Frank Black is a person. He writes good and does other stuff good too.
He can be found at The Steak Manual
Play
A living room in a dark flat, sparsely furnished.
Frank sits in an armchair. Claire, Frank's acquaintance sits on the IKEA sofa. A small television flickers in the corner of the room. They are watching a VHS of Watership Down.
FRANK: I want to go to a fucking beach and skim stones.
[Pause]
Escape everything.
[Pause]
I feel like I'm fucking trapped inside a Francis Bacon triptych.
CLAIRE: I feel empty.
FRANK: I want be feral.
CLAIRE: Je suis Frank; I'm a fucking wolf-child.
FRANK: Fuck you, Claire.
CLAIRE: You're a waste of valuable resources, Frank.
FRANK: I know.
Poem
Delicate amber;
Liquid ambrosia.
Quench the unending,
relentless,
insatiable,
thirst.
I lack the restraint,
and the willpower,
to believe in moderation.
Prose
Frank hauled his bedraggled body from his futon, shambling through his ramshackle of a flat, meandering towards the kitchen. Frank grabbed a clean looking mug and turned on the tap. It slowly and loudly sputtered to life, gushing at an unnecessary pace. Returning to the room; he carelessly dropped onto the mattress, splashing and sloshing water around the room. Opening a drawer of the bedside cabinet, he removed a small box. Frank took a co-codamol and ibuprofen with the water. Frank listens to Jarvis Cocker's Sunday Service. Frank thinks of Harold Shipman. Frank is soothed to sleep.
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