at the door. We went to the front desk to buy tickets for
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