Tuesday, 25 September 2012

Black Field Furrows

Little frigates of dirt sail on the curve of your skin under the horn of a nail. 
The water is spiked, laced with tranquilising oils. You’ve been here for what, 
one whole hour? You don’t know, 
can’t tell. 

Can’t be as confident as the clock.

A flake falls like snow into the furrows of a black field. 
Dead skin from where you ran the nail across your brow. 
Dead skin ticking down like the slow 
clock telling time in particles of dust.



Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
A new collection of stories available now . Click on image for details.

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
New Chapbook Available (email rockinahill@gmail.com for details)


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