That was Yoruba

I get the fear, a lot. I often think I will never write anything of value ever again. Sometimes, I look back at what I’ve already written and consider it all worthless. Perhaps this is the writer’s lot, or perhaps just a particularly frustrating part of my own psyche. But if there’s one poem that I’veContinue reading “That was Yoruba”

Poem as punctured lung,

as bladder, wracked and spongy. Follow the language deep inside; pipe bone flutes into a dog’s rump, inhale and play. What’s on my mind? Cross-section of a larynx in full flow; sphinx at the open window as baffled kitten kitted out in rain-soaked mufti, tuft of ginger felt above the sphincter. Nothing says haircut likeContinue reading “Poem as punctured lung,”

Poem as bullet

A typographic rukus interrupts their dense arrangement of wires; language for its own sake was alone on top of a cold building. Steel performs a shedding of skin in reverse. The snake creeps back inside. In truth, the whole metropolis is bleeding from the guts and gums. To order space when we cannot even tellContinue reading “Poem as bullet”

How deep the rabbit hole goes

  { Everything you see, he explained,         is a thing. No ideas.  The drugs had gone deep.  A tilting sensation.         A goose on a lilo.  He taught me to reach with my hand  to the scar as it healed, never  healed, at the base of my skull. The itch.  Worms in a can.        Continue reading “How deep the rabbit hole goes”


I don’t have the patience or digital dexterity to mend my watch let alone produce the beautiful, handmade little magazines that Jon and Kirsten at Fuselit stitch together on a regular basis. Last night Fuselit put on a night called ‘Mixtape’ – seven writers, including Tim Wells, Simon Barraclough, Amy Key and Barnaby Tidman, readContinue reading “Fuselit”