When a songwriter and a poet fall out over the extent to which their respective arts overlap

It looks very much like
This dispute will rage on,
In the meantime,
I say to the poet:
Write your singer a poem,
And to the singer:
Write your poet a song.

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Mr Pebble Pockets

I’ve called him Mr Pebble Pockets because if I don’t make a joke out of it I’ll cry. It was about 10:30pm, I’d just got back to the boat from a late shift and I was waiting for my Deliveroo. He was standing a little further down the towpath and staring at the water. The night was clear and crisp and there was enough moonlight to see the shape of him: he was tall, late twenties and had a powerful sporty look to him. He wasn’t crying, but he was shaking and he stood crooked. Well, it doesn’t take a genius, does it? I only came out to wait for a bloody curry. Mother Florence bloody Teresa Nightingale springing into action, hungry and as tired as fuck and now having to stop this guy from jumping into the canal with an anchor for a coat. I know now that the best thing to do was offer him a cigarette. I don’t know why I didn’t. I had the packet and the lighter in my hand. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Are you my Deliveroo?’ He turned slowly. ‘Who?’ ‘I’m waiting for a chi

Samsa & Shabeezi

Samsa was now a human. He’d recently become a human after his architect decided to put a human heart in him and give him feelings. The five litres of blood that now pumped around his body warmed him up. It made for incredible nose bleeds, spasms, cramps and bruising, to name o nly a small fraction of the symptoms, but his architect assured him that it would all be worth it and that he'd feel normal very soon. He didn't know what normal was, but he knew it wasn't puking and shitting and bleeding all over the place for the first two months and then just feeling terrible for several weeks after that. Human life is agony, he thought, but he trusted the process. One day, a little over twelve weeks after the operation, he woke up from his first good night's sleep and was able to open the curtains without the light splitting his skull in two. Samsa had known Shabeezi before she became a human woman. All they had done was fight. Samsa especially liked doing flying

Whose Turn is it to Buy the Beers? - a Tommy & Moon Story

What happened to all the beers? Did you look in the fridge? Yes. It’s empty. It might be that we drank them all. That’s disappointing. We can’t go through the rest of this summer without any beers. Whose turn is it to buy them? I’m certain it’s your turn. I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life. Didn’t I buy you some for your birthday? Yeah, you did. But then I bought some for your birthday a week later. Are you sure? Absolutely sure. *** It looks like we’re out of beer. Again? Do you think we drink too much? Personally, I don’t think I drink enough. Whose turn is it to buy the beers? Yours. Mine? Again? Don’t you remember? I bought a huge case at Christmas. They had to deliver it on a pallet. I don’t remember that. I remember it like it was yesterday. I think you even said ‘thank you for the beers that arrived on the pallet. ’ *** You know those beers you thought you bought me for Easter? Yeah

Tom Wiggins, Letter Carver & Writer

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