A. B. Jackson was raised by wolves in Lytham St Annes. An acrobatic child, he joined the Quaker Circus at 12 but retired early due to a hairline fracture of the arse. He has been smoking so long his lungs are the size of walnuts. His first book, Fire Stations, was published by Anvil Press in 2003. He lives in Glasgow, and will be leaving it like shot off a shovel as soon as the first opportunity arises.
The Christmas Pet
A blood-sport refugee
kicking its heels in sanctuary.
It was an impulse buy,
spurred on by the children
and the straw season.
Care required, minimum:
recommended food, anything,
make the den inviting,
give the gold nose-ring
a good polish.
It did not flourish;
I offered barley and mash
without success. It grew
lean and repetitive, slow,
lean and repetitive. Now,
having churned up the lawn,
it patrols
the small circle of indoors
scoring things with precise horns.
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