Here’s a prose poem…

There’s no lack of void.

Not my line but Samuel Beckett’s. I stole it like so many lines. I have done a hundred lines in alcohol drenched toilets. I have often thought about truth and London streets like silences between words, cars, and cigarettes.

With every step I flushed truth down the toilet.

The toilet in The French House where I saw the residue of Georges Bataille’s face. He said, ‘You perhaps know that desire reduces us to pulp.’

Tom Bland


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