Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

The Wrong Forest

Mean aluminium trees – plastic vines circulating analgesic sap – fail to sway in the bare thoracic snap from tired, syncopating lungs.   Phoney canopy on geometric bough. Silent, motionless … Continue reading

January 8, 2019 · Leave a comment

Two of the reasons I’m doing a PhD

A Confessional Prose Poem of sorts. i) Martin came  by to babysit.        I was three and had heard          Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys     on the radio that morning   … Continue reading

July 12, 2018 · Leave a comment

Going Home: Keats – Episode 15

 April 30th (1) Last night I left Spiggy watching over the exhausted and sleeping Mook. I put all the medical stuff away, saving anything that was still usable and bagging … Continue reading

May 11, 2016 · Leave a comment