Coming out in Material Magazine this week…




the man on the train says

‘for asking, but

are you a writer?

I’m a writer.

Sci-fi fantasy.

I don’t believe in happy

endings, such a cliché.

In my book, everybody dies

after three

thousand pages.’



sorry to disturb you

I’ve been

writing my book for ten years

since I was sixteen.


I’m off to work, insurance

for my sins.’


I ask him when he writes

and he says he hasn’t written anything

for five years.

His eyes roll

little wet pebbles

his eyes gape

little fish pleading

with me not to say the bleeding

obvious –

if you haven’t written for five years

you’re not a writer.



he says

‘I’ll let you get on’

He watches me make notes

for five minutes, and says

‘that seems like a lot

of work

for a poem.’

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