Poetry
I Would Be Killed That All The Muses Are Dead, But They Are Becoming Outmoded Anyway & The Bullish Sexism Of The Whole Thing Makes Me Treat Poetry With Disgust – Better To Write In The Shadows Of Poetics, Than Turn My Hand To Poetry Again
z—-
with codeine to see her
ripped flesh & ripped bodice
both to trace the scars so
similar to mine & tell me
please
River Desire
creations bare bones
now fresh frost curves nudity
living silken suit
sky heaves as life leaves
tense and laboured atmosphere
ice rolls and rises
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
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...