All Blog posts
Perseids
Briefly, over lightly settled night,
tungsten filaments flame out.
Sunk in owl hoots and the scratching
of small claws on terracotta pots,
we feel the planet spin below our feet
so fast there's no chance for dizziness.
Better Now
A flutter of flame consumed leaves
falls onto my crown, drifting embers.
The news was cancelled today
because there was no danger or threat,
no unwanted developments. There were no murders
because we melted down our knives and guns
to build homes, schools and hospitals for everyone.
War is now an archaic word, like famine
or suffering. Climate change was solved years ago
and every person has enough to eat and drink,
has all the resources and support they need
to thrive. Governments erased borders.
Money was always fictional, but now everyone
acknowledges it. Of course, people still die,
but it is never unexpected and always
surrounded by those they love. We know
every human regardless of race, gender, religion
or anything other difference, is a bright candle
that needs to be cradled and we need everyone
combined together to light up the dark.
Sky Sunk
Dungeness
Nothing grows here but sea kale
and spite. We walk towards a horizon
that refuses to get any closer,
under the sun's pixelated glare.
Our Voices in the Chaos- now Free
In 2018 I was writing poems and putting erasure poems onto Instagram (much the same as today.) A small press called Selcouth Station approached me and asked if I wanted to make a pamphlet around those erasure poems. After a lot of work, the result was a hybrid pamphlet called Our Voices in the Chaos.
A Reminder to Myself
If you are reading this on a screen
your face glowing cold and blue
your hand reaching out across air,
put down your device. Look around.
Cloud Song
As Above So Below
0.2
Mud as a river. Mud as a theoretical concept, the transistory state of matter rarely glimpsed. Mud described in complex equations. Mud as the consequence of our actions we refuse to acknowledge or take responsibility for, despite it chewing at our shins. Mud in our boots. Mud in our hair. Mud clogging up our pores so we sweat mud. Mud turning our hills to waterslides. Mud washing away our temporary shelters. Mud as a non-Newtonian fluid we can bounce across if we hit it hard enough. Mud as the inevitable future. Mud as penance. Mud as the herald, the herald of the flood.
Ambient II
After Aphex Twin