All Blog posts
Sometimes Things Just Suck
CW: Death, grief and politics
Uncertainty
Erasure poem taken from Crack magazine
In lieu of flowers
those placeholders for unspoken
sorrow, please send instead
the first sunny morning in spring
when mist evaporates like breath
as buildings and smiles are preserved
in amber. Send vivid, realistic dreams
where you reunite with long dead
friends who embrace you and laugh
and ask 'Why you are so distressed,
can't you see everything is fine?'
Quick Thoughts on Sub Genres of Poetry
I hadn't been to a poetry event in a little while, so when I saw Milk Poetry were doing a special horror themed slam I signed up immediately. My work has often traded in the bizarre and surreal, mixing elements of horror in with poetry so it seemed a good fit. I performed G-Man which has become a favourite of mine. I didn't win, but that's not really the point of slams for me. It was exciting to see so many horror poets perform.
Redefining My Website and Whatever it is I Do
Around July of this year, my site threw a strange error while deploying. Usually I would spend a while googling how to fix it so I carry on as I was. But I was growing dissatisfied with my static site generator Jekyll anyway, so I threw the whole site out and rebuilt it using a different program called Eleventy. It's still a work in progress but it does most of what I wanted it to do.
Announcing Emergence - A Poetry Pamphlet
A few years ago, I stumbled on an article about the idea of panpsychicism where consciousness is a part of everything. In this theory, the face we can think and dream is an emergent property of the universe itself. I'm not sure I fully believe this theory, but something about it stuck with me.
Between Skyscraper Atolls
vast vague humanoid machines
plunge deep into gloom and glide;
each elbow engine oil encased;
each articulated camera swivelling,
scanning sea beds for patterns.
Going Live
if they drag you from your car
aim blows at your skull
try to burn down your hotel
Abyssal
Dark of course, but dancing shades
that lap and swirl and churn and roil.
Her eyes have depths she did not realise.
No sound but the slap, clap
of the metal hull bracing, leaping.
The First Day of Mourning
Soon, they joined together in hordes
of increasing size, shudders running over
their bodies like waves in a storm.
They sat together over the cenotaph,
the shopping centre, spilled out into two
lane roads, holding each other as their sobs
became life rafts. Confused crowds watched,
unwilling to leap over to understanding.
Soon traffic stopped altogether, drivers
unable to see through salt water.