a(white)void OUT TODAY

‘Mind the black cat sleeping in the beauty spot gap,
shut the heavy door on this World’s Fair,
and forget the ten-to-ten Grantham rain
cocktails in Coach H
wear of where else tonight.

Baby, if I’m awake much longer than I may as well evaporate.'

This limited edition, pre-packed collection of self published poetry comes tailor made and delivered to your door - a(white)void is an invitation to escape the rush. Tim Knight (not an award winning nor critically acclaimed human) releases this as a last ditch attempt to defy cloud storage and subscription service living. This one off payment guarantees unlimited intermissions, repeated viewings and a permanent addition to your home library.

Available as a Boxset or Booklet.

Bonus poem with Booklet. FREE P+P.


for sale: slow writer and Post-it® fanatic.
ONO tele: 247

fuck this freezer and all who sail in her

in her impromptu defrosting seas,
piss poor reflection of what love can give.

Fuck making sail boats of these slippers;
fuck the unmopped floor.

Fly towards fuck on a plosive detour relief tour shenanigan: fuck gap year’s abroad.

Fuck tucking back in and getting to the floor,
fuck this fucking floor,
                                  because where we’re going we don’t need
as it’s always more
                      m     o     r     e.

Fuck holding on
to what will come,
fuck deer nests of fun.

Fuck legitimised demises,
fuck each and every one,
and fuck those daybed eyes from staring in from the back of that long run.

Fuck matinee opera tears and fuck these sad songs.

Fuck referendums; fuck cornfed meat raffles
let's all fuck Quorn instead.

Fuck the bruised peach cheeks of a black thin man,
fuck this LAN streaming land.
Fuck handcuffs, too, holding innocent hands
in the bathroom of this blues

and fuck the muck of these warm evenings,
I can’t sleep without you. 

Shy (advert to live cleaner)

Boycott the bards, they’re empty
save for minor desire for love unconquerable,
love foam,
love intolerable walking home hopeless
to the motivation of process,

and the yellow sweat of
everything gone and nothing known
gets thrown into the catacombs at 40
and I clean my bedroom after twenty five hours awake. 


Along with the last moment to complete any homework,
one was instructed to etch name, number and form
upon the tag that lurked within the rim of each new polo shirt,
every pair of trousers and that stretched, sleeved jumper
(better than any other in the house that were just the same).
Without those legal details properly stated you’d run the risk of losing them to lost property,
that orchestrated tub, dead sea stench, of pre-pubescent potpourri.

Now, all we wear is the earned income of a bestowed cognomen
and it embellishes the backs of our necks
and we mustn’t forget it’s all we have;
that, and our teachers.