Yes, something happened on the day he died. Something was let out of the world, like air from a balloon. We cried, mostly, for us: for...

For Thomas Morrow 1 Pegasus The bike, the bike’s momentum and the road are all one thing. It’s like manoeuvres: every gesture something...

The river, like stroked fur, is silver in the places where the wind has touched it. Tate & Lyle; Canary Wharf; the Barrier – all are...

It was just after 9/11. Drawings of eagles hovered everywhere. “This”, our pilot said, “is how Santa Clause flies over Afghanistan.” EE-stan, like a cowboy song. We surfed the scrub. Earlier we had ascended to the sound of horns; it was as though we, and not the canyon, were the miracle: as though we were as inevitable as the sun rising. Vegas in the day was just a landing pad. Chastened by light, it didn’t know what it was supposed to be. But at night it had the

Sometimes I'd startle something, a flock of birds, inside you and your eyes would ask me what it was. Your body lifted afterwards and...

Drowning’s the only consummation she has ever known. Her hair and clothes are garbled in the river, limbs all riverine; her mouth...

A village hall will chew your sound and swallow it; roll it round like thunder. Every hall remains itself – each room somewhere apart;...

Each note sounds like a hundred notes, swaggering and dwindling and dying all at once. He likes to stir them up; to test them with his...

Heat like the flat of someone’s hand. Each song is like a brick baked by thick voices into something else: boredom. My mum can make a...