This is where you can find all of my fiction, including Gravedigger. This way, some of my other work - I know some of you are fond of White Fire Brother in particular - will not get lost in my gallery.
The Anglian MigrantHe hailed from a floodbowl under a map of white fuelThe Anglian Migrant by Autumn-Hills
but did not stay there,
burning up the flat roads with his heels
to drink the wide blue yawn of Norfolk
and knock the sleep from his eyes with ivied oaks,
that stand lonesome by patchy fields.
He missed the fog, egged from swarms of fat jets
the flight-path lullaby,
the humpy-bumpy flags of barley and rapeseed
heights that hang higher than flat Norfolk,
he missed ancient houses bulging white under black thatch,
not thrust flint-square in blocks of chalk.
The salt winds cleaned sweetly in answer
to years of huffed fug,
and coastal roads, California, Scratby
webbed around the broad broads of Norfolk
smoothed his once lumpen views into green frames and blue mirrors,
blown clear, then cloudy with great white alps.
VivisectedTo look at myself I cut me upVivisected by Autumn-Hills
slab me out
like broken grammar
wet with blood
and read between the steaks
that are my substance.
I always mess my hands
and see them small in the baby sink
white porcelain and allotment mud
school toilet flashback
paper towels rough and blue
hear the ghost voices screaming behind my head.
What do I get for self-slaughter?
Headaches and horizons
a sense of distance
from the me of bruised knees and fists.
Skinny. Blue and grey.
A swinging gate made of bars.
Can’t get away from wanting to get away,
my sleeping head is full of roads.
Bad food and bad patterns plug the dike
that and empty pockets.
I’ve got enough to tie myself up
with sugar and salt for a cure.
I am the sum of my prime cuts.
Maybe more. In invented spaces
in fire and music and skin and sex
there’s some me fragment
that doesn’t need a doctor.
That doesn’t need.
There's a Foot in Your MouthThere's a foot in your mouth -There's a Foot in Your Mouth by The-Common-Recko
Just thought you should know.
When you speak, you drool;
You spit sparks I imagine you don't mean to.
They sting and sizzle against my skin as I turn the other cheek
In an attempt to look away.
You horrify me.
There's a strut you've acquired as of late
From a simple spike in fortune
(That faded fast away.)
But you turn your back on that little fact
And parade the pieces of your dream
Like a treasure map.
You're oh so high and mighty,
Looking in the mirror and seeing Aphrodite staring back.
Your Ares proved so fickle though,
And while it's not your fault,
I protest treating those with so much more experience
Because you've finally gotten somewhere most of us left long ago.
Some facial hair. A living room. Glasses. Hair parting.|
Current Residence: Great Yarmouth / Northampton - United Kingdom
deviantWEAR sizing preference: Erm, XL probably
Favourite genre of music: Rock usually, but anything that I like the sound of
Favourite photographer: Nomis Sivraj
Operating System: Windows 7
MP3 player of choice: iPod nano
Wallpaper of choice: Montage of Naruto characters
Skin of choice: I like my skin. It keeps my insides in.
Favourite cartoon character: Kyouraku Shunsui
Personal Quote: Fair enough.