Category: England

  • Gold Dust and Birds

    The keys form cords that induce an eyeball elevation. Flickering frames, birds flying in and out of vision. A pigeon or a crow replacing the mighty ginger eagle of the sea, From way back then. The beach became paving slabs and moss, The sun disguised by brick not coconut. The Arabian Sea profound and distant. Warm Indian…

  • Super-Nature Revisited

  • To and from the September Floods

  • A Different Kind of Dread

    The light at times is so bright i am unable to see, temporarily blind, until the next corner leads back to dull grey nothing. Penetrated by short sharp bursts. Window pains clean before being crystallised by sunrise; before the black comes and the earth turns seven A. M. black. The late September brings leather mittens…

  • Observation of a Tribe and The X21

    A daily two-hour commute on public transport heading to something which resembles a large red triangle of sorts. A town full of supermarkets and pound-shops instead of aspirations. Poverty and push chairs, mothers and mobility scooters. Bellies and breasts, clad in orange, clad it knocked off sportswear, male and female. Tattooed necks, wrists and knuckles, shiny earrings, belts and buckles. Give it a sausage roll, thank god for Greggs. Human…

  • Are Rizla Papers Vegetarian?

    Five roll up ends already smoked before i rise, Poor glue that once lived, such a strange cremation. Clock clicking towards discomfort, real life, Hoofs on my lips, bones in my lungs. The cancer is coming. Trot Trot.

  • Instant History – Polaroids From Then

        © pinkybinks

  • No Man’s Land

    Rain, more rain. Rain streaming down bricks along concrete, softening ground is like torture. That desire to run and embrace the liquid downpours doesn’t exist in me when my days are spent in England. No sun to appear and bake the wet dry.Time to become a winter person now. Not even a draw  of the curtain as…

  • Who Are You Internet?

    There is a build or back log of posts that should be published. The ones i think are boring get liked, understanding not like. Are bloggers boring or am i thinking too much about my pitch. Who pitch the pitch. Pitch. Who are you internet? Who are you internet? Who are you internet? A head bobs…

  • Art. Disco. Storms. – June and Summer in England

  • The Day My Heart Met Aung San Suu Kyi

  • Avoiding the Olympic Torch – Planes, Flames and Aung San Key Chains

    A day, a great day. Breakfast and an airport. Sky as grey as depression and dampening drops. Electric tracks and beeps, a quick platform change then beach bound. An in sync happening, a vision in mustard and black, Egyptian? Craving the apricot stone elixir, powering down the soft wet sand towards the dilapidated newly renovated hotel against the…