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

i’d like to do a piece on breathing in general

in hos­pital Pho­to­graphs of hos­pit­als always look more pro­saic than the real thing. The sur­real nature of bore­dom and com­plete lack of stim­u­lus is not really con­du­cive to poetry. Any writ­ing will come much later when the idea of being attached to the oxygen in the wall…

Elegy for Tracey

I A dream in which the women were like Venus made me think of art and you. You’re a bot­ti­celli-baby; if I dipped a sheet of paper into your mind, it would come out marbled in oils and water­col­our and with bits of moul­ded clay on the edges. Equally, you sculpt with…

Unsolicited Advice

Wor­ship where you can lest life become empty earth­en­ware or barren circus rings. For some it’s a world of water­col­our mood: search for it, hold it fast if you find it. Where you feel like scream­ing, do. Sound also can lift into the void and echo some­where. If you need…

Midnight; black-tie;b.y.o.

In theory, I can only write like me, but real­ity is less defined. I do my best not to steal from others, but some influ­ence is obvi­ously inev­it­able. If it could be wished into being, like a genie, I’d have a style that would shout my name. As it is, the lines are…

reality is for people who can’t handle drugs

reality is for people who can’t handle drugs

easy now time is a fra­gile word betrays its obscur­ity like a whis­per past and future blend into a dream that might come true. life’s a series of phys­ic­al­it­ies but how to report myself on the miss­ing per­sons list remains a prob­lem. it used to be I could look into a…

Stories

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Politics

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