A sequence of haikus inspired by a series of black outs

There are more shadows in an unlit home than in the whole sky at night.

There are more dark steps
between two familiar rooms
than in midnight's blaze.

The electric home
slings its rays all the way to
the shivering grass.

A home of black air
draws the glister of the stars
into its bosom.

And so we are taught;
what is concealed by the light
is revealed in darkness.

You Are What You Eat

You are what you eat:
a thing with nine feet
that lives in the garden
and calls itself Pete.

You are what you eat:
a green three-piece suite
that plays you at cards
and knows when you cheat.

You are what you eat:
an oily bed sheet
that's been in the army
and smells of minced meat.

You are what you eat:
a pile of concrete
that's covered in spiders
and lives on the street.

You are what you eat.
Yes, you, Marguerite.
I've seen you at midnight.
You're not so discreet.

You are what you eat.
I shall not repeat.
Go look in the mirror
and that's your receipt.

Republic, not Royalty

Eight or nine centuries ago, the word 'roialte' appeared in Old French to describe the office of the king and, in due course, came to describe the rights and privileges granted to those in his favour, including the right to exploit resources on lands claimed by the king.

About three centuries ago, the first copyright law was created and the modern manner in which authors are paid for their work (through outright purchase or a share of profits) was established. 

About a hundred and fifty years after that, the term 'royalty' developed to include intellectual property and so became a standard term in publishing contracts.

So, I as author, am like the feudal lord of the publisher, who plays the role of king, and I am granted the right by them to collect money from those who buy my book, who play the part of peasants in this increasingly bizarre pantomime.

As a writer, of course I believe that words matter and therefore terminology matters, and so I call for an end to this anachronistic spectacle. Just as, according to Roland Barthes, the birth of the reader necessitates the death of the author, so the death of the royalty is necessitated by the birth of the republic.

Henceforth, it is by that latter term - republic - that I will refer to my writerly earnings.

7 Innovative and Low-cost Ways of Marketing your Book

1. Put it in the tray when going through security at the airport. Explain to the guards that it's absolutely not a risk to national security whatsoever.
2. Turn the title into a cheerful well-wishing, e.g. 'Have a glassy day, worldians!' or 'Upwards and out of the darkness, my friends!'
3. Strap a copy to your chest when shopping, touching it occasionally and uttering a sound of religious devotion like 'whoopiteewoo'.
4. Pretend to read it at the bus stop, laughing and crying uncontrollably before telling fellow passengers that this book has changed your life.
5. Paper your bathroom with it, then invite friends to a meal at your house and slip a diuretic or laxative into their food.
6. Get a parrot from the pet shop, teach it to say the best lines from your book, then return it to the pet shop complaining that it keeps spouting nonsense.
7. Pulp it and use it to fill potholes because that's how roads read books.

Trees in Mist

There is nothing as strikingly alive and conscious and intent and majestic and wise as a tree in mist. I think it's because the mist places the tree on the boundary between the visible and the invisible, and so as you look at it, head tilted right back, mouth hanging open, eyes dry, it is permanently in a state of arrival, and you are experiencing the moment when trees came to our planet for the very first time, and you are wondering if they have come in peace or for mutual benefit or to crush everything they consider a threat into tiny pieces.

I also think it's because the mist makes the air the place where things are really happening. No longer does the world start with the greenness under your feet and stop a couple of metres in the air, while a bunch of other lifeforms take it all too far and keep going up way beyond the level where things are still people. Instead it shows you that there was always much more above the ground than on the ground, and that you should look up, and when you do look up at the world above your head and find it full of dark, mandelbrot-skinned personalities in smoky gowns, you will always feel like a mouse or an insect that has just run into the place where the giants meet.

But no, these are not the giants who will raise a casual foot and with it make your life tiny, dark and short. Nor are they here to validate your self-consideration. They are tactile. You can tell from the way they let you feel their furry flesh from hundreds of metres beneath their vast bodies with your eyes. They are made to be looked at, made to be touched by awe-struck minds. They are proud and particular and unique, and they are not particularly interested in you. I love to see trees in mist because they are beautiful, so beautiful and because they yield to me, unthinkingly, the consolation of my insignificance.