Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

Bullshit Detector

1983 and faux anarchic romanticism seduces me. Squatting for peace dreaming that the threat of Threads is gone and Barefoot Gen can sleep unhindered; ashen shadows confined to graffiti.   … Continue reading

April 13, 2019 · Leave a comment

Kings

With fingers stained and sticky From the juice of scrumped berries I peel enamel scales from the top of the weathered climbing frame.     From its ramparts, my pink … Continue reading

January 27, 2019 · Leave a comment

Lunar Tattoos – Available Now

I’m thrilled to announce that my first poetry chapbook – called Lunar Tattoos – is now available from Amazon in both eBook and physical form. It’s a collection poems about … Continue reading

August 1, 2018 · 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

Camille

Sweat and hands and passion shape an uncarved block   in his name; his reputation ensured by your devotion.   Each success bruising her affection. Each denial inflaming her desire. … Continue reading

February 20, 2018 · Leave a comment

Hastings Beach 1974

Ignoring the arguments and the cigarette fug, I rub the condensation from the window. It won’t be long before white noise stops its sibilant assault on roof and windscreen.   … Continue reading

February 10, 2018 · Leave a comment

Davy’s of Dover

Tottering on the stub and clack, my Mum, replete in navy slacks, ushers us to Davy’s van to buy us fish and chips.   The salt and fat and ketchup … Continue reading

February 9, 2018 · Leave a comment

Hotel. Birmingham. 19.8.17. 03:17.am

Birmingham sleeps, its illuminated building works, a shadow jungle to trap the drunk and wary.   Lost in the plastic and sodium labyrinth; infernal circles traced in brick dust, he … Continue reading

February 8, 2018 · Leave a comment

Hotel. Birmingham. 18.8.17. The Treachery of Mirrors

It’s stifling, even with the window open. The bloody workmen have woken me with drills and diggers with alarms that sound like they will break into ‘Jingle Bells.’ Every few … Continue reading

February 7, 2018 · Leave a comment

Not Gold

A rucksack, mugger torn, spills a life to the floor. Gathering the remnants; wallet, money, destination gone;   no choice but a park bench; enamelled metal and stale beer sticky; … Continue reading

February 7, 2018 · Leave a comment