
The poems of Mackerel Salad lure the reader into a series of disorientating situations which explore unreliable maps, being lost, trying to hide, and the nature of exploration itself. We travel through space, across seas, into a medieval medina, inside a disquieting hostel kitchen in outback Australia, and round and round and round a convoluted traffic junction in Brighton. All the while, the world won’t stop moving, routine and ritual cannot be relied upon, even names are wearing out, and today is the last day of the salad.