Otwituaries : Andy Jackson's tweet-length poetic elegies for the departed

Science is a poem without rules, a solution to a twisted conundrum. Inside this poem are the molecules which make up every other poem, writ...

Take this role as a gift in two acts, your audience willing you to risk what they never could. Leave them with your lines ringing: why do w...

I saw you rouged in a dead man’s gore. I saw you work the diner. I saw the silence in your eyes fueling that barbed kindness, and though you...

I am the prince of melancholy, my face an unchanging moon, my voice like low tide. There is drama in my stillness. You think you know what ...

The content of this Otwituary has been judged to be too horrifying for social media; no firestorms burning through Home Counties, no fallou...

I hear a laugh from another room, the sound of Medusa cross-bred with a hyena. To see her up close is to step closer to death; death by st...

I saw Mephistopheles checking out of the semi-derelict motel just off the Kings Oak bypass; moustache, and sta-prest suit, already on his ...

Life is a non-stop cabaret, and this is the sound of the house band, pitched somewhere between bliss and blitz, songs to dance to, songs of ...

Beauty begets terror, terror begets horror; before you can blink, you see the screen closing in like the walls of a cell, noticing that eac...

Would you buy a used plotline from this man, who looks like a bear but walks like a stray dog, cuckolded in the name of drama, looking for l...

In the movies, there is always more than mere love and death; what about those dizzy ingénues, women caught between socialite and socialist,...

Isn’t life strange? I have lived mine through music, each era a disguise, each movement like a new religion. Not for me the future in the p...

Whenever I change channels there is the residue of a face in the blink before and after static, a man of a thousand faces, all of them the s...

I write this from my lover’s unmade bed, far from her paddocks and gymkhanas. She dresses me in hunting pinks, asks me to spank her with h...

Here is the mirror of a furtive England; telephone voices and antimacassars, foundation garments and Rotary Clubs, the arch drama of sweet d...

I ask, one primate to another, where I came from, imagining my simian family on their lonely hillside, their devoted steward offering gifts ...

It’s 1967; the master of scenes is found lying on a park bench in a city of words, reciting poetry in his sleep, the sound of a place, a tim...

Airwaves drip with saccharine in a poisonous world, but there’s a song that’s getting the funniest looks from everyone it meets. A man smile...

Don't you long for the old politics;? Where the middle way is still a way, where to have convictions does not mean that you have been co...

At the root of everything is bass; a fluid heartbeat picked out on four fat strings. Let them talk about technique; style is the only style...