Pedalling through road traffic:

bike, car, bike, bike, bike, motorcycle, bike, motorcycle, bike, bike…

arriving to classroom traffic:

the scraping of chairs as minds change gear

from stop to go, sleep to work –

or don’t

and struggle against the blustery speech

of the professor.

Utrecht’s morning commute.

Disco Ball


like a disco ball


from the security of the ceiling

into a crowd of oblivious dancers.

Battered –

splattered by pools of ethanol

that strip its shine

and bruised

by a riot of flailing hands butts feet.

Yet still it glitters –

shards of sunlight

glancing off it

and illuminating the dust

that pervades the now

empty space.

It doesn’t move:

it just sits there

atop her flaccid neck.

Sometimes we wake up with heavy heads that feel like disco balls.


Cranes dangle their


from the deep blue sky, fishing

for people; hauling

them from their homes

and landing them in nets

that they can’t escape

without the help

of the ones who

caught them.

There are so many housing developments going on in London right now. The government’s intentions are (I hope) all good but can they please for once just consider the effects on the local people?

P.S. I apologise for this less than cheery start to 2019.






upper back,





and traps


the ground,

pulling away

like a shell;




and chin

join in,

pooling out

amongst the solids

as a skin-coloured syrup;

eyeballs are

disused goods, blanketed

by eyelids that

reduce perception to

orange and yellow and red which

swirl together like watercolours

to create a rose-coloured universe.

Nothing returns home

but the skeleton.

When I truly relax, I feel renewed, unconcerned and optimistic. Sort of like my flesh has melted away and left only a skeleton, ready to be rebuilt back into a body in time for the next relaxation session.

Natural Selection

Smashed glass bottles;

thick, translucent

eggs hatching alcohol that


across the dance floor

like the blood that


from the cut skin

of the injured,

sharp shell birthing

a new race of poison-veined

monsters with a hundred

amalgamated feet

that stomp; reproduce; sacrifice

another for the survival of the species.

There will be no boom or bust:

these creatures are out

for evolutionary success

and do not care

who gets trodden on

in the process.

On the dark side of clubbing.


It is on nights like this

that time

truly does seem

to stand still.

Or, at least,

to slip more slowly.

Is it day

or is it night?

Perhaps it is a kind of…


for light persists

even into the dark.

Tonight is light time.

They are all you can see:

lampposts, traffic signals,

and the white, white sky

and the white, white ground

and the white, white horizon.

The UK is currently in the middle of a snowstorm and it’s not coping.