All Blog posts
On Threads
By now you would have seen there's a new social network in town. Threads is a Twitter alternative made by Meta[^1] and closely linked with Instagram. I signed up out of curiosity and almost immediately regretted it.
Elsewhere
Between them is a canyon
They sometimes shine torches over the strata
of compressed time, with sweeping, shaking
hands. Eternity is present in their half smiles.
Personal Thoughts on Submissions
I've spent a lot of this year purposely retreating from my typical ways of writing, to try and reinvent my practise. As such I made a conscious decision not to submit to literary journals or competitions this year. While previously I have had some moderate success, I found I was basing too much of my perception of my writing on how it was received.
I love walking in the woods so much Im going to change my name to Forest
Here, under the glitter of a multi-coloured canopy I am finding a new serenity, the peace of lives measured in centuries. I am removed from glaring lights and constant haze, breathing in a million micro-organisms. My pulse no longer has the twitch and shuffle of muffled drum and bass bleeding through the wall from next door, my heartbeat settles to the pace of my slow stride. I have left behind the disarray of the city, exchanged it for the slow drowning of moss. I am stopping walking, gazing up at the branches and the distant sun, falling faster. Recently I have been too much concerned with electrical misfires inside my head, I have forgotten to watch lichen climb a felled trunk. My toes are rooting into the soil. They are sending signals into the mycellium network. It responds with a sustained hum. This long note holds me captive. I breathe out poison, nutrients for the leaves encircling me. We sway in symbiosis. My legs bend together. Merge. Time is syrup. Here is stillness. My pulse is. Slowing. To a beat. per minute. Hour. Days dropping. Dead leaves. Pile. Mulch. Regrow. My skin now. brittle. Wrinkled. Bark. What was. My name? I am. reaching. Arms. Twigs. Arms. Branches. To sky. My smile. Frozen. My blood. sap. I reach. Up. Decades. Collapse. Sky. Branches. Reach. towards. Light. Light. Light. Light.
Omen at Fishponds Junction
Down the central reservation he strode,
unbothered by exhaust fumes or concrete,
face encased in a leather mask.
Shiny
Roaming
Overnight, loam has been churned.
A fresh furrowed field before me.
footpath now forgotten, land lost
thanks to vast machines that chew
and crunch, split fresh green shock
into parallel mounds of uniform brown.
April 2023 Input
It feel like this year has flown by. April vanished in the blink of an eye. I enjoyed being fully recovered and starting to explore more of my new home. I also got out a bit more and did things, so reading time was reduced.
In these days of sushi terrorism
second hand bright ghosts collide,
lighting up our motorways in sparks
of emerald and indigo. Disruption
in the supply chain is our mantra,
repeated often to become meaningless.
Fish is mostly off the menu now
hidden currents flourish incandescent.
I barely think about my death machine
despite piloting it twice daily.
Watched by an arrogant pigeon,
I flex my fingers, ready to push
the correct button at the correct time.
I have trained for this all my life.