Doctor Faustus
An appointment with Doctor Faustus. Clinical Psychologist. I’m sunk deep in this old armchair, the one with the springs poking through like bad memories, and the room’s half-lit, half-dead, snow still spitting against the window. The clock’s oak pendulum swings back and forth, steady as a hangover heartbeat, counting me out. I’m just letting go,
Desideratum
There were these two kids on a winter bench, one soft as fresh bread, pale English rose with braces glinting while he read some Brontë sister, his face still damp from summer that wouldn’t quit, eyes shining quiet, almost holy. Next to him sat the other one, a briar-rose, thorns showing early, cheeks red from
Uncle Patrick
In a dirty, dingy dive, in a dire haze of old memories, I sit with Uncle Patrick, dead quiet as always, with his Campari and Soda to soothe his sad loneliness and thoughts of life in disorder. That’s all he ever mumbled about at our local in town, our kind of joint, sticky underfoot, tables