Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…

Hollowed Out

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I opened my eyes, it wasn’t me looking out…

On the Bird’s Wings

I find it impossible to write you poetry;
dense, leaden, eyes like mine that strain

After the Parasites Came

I draw my grandfather’s lungs in charcoal spit the fluid in his throat; tremor in art as is the shaking hands when he goes to lift the tea to his lips. Making leaves in old mugs transferred to sipping cups and the brief illumination of the body...

The Grand Western

I don’t remember much of the days we spent together, roaming a water’s edge, watching black summer storms rolling in across the ocean; I remember Guitar Hero was my seduction, like clutching buttons too tightly was a sign of things to come;...

Mesnes Park

How coarse the street-piano’s language appears, how brutish and dumb when spavined hands perform ugly permutations in the air; conjuring that beastly Autumn, right before the rain. Our summers came wet, too; blistering light which made eyes –...

Night Terrors

When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;

She Wore Blue Velvet

The ceiling is covered in paintings, with no theme or substance or style but woman, and they flow down the walls like all of history…

Sometimes

Sometimes, we kneel in the shower with the pressure
and the heat turned up as high as they can go…

The Air Spoke

She places her cigarette on the edge of the desk and watches it smoulder. The sunlight catches the smoke in its hands…

Poetry

Hollowed Out

Hollowed Out

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I opened my eyes, it wasn’t me looking out…

Reviews & Poetry Reviews

Ramblings On: Will Varley’s Sketch of a Last Day

An apathetic romance, dedicated to the lamentation of modern ‘culture’. If one of the great artists of the past, a Da Vinci, a Michelangelo, or any creator you would care to name, was tasked with creating a small work of art, one to fit in the pocket, to raise the...

Prose

She Wore Blue Velvet

She Wore Blue Velvet

The ceiling is covered in paintings, with no theme or substance or style but woman, and they flow down the walls like all of history…

The Air Spoke

The Air Spoke

She places her cigarette on the edge of the desk and watches it smoulder. The sunlight catches the smoke in its hands…

Essays & Articles

On The Depressive; A Short Personal Essay

On The Depressive; A Short Personal Essay

I would like, if I may, to introduce to you a man. He is a depressive (hereafter to be used not as a term of judgement on a person’s personality, but of their entrenched depression), and he would tell you that himself. Neither he, nor I, would treat that term as a...

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