Notes from a towpath


There’s a line of them

this side of the canal

Almost gargoyle

they’re evenly spaced

huddled over plastic tubes

Something drove them here—

the factory, or the lack of factory

Some need that can’t be met

two feet from the bank

in all these miles of streets

and sheds, and little houses


I saw them move today

shuffling, stiff jointed

changing shifts

and still in line

hauling things

I do not want to understand


Today, there was a meeting

burdens piled in the grass

rasped communications

stiffened gestures

and young ones taking part

They parted peaceably

to let me pass

seemed almost kindly

almost kin




I also write at,, and


gyproc two

the cat ate the gyproc

the cat is playing statues


the wind would weep around the timbers

if it wasn’t afraid


some kind of plant

unjugged on the table

is reaching for a sun-bleached card


kiss me, youth was a tantrum

put out the dish cloth

it leaves puddles on the floor


miss haversham wasn’t born in a day, you know




Oh dear, that was a much longer break than I realized. I have been relocating…

Anyway, EB Fay is back.  I also write at,, and

gyproc one

the membrane in the wall ate my dinner last night

this morning, it is all gyproc


i am thinner; the cat is getting fat

the moon is weeping—no parakeets


there was a jug on this table

thrown in the image of me

i hope the thief has planted a geranium there


kiss me, my youth is broken

put out the light bulb

it likes to roam at night


rome didn’t collapse in a day, you know





EB Fay also writes at,, and

She knew a nurse…

She knew a nurse

the loving kind

who left the jungle

on a rope and Huey


She did ride a Harley Davidson

looking for a way to die


He had a granddad

came home from the mud

and he is sure

the dying horses

never leave his milky eyes


There was a father, too

as much of him as left—

same jungle

similar mud


When she was a girl in school

she read Wilfred Owen to them all

Some teachers cried

Some friends looked serious


Then there was Falklands, Bosnia,

Desert Storm, Afghanistan


I’m told I’m bred of military men

they never had to look for work





EB Fay also writes at,, and

Thank you, thank you to those ‘following’ what I am putting here.

He measures time…

He measures time in candles

frugal even with them


Eat alone, read alone

and the shadowed corners and small compass

make loneliness less jagged




EB Fay also writes at,, and

he lights the sticks…

he lights the sticks they’d gathered

they are brittle, perfect now

they flame as planned


what is the occasion? she whispered

these were for emergency


i’m cold, he said

and leaving here tomorrow




EB Fay also writes at and

Connoiseur number 1 and 2

Number One


I like my poems anorexic

opined the connoisseur

I want to stroke their little bones


Number Two



oozed the connoisseur

is relative


my approbation is worthy of your suffering


I am sensitive

that is my gift




EB Fay also writes at and