Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

Kiss Me Again Jack

So many years since I felt the hoar caress my cheek with needle teeth. Not breaking the skin but bringing it to rude life . . . Kiss me again, … Continue reading

February 5, 2018 · Leave a comment

The Goodfellow

This baleful repetition – reaped and sown by the click and the flash, shackled in spider-murk and animate tangle,   is no jest or gawde but the felling of bodies; … Continue reading

February 2, 2018 · Leave a comment

Losna (Winter)

From beside a sun- paled bridge – enamel petals falling, brickle and bleached – I watch the mounting satellite –   wan-creeping above bitter horizon – over looking-glass spatters of … Continue reading

December 19, 2017 · Leave a comment

Tromsdalen

There was a time when a small shack, – unused in decades – stood here, shaking under a barrage of wind and hail;   door barely hanging on by it’s friable rust devoured hinges; charged … Continue reading

December 12, 2017 · Leave a comment

ursus maritimus

Her head low and eyes fixed on mine. Loping from floe   to sea to dolerite schist; crackling on the lime rich shore;   following stale musk. Per shakes my … Continue reading

December 9, 2017 · Leave a comment

three

i have walked for nearly thirty miles and yet lack the courage to pass through the sap sticky firs and on to other soil   there is no mark no … Continue reading

December 3, 2017 · Leave a comment

Rockall Sketches

1. Storm flirting kittywakes plummet as waves dance a reckless saltarello around the bluff islet. Luttering brine and summer squalls engulf. 2. Hasslewood hides – tooth rotten in the gum. … Continue reading

September 15, 2017 · Leave a comment

Lullaby

The frenetic signal lost from Luxembourg at 0045 hours nightly, gave me time to retune the transistor to the long wave, ghost whining of empty air.   White mono earphone … Continue reading

September 5, 2017 · 1 Comment

Laithe

The far barn was off limits; a mantra drummed into us from the day we moved in. No access to be had beyond   the rotting stiles and snow weathered … Continue reading

August 28, 2017 · Leave a comment

Hotel. Birmingham 19.8.17 (03:17am: I Am Insomnia’s Bitch)

Sitting by the threadbare curtains, looking over the illuminated building works, from the fourth floor, waiting for something interesting to happen. Birmingham sleeps,   but a drunken Mancunian does not. … Continue reading

August 19, 2017 · Leave a comment