And there I was, I was just hanging out, doing nothing. Then death appeared and said something dumb.

Welcome to Grief Club. This is death’s party and they know everyone. The Angel of Death is in pursuit, but their bicycle chain is rusted and you’ve already cycled across England. The pallbearers of my grief have slipped to their knees. I wander through the shifting gloom between streetlights, until I hit the reaching black of country roads — those corners you can't see around. The blazing hell of headlights. He's coming, he's coming for me. Angel Warwick is a poet from the South Coast of England, as well as an avid cyclist and consumer of scotch whisky that tastes like peat bog water. He left school at 12 and learnt to write in online poetry communities. For inquiries and support with the Grief Club, write Angel: adgwarwick@gmail.com