Poetry
Kingfisher III
I am too weak now
to push the broken shells
away from my bed
so I sleep
in the bodies of our children
& dream of what they could have been
Beautiful & Meaningless
were I a painter
& could distend light
across empty skies
I would paint the bodies of Christ
as they rolled in their eternal
loves & agonies
3 Small Mercies
& I know it is dead
for a living heart
would erupt from the seat
& race to me & damn the world
as I would damn the world
if it would beat for me again
Kingfisher II
to feathers & silent songs I go – still
trapped in the prosaic silence & no wings
can lift a pen so heavy with ink enough
to sculpt you from the page & no voice breaks
through a beak bound so long
to sing your praises
Prose
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…
Like Ravaged Porcelain
‘To tread upon the boards; a fool, a fool! To burn beneath the light and bleed into the blinding space!’
Essays & Articles
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...
The Empty Breast of Intellect: A Short Essay On the Ingrained Opposition to Intelligence
Capitalism, the apparent victor of history, has done what all dogmatic ideologies and cultural systems tend to do, in the end. It has promoted and, indeed, cemented the dissolution of generally intellectual thought in certain areas. Whilst technology has grown, and we...
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