[indistinguishable marks]

nothing really matters. not the crows poised trilling with neat claws and important feathers in the corridor drenched with expired notice boards. not the pale white light boasting leftover liquid cereal on dark nights of slobber spinning drunk over sloshy rain slabs and honks that pull you up. not the Kiss, or the sheets thatContinue reading “[indistinguishable marks]”

[if poetry is dead]

If poetry is dead then I am long gone Forget I am writing even as I am speaking Throw the book in the river Bury the sounds I make under-ground. If poetry is dead then I am weeping for if ears have been hiding then what I have been saying Recall the lost sonnets, essaysContinue reading “[if poetry is dead]”


in my dreams, i am often standing in an empty field of barley. my fingers curl around the bristly heads, as they wait. poised like school paintbrushes to be plucked by warm hands and flung across the country. made into muesli. sloppy soup in frosty bowls that heat an eighteenth century country house like aContinue reading “porridge”