I’ve decided to start work on a collection of character studies. This is my first one. Hope you enjoy it.


Monnie. Monnie Monnie Monnie.
What can I tell you about Monnie?

Well, she loved policemen.
She loved the attention
in a strange kind of way.
She’d spit at them and taunt them
and scratch them with her nails
as they struggled to cuff her
and cart her off

She was kind.
She was kind to me

She was a thief.
She’d playfully wink
at the security man
as she strode out the sliding door
with a four litre bottle
of white cider
under each arm

There was something shabby tigress about her
and she dressed like a gypsy pirate

I don’t know her real name
and a lady never reveals her age

She told us her father
was a South American ambassador
or consulate
or some such

She had dirt in the folds of her skin
and I have a suspicion
that under it all
was a beautiful woman

Her tree house was a magical boudoir
of tie-dye and Indian print.
It was always dry and warm
and sometimes she’d stay up there for days, alone
lowering down chunks of hash
in a bucket on rope
in exchange for food
and wood for her burner

I’m talking about her as though she’s gone
and Monnie, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry –
It’s been so long. Forgive me.
Ben told me you’d had a kid
and got off the gear
and I think you live in Brighton still.
I really hope you’re happy
and that you’ve not lost your roguish twinkle.
Maybe we’ll bump into one another
again one day.
I hope so

Wait. I just posted this poem on the internet
and Ben must’ve read it, cos he left me a comment
it said:
twins. and they were taken into care  : (