Disrupted, 10 a.m.

This morning, a good friend slipped me some poetry. It felt a little like an illicit deal, the slender pamphlet sliding over my filthy and clacking keyboard with soft and papery promise. My pecking fingers paused; hovered; touched down and took on a soft-padded respect, rubbing the soft cardboard grain of the cover until it squeaked (it felt a little like Wired UK, but smelled better).

A quick glance, I thought. I'm busy. I don't have time to open my mind, to digest rich words. I'll skim the first one.

It was beautiful; distilled; an underplayed ode to the primal terror of a Sunday afternoon, when our smooth, satisfied, golden life-crust of contentment and gentleness - risen from the soporific gloops of love and everyday event - cracks suddenly to reveal the stinking meat within.

Listen to it here on Vimeo, and then buy the book from Nasty Little Press, and read the rest.

Disruptive poetry. I need more.