sharps (pot au feu)

i am sit­ting in a darkened cinema rolling a spiky metal ringup and down my fin­ger­s­press­ing in sharpto stop myself scratch­ing­sigils into skin again it’s his­tory          soup that has been sim­mer­ing­through generations…

Drifting

It’s the week­end again and the rain lashes the windows.I’d had some thought of weed­ing the garden, but the wind­Has other ideas. These arti­fi­cial dis­tinc­tions we make­B­etween work­day and rest — we’ve been home for 63 daysAnd one blends into another. I could have…

The 6th Great Extinction

There are no platy­pus under the bridge again today. It’s the fourth week in a row and we all ask each other Instead of hello, “Seen any platy­pus?” — hope­ful And each time, it’s “Not today… not for a while…” None of us know whether it’s sea­sonal, but we all fear It’s…

POETRY

Threaded with Golden Fire

We stripped of majesty Play loud with plastic money Lumin­es­cent in its shock. We stripped of honour Crawl over bal­us­trades, Weep over trav­esties, Place wreaths for rock stars, Walk over bones and Graf­fiti grave­stones, All the while know­ing That any semb­lance of…

Pain

This parody of sub­stance this hip­line pain, inex­act untouch­able, immeas­ur­able strips me down, stippled eleg­ance of tracery blade pared from bone and tingling

The edge of feeling

My body swells to fill its plump­ness liquids move pon­der­ously in a gut perched on pained hips and aching legs. I am ratch­etty breaths drawn and bones cracked, sinews tightened, stretched I aware shim­mery fever-blown, fly-blown, air-borne, eye-con­scious only in…

Chartreuse

The scream­ing shout­ing mad­ness Quivers on the tip of my tongue, Trembles in my lip, yowls in the Edges of my clench­ing. I want to Unleash hur­ricane fury, crash down A hand slap­ping a fly into obli­vion, An ava­lanche crush­ing beyond Recog­ni­tion a land­scape untouched. I…

Misplaced

I lose phrases every day I mis­place them and frantic­ally Search the house, pock­ets, draw­ers. Some­times I find them, but less often. It’s what I always thought If I don’t write, I won’t remem­ber. It all fades. I try not to go gently, Owen’s moans in my ear, whispering…

Stories

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Politics

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