trans, nerd.


May 2016

Jazz FM

Jazz pours from the radio,

Heavy, slow, perfect,

I zone out, imagine I’m sweating,

Thousands of miles and years away.

A smokey office, slats of day,

Bourbon in the bottom drawer,

Waiting for the dame to walk in,

For the adventure to begin.



Of Course It’s About Weather, I’m English

Back in broken Etnies due
To sudden devil-rain,
A dark-sky storm which ceases
Only once one’s home again.

And Today’s The Day

Every Thursday
I begin to pack
My working week away,
As I to her
Or she to me
Will quickly make the way.
A ninety minute journey,
And a whole life away;
Every Thursday
I begin to pack,
Begin to smile again.

Big Skive

Hiding by the window,
Folders as barriers,
Ducked behind.
In my suntrap
The desk is paper
On paper
On paper.
It looks like I’m trying.


Less than a quarter
Until we’re reportedly
Leaving this business behind;
Whether it’s gladness
Or some type of madness
I really don’t seem to mind.


Airy, open plan.
Floor to ceiling windows wrap
The whole place in glass.
Supports are hidden,
Thin and strong,
The building towers high;
There are no walls against which
To bang one’s head and cry.

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