are fur note
half a note yesterday passed to a teacher who appeared in a zen moment that said you are ready i’m running a kerouac road with the engine howling like ginsberg where it terminates an orchid blooming in liquid nitrogen fog turning after…
Tag: regular movement
a music, a painting
how free do you feel about saying fuck off? leaning into the wind of the stare of another? brother motherfucker tell some shithead he’s a stupid sucker i’m a music i’m a painting this is an “is” thing it ain’t an “ain’t”…
watch the birds
i’ll sit here and you sit there be aware i’m sending up a warning flare this is healthscare not healthcare spinning out of some kind of mistake in the heart of the people the waves break just how much are you able…
only ten people
like it’s a fucking selling point time and body out of joint the kind of day you want to anoint with a sneeze, with a cough everything feels kind of off but let us revel in the fucking trough people falling to…
every lessen
every lesson a dull head learns is something that a dull heart earns in the field the body burns narrow in the fallow until the crop returns flowers nodding seeds into the breeze colours bright amidst the dance of bees we were…
the wait of unknown soldiers
the weight of unknown soldiers here on unknown shoulders shrugging up from climates that are colder and seem more so as we grow older dead stories in a manila folder all the fields of fossilised truth not run away; that raintrap youth…
Unspool
Heat scatter. Atmosphere leak. They were being buffeted around; bodies being littered into the vacuum. Hunters in hot pursuit. Trying to fire up impromptu transit gates in an overly active theatre was a recipe for shrapnel spread. Hague punched the anchor-stutter button,…
past gravity
pick up the slack the let loose chaos a handful of dusky blooms cast across the floor to cushion the light footfall we were inside the barrier looking at the weather front the rain-blurred line and the impromptu shrine children arriving in…
A Simple Man
A simple man born into a time where people are not the same. Technology snakes its way through the umbilical and implants, unless like him you are born in a blackout. His mother’s friend-or-foe signal box failed to recognise him on several…
Turning Up
You do sometimes run out of things to say about writing. You do sometimes run out of things to write. What do you do then? You write about having nothing to write until something occurs to you. Turning up to do the…