The Bath 


came from these prompts.





The people in their dark houses

After the fair

Lamps, Lamps, the cries of the young men

I ask but he doesn’t offer help

Every day a grey suit, but not today

It’s a shame, yes, but he has brown skin

Old songs, hopeless dreams

And the tourists in their yellow-jacket lines

Jest ‘onest nigger sweat boss

The way the oil-lamps sweat and fill us up

Inventing tragedy

Faces, staring from a train, faces, faces…

It’s not quite right. Feel that? Sideways, I tell you.

Sometimes deadly is beautiful

A trip to Cannes but he stopped at Nice.

Let’s do it in honour of someone

I am worn out, like this country

His aftershave: anger and beer

The cracks in the pavement, the dust beneath my shoes

The angst reservoir

My dead girlfriend, a hobby of mine