Hello

    I am the Groupie I stalk Frink’s warrior –  London, Liverpool, Swindon, Chicago.  He entices me into art galleries and sculpture parks in the pouring rain. I want to know the dreams that curl up in his bones, the length of his longing, depth of his...

      The Deputy His office Next to the Head’s Was so untidy, Papers on chairs, Rubbish bin overflowing But it was here They all waited, For an interview Or a result. Amongst his jumble And his wall charts And the red faced Secretary Apologising.  ...

      What the data about migration told me We are incoming packets discrete, carrying our own context. Our aim is to pass through without being stored in a session. We choose the optimal path for delivery, clustering at the interface between nodes....

      Taking HRT at The Neon Sign Museum, Las Vegas Popped tubes and leaking neon. Lucky, Golden Gate, Circus-Circus, half illuminated Happy Days. Scorching pinks turned to blues, stiletto heels snapped to slippers, bright night shine, dull by dusk. The...

      Hand-shell After Dora Maar Divide a woman’s body into geometric shapes. Triangle tits, a six-pointed star. Segment a woman’s face into orange slices. Split it through a spider’s web. Float a woman in a pool. Swim statue-stiff, your hand-shell on...

      The Fringe For days, weeks, I’d longed quite hard for silence, as the weighted ache of noise loured. Then, Sunday morning, three o’clock, humid morning-night, the window open, there came a silence fringed with scents (our lane half-in, half-out of...

      The brief invisibility of fathers I do not draw but here I do. Heavy looping lines. That scar of road. Weeds through the stones. The olive tree, persisting. Wild fennel, and him bent over it. The way that he inhales the leaves. Pours rice like...

      We Are Alike We are alike, you and me. We are alike. You die of love, I die of love. You die without love, I die without love. We live to love, We live without love, We live until we die And then You must die alone, I must die alone. You and me,...

      The Nearly Times Once, when a group of horses bolted and reared, eyes white, legs flailing, trampling whatever was under their hooves. Once, wheeling too fast on a bike down Richmond Hill, tumbling off. Stilled on the tarmac, a human speed bump....

      Every Girl's Dream White egg dress black shoe suit doughnut sugary ring thrown flinty dandruff and white rice copy and pasted vows wedding receptionists are only here for the liquor vacancy signs is their twin eyes a head dress of heaven? A...

      Conspiracy theorists As they conspire, I agonise: it’s a glass door sudden at full pelt and that sickness as the wind escapes.     Peter Bickerton is a writer, scientist and resident poet for Thought For Food. Peter’s poetry has featured...

      Sunday Before the Hurricane The sky looks wary. The trees confer in muffled rustlings. I should start my generator, make sure it’s willing to cough enough power to support me through a rush of wind and rain. Hardy knew about wind and rain, his...

      He carried a grudge from Land’s End to John O’ Groats His starting point, a granite mass; cliffs tumbling, arrows pointing to nearly nowhere, lost as Camelot hiking hurt in all weathers, spitting distance in rhythm with his stride. Every step more...

      Conversation with the Doctor You hold my breath before me, pickled in a jar, it looks like veins when held up to the light; this could be life, this could be the future of reproduction. You bring me back, back in the room, back to tweezers, and...

      The Stork A huge white question mark stalks a field outside Bassersdorf. Black mourning tips folded back, a softly red bill probes the earth. The legendary bringer of babies, your blessed image hangs above those more fortunate doors. Ours creaked...