Richard Abbott
Bio
Lockdown and redundancy have been my Muses. And these are the wild-haired writings that have fled the compound into the night.
Stories (10/0)
Lines written a wobbling bridge
London happens out of the corner of your eye Between the tourist sights – in the alleys and the waste places. In the crack of the great imperial parade grounds, it pushes up like the mustard seed of the proverbs. Its intentions are insidious and indefatigable, a plan to live that is deeper than the architects can excavate, a root that cracks the layers of polite stucco and concrete.
By Richard Abbott2 years ago in Poets
Beulah Road
Clouds correlate with a very different set of feelings seen from above. The accepted gesture for Faith is to cast the eyes upwards to the celestial. Only immense distance could glamourize this sale bin jumble of elbows and feet, however, of arm rests and foot rails, into the similitude of an angelic host. Looking down now only makes me feel like a meteorologist. The quiet is unusual, though only relative to the mesmeric vibration of the machine: the engines and the forced air vents, the stray crackle of sterile plastic wrap around the bags of man-made anything-but-nuts. The scratch of a pencil lead would hardly register even to the nearest sleeping neighbour. The sound then of a ballpoint is inaudible, and I write without looking at my hands, eyes still fixed on the clouds.
By Richard Abbott3 years ago in Fiction
