Three Poems

by James Born John


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Pleased to Know the Night

​When the cravings really kick in
I remind myself of those
Mid-afternoon hangovers

The ones that sneak up on you
Quietly stealthily creeping crawling
Up behind the eyes
And the early boozy joy
Turns to a bleak cold soulless place

And there is nothing else for it
But to keep drinking
To keep pushing through and
Demanding of yourself a dedication
To your art
To you inebriation

So the day ends earlier
So the night comes quicker
So you can start again
The next day

I remind myself of these days
Now as the night creeps slowly
Sneaks stealthily upon me
And I am pleased to know the night

But fuck me
I would sometimes
Love a mid-afternoon hangover
And bring the night on faster

And begin again
The next day​
​

​When They Found Her Body

When they found her body
In a small living room
With sad light
The curtains were closed
And the stink

She had been there for
A week
Or more
Someone had called the council

They found her in a dress
From the early nineties
And shoes with the bunions
Bulging the cheap dirty white
Leather

There were no photos
Or ornaments
Except one of a young shepherd
With blonde hair
And there was a plate with
The Queen on it
Which she had been using
As an ashtray

But later when they were clearing up
They found a wooden chest under the
Stairs
At the back
And they opened the chest

Inside there were manuscripts
Hundreds of books she had written
Handwritten in a scrawled but
Elegant font

Some had titles like
“The Farmhand’s Fortune”
And
“She Sought a Lover’s Life”

Others called
“Death at Black Abbey”
And
“A Murder in Middelwich Village”

And attached to each one
Bound by elastic bands
Were rejection letters

From publishers
And more latterly
Agents

She was a novelist
None of her books were published
Or read by anyone else
Perhaps
But she was a novelist
And no one knew

And the books
Were quite good
The books in the chest
At the back of the understairs cupboard

They really were
Quite good
In time the books
Were burned​

​
There Is No Poem

I started to write a poem
About us
About you
So,
I thought about you

And got distracted

There is no poem

Except us.


James Born John is a writer, filmmaker and performance poet from the UK.


​​​​​​​​​SHARE - Issue: 2.1 / October 2026