Dan Bowan




Sartre in the park.


It is October and yet I left home without a jacket

This warmth is nauseating

The pale orange horizon brings memory of sickly sweet


Come and gone

The cloud angel-whipped across the



Will not disconnect

Will not relinquish its force

Weighing upon you effortlessly

Like the fat school bully

Pinning you to the grey playground concrete


It is October but I left home without a jacket

The scientist explains the colour

Is born of desert sand and distant fire

And a hurricane’s dying breath


Our star glows Apocalypse Red

Meaningless and bored

He hangs there observing

Holding on for his sister to take over the

Night shift.





Dan Bowan lives in South East London and writes prose/poetry and short stories. He has been writing for over 15 years been published in various independent magazines and art papers.  See more at: www.channelzeroprose.blogspot.com









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