I have a shed – in Walthamstow. I write in my shed, experiment with words. I write poems, short stories and little bits of nonsense. Some of them I share here. Some of them I don’t.
My poem “Otis” was recently performed as part of the “Poetry in Motion: Market Walk” led by poet John Hudson and historian Peter Ashan along Walthamstow High Street.
Flesh creeps over seats
sloths on sofas.
Chubby fingers feed
stuffed mouths full of taste,
Comfort craves food’s fuel
fills the heart’s hungry spaces.
Fat thighs, fat arms, fat smiles.
A piss pot sits squat beneath my bed
while summer’s stubble burns beyond my window
Nylon sheets spark against restless legs
as each rumbling train rattles crocks and glasses
Pinky and Perky prance, walk on walls
watching swallows swoop beneath sheltered eaves
An empty fire grate’s no longer warm
now tis electric’s blanket brings welcome heat
Telly’s distant voice dawdles upstairs
and grown up grumbles fill the front room below
Long silent sounds seep into my dreams
yes I miss my childhood bedroom now.