How blissful life would be if she was never born, From a cloud ready for thunder, a lull before the storm, A lullaby in waiting, a cradle yet to fall, A summer almost over, a winter baby, small. Everything is overrated, like a cycle of houseplants scratched into a CD, A lint roller on a cat's tongue, a fur-ball brawling with a tumbleweed, A torn cloth torn from the same torn cloth can’t buff a disk or clean a kitten, But when soaked into a molotov, makes gibberish of what sh

Where’s your sense of direction gone? Routed in another other time, When words were heavy to intention, And every split path had a sign...

What must I accumulate in the pursuit of a grey cloud, But introspection of the vapour in me? The fallen cannot be followed, though they...

There’s a room in a village that captures heat in a spot, Where a red rug rucks against a dusty guitar, And petals swelter smooth like...

‘Just a little bit to the left. Okay, and down a bit. Actually—no—just set it to the right—' Mum stroked her chin, tilting her head to...

I run my fingers down the basin of our pond, Drained, not dry—it hasn’t been long. My hand cramps a twitch like a fish out of water,...

My vicar’s the cliché of an old-age priest, Lips stained with blood of Christ as she saunters through the village. The tipsiest disciple, blasting Thunder Road on repeat, With a flock following her feet, mopping up her spillages. I saw her working once while visiting on a whim— Research for a prior piece, but I said little, cautious of sin. When I stood to leave, she handed me a book bound tight with denim, A testament transcribed to twill, Genesis to Heaven. She winked at m

What’s Armitage when I no longer, If the moon makes cup rings to stain the day? If nothing’s new, and the bridges are soot, Then why do...

Although, as you’re reading part three of this travel blog, you may expect some kind of order, I cannot guarantee the linear nor the...

Marks appear on the lesser mutt’s neck, Like the scar on your lip from a flashback. Go easy Gomeisa, rest Canis Minor, Carry your collar into a Sirius night. Emission lines scale your spectrum, While I watch and wait for permission. Maltese charters your constellation, And translates your body into an astronaut’s vision. My lens cap spins off into a fever dream, Your oscillations tempo my counting sheep, And though your cycle was so serene, I was drowning in mares of saturnin

Of course art imitates life; we are life, All we know is life and the absence of it. We know the truth, we know the lies, We know the...

Today's post is more of an announcement, as I have worked out how to deliver my poetry in a way that is more easily digestible to those...

In the derelict church down Eccles street, wicks kiss one another with fire on their tongues, and allonge with a passion that melts down...

They were stranded there, beside sea and sand, He was perched on grains of glass, she was beside Poseidon's hand, He thought she would be cautious, she thought the beach unmanned, It didn't stop her swimming, nor him digging with a spade that he'd found. Six foot deep, the hole grew taller than he, Peered out on the waves that were crashing on she, A strong swimmer in day, though the night had borne rapids, He was lost in the dark, she sank still in ripples. The tide approach

Beside toaster crumbs and ramen packet corners, Alongside bottle dregs of rum and hardened hand warmers, A pair of fists lay prone and ice protrudes from uncut nails, He hides them deep in pockets but the knuckle scars prevail. Instead he counts from one to three, and pushes down a memory, Though this time pressure overwhelms, and all protrusions pluck the helm. Too much, he says, to see things the way you feel, Too much, he repeats, to let simple things pepper the pill, Too

What exists in the space between my last post and this? Very little, but I'd be remiss not to acknowledge the betweenness that is birthed...

The ability to be an author was once exclusive to certain intersectionalities of class, gender and ethnicity. This circulated a specific...

I pulled the pre-rolled joint from my hoodie pocket, knowing it was the safest place to keep it intact. Trouser pockets, while being...

Winter Scarf I wear it like a scarf. That wretched constriction. Tossed across my throat. The fibers clung to each cut stump. I remember...

I thought it would be appropriate for this week’s blog post to run a Genius Lyrics on a song I wrote as part of a collaborative band...