trans, nerd.


September 2016

Henrietta’s Boat

Her summer’s been spent out at sea

With sorrows lost to gin,

She’ll be around more often now

The nights are drawing in.




Jim, Eva, Peter.

Being sung to by the dead and dying,

My purpose lost,

The words forgotten.

My window on the world grows smaller,

Everyday I open

Less and less,

Afraid that someone may see.

I’m secretly glad of the oncoming winter,

To close the curtains

And quietly be me.

The Man Who Walks Backwards

Standing still on the kerb,

Noting the state,

The make,

The registration plate

Of the vehicles trapped

By the red light

Caused by

His need to write.


Still standing on the kerb,

Pressing for ‘wait’,

He waits,

The lights change to green

(From where he sees),

Never crosses


He needs to write.





Ealing Grazes.

September, the stranger;

While the rain whips round the towers

And autumnise the air

I use my phone, my Rosetta stone,

To turn down food


By a Chinese millionaire.

Today’s Page

My cup is as empty as…

My eyes are as blank as…

It is as the forever which beckons us.

Nothing written,

Nothing committed, 

Nothing but sitting

And staring

At nothing.

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