Writing

Campaigners renew calls for metro mayor to bring struggling buses back into public hands
‘Instead of 20 people on the bus, we’ll have 10 taxis’: how cuts to Bristol’s buses are hitting BS3
Small developments, big ideas: how Bristol’s community groups took housing into their own hands
‘No-one should control this land. Everyone should have a say over it.’
How could the mayoral referendum result impact Bristol’s creative industries?

The Blog

  • Thank you for egging me
    It is not heavy, the egg. There is a teenage boy in front of me. He shows me the egg, his face all contrite – cheeky fucker. Then, splat. It is not heavy, the egg. I’ve literally got egg on my face. I’ve never used that expression and it doesn’t work now, not figuratively, anyhow.… Read more: Thank you for egging me
  • Feel it (in the wreck of the week)
    Feel it. Leave it. Don’t lurch for the easy copy. That pretty book. That cliff-top, overhang. The island and the bay Where jellyfish sang chorales and brushed the underbellies  of the yachts. Let the maritime fly-tippers sink to the old life on the ocean bed – divided lovers mixed with togas and low density polyethylene.… Read more: Feel it (in the wreck of the week)
  • The stones sit here and I sit with them
    A big rock in the water. The water smoothing the rock. The rock is here, waiting, like a monk or a customer or a citizen submitting an application as the bureaucracy flushes past. The water moves the tip of an ivy stem, the ivy stem strokes the water. What moves what, when we are touching?… Read more: The stones sit here and I sit with them
  • Three on the roof
    Three on the roof in the rain. Coffee and a soggy newspaper. Little rivulets run by the kerb like animal tails, and baby clothes hang along cast iron rails. A shop attendant puffs on a vape and the days wear an unfamiliar shape. They are growing. Soon, they will inundate their own wardrobes, the limbs… Read more: Three on the roof
  • Continuing
    Even the miserable puritans with their dour black dress and obsession with death, even they continued to live, though they will not convince you in your cutout cubicle ringed by this spasmodic cultural geography, your little unhinged pile of the Midwest, swinging your legs above the harbour water, which vibrates like life in close-up. My… Read more: Continuing
  • A dinner party (prose poem)
    There was a dinner party. A friend of a friend turned up in a diva’s fur coat. Underneath this, a leopard print shirt. She wore rich red lipstick and black boots with thick soles that gave her an extra two inches. Instinctively, I disliked her, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the… Read more: A dinner party (prose poem)

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