Berlin Hanging on the telephone in a hazy funk. Ice in a glass. The words shape-shifting silver bream, occasionally catching the light. The ice shifts, tying me down, caught on a line encumbered, turbid. Tasting Berlin: Berlin, diluted, hanging on the telephone in a hazy funk. ©AndrewJamesMurray
News On A Stairwell Sated on the stories of others, fed in passing on casual affairs. On stairwells, glancing, their legible wares are traded second hand for faltering steps, and behind hand murmurs of shallow cares, where dead unions play on, play on, laughing. In salacious nooks their small town shagging goes on, on walls, spread everywhere. ©AndrewJamesMurray
My debut poetry collection was born on this day three years ago.
Happy Birthday Heading North!
I’m working on a younger sibling for you.
Writer In A Coffee Shop Nobody sees as we do — a conspiratorial attempt at flattery, rising up from the books on the slanted shelves. Vinyl albums are fixed to the ceiling, you can get a stiff neck searching out the soundtrack to your life. Upstairs the sound of a tattooist, reminds him of the dentist, sets his teeth on edge, running ravines of mottled brown. He hears it still, that night as she lies with her face to the wall, a tree brooding in the back garden; across the rooftops thoughts dissipate into silence, yet still, that sound, transmuted slowly into goose flesh ©AndrewJamesMurray