Pickled-Poppy

Steam, smoke and grease. Lifting a fryer basket and scraping the grill, one, twice, three times a day, everyday. It could almost be a from of meditation when looked at in the right light. Gut, scale and fillet. Take a breath, take a smoke, take a second. Don't remember. Roast. Carve. Serve. I had been working in Swansea for a year and the seagull swarm of the city centre was wearing thin.

I'm holding on to my skin these days. Once upon a time, every inch of it was yours. Finger printed, flea bitten. All yours. Belt beaten and bruised. It was yours. I don't find you that attractive any more. One too many 'one night stands' one too many 'just one more time' and you've lost your sheen. So I hold on to my skin.

It always starts with the scent of almonds. A bath that smells just close enough to arsenic to feel like death before the little death to come. She feels like Ophelia drowning.

I aspire to be a wardrobe, changeable, lockable, secrets all locked up in a dark corner, held fast and stoppable

There's a confidence in you that doesn't belong to me. So fuck it. I'll take the mountains and you can have the sea, see the South Bank's gone and flooded with the lovers we could never be.

He asked me to marry him in a lightning storm. Adrift off the South Coast. Rain drenched, salt scented, a whisper louder than the thunder in the air. "You could float past the buoys, marry me" I can not express how literal I am being. Stories stranger than fiction rarely end well. The simplicity of sea breeze is not enough.

We hold these truths to be self evident, not all men are created equal. I think I loved Harry before I knew him, that some dark, lonely part of my soul has always cried out to his. To begin, Picture a marque, there’s a summer storm brewing and students are sitting in circles around him. Not quite ginger and not quite blond, short, with a grace and bearing that puts people intrinsically at ease. The air is thick with coffee, cut flowers and cheap pastries. He talks, we all know this book will never be a bestseller but his passion is intoxicating. A dozen junior writers fall in love in a heartbeat; he's a puppet master to his audience. I brought books for him to sign, his own of course. Having stalked social media, I knew the gesture would be appreciated. He's a little arrogant but also insecure. In this festival, authors are awarded cases of Cava after a performance. My reward for this act of instant validation is a vintage bottle I’m only just old enough to drink. Fellow

I am a butcher I am my blade. I am now tired of offal Stories of heart and lungs come a easily as breathing I am a butcher I am my blade. I choose the finest cuts.