The children howl, the house is hell
you close your eyes to cast that spell

Rising high above the endless squabbles 
to meet me down upon those sodden cobbles

The rain and fog are gently taunting
your white shirt billows, opaque and haunting

On Henrietta Street…

Two hundred stairs, do I descend
with full-beam smile to my treasured friend

These precious moments, we get to steal
...

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I used to see them as a boy:

Hanging around on street corners,

Loitering with intent,

Picking off the ice cream vans, one by one.

They pandered to the masses,

Displayed all their wares:

Scalpels, sedatives and inexpensive love.

They were the last resort, the leaky policy,

The get-out-of-jail card, for one more week.

Two for the price of one, sometimes.

‘Lie down...

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We made a blood oath...

and yet the promise of it dissipated with the conversation I often expected.

As much as I’d love to over-describe, as some might expect me to, the weight of how I feel while concocting the narratives of Univerza, my writings mislead me.

I might say the campfire stories I told, which wrote themselves, are but a light in a pitch forest as I meander away ...

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In the ancients days,
of the 1980’s.

Stories flew
around the middle school.

About a beast in the woods,
called the Gawanjee.

It came from the Pit,
of an old coal mine.

It was part lizard-man,
and a part Bigfoot.

It slept in the warmth,
of an old gob pile.

And in the winter,
it could be seen frozen.

In the ice,
of the deep, dark lakes.

Kids would tell,
of being chas...

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