The breaking of Baxter

Sometimes the phonograph thinks it’s an old photograph and the man in the cape on the bridge is me and sometimes I can be quite obscure like when I’m leaning on the railings blowing kisses at all my failings as I watch them fall away,the wax disc revolves as my own life dissolves into sepia…

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Coins in the fountain

‘Christmas is comingthe goose is getting fat’I’m always hungrysoI’m having some of that. I could survive onhot mince pies orcurried turkey on Boxing day anda tot or two ofKaty Daley’s mountain dewwould blow me clean away…

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Last night

I read myself to sleepletters turned into sheepand the words turned into little Bo-Peeplast nightI read myself to sleep…

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