A box room,
Cardboard house,
Row upon row stamped, pressed, grey copied.
Here, poverty smells
And crime bubbles silently.
Meditation; a cradle – stilling the heartbeat slow.
They can sense a body breathing
In this home.
Where the oozing of slime, see-through and burning
Hangs from floor to fridge door.
Disinfectant thick pulls at my
Gluey white rice. Remnants a graffiti
Or stereotype
Whilst the tea towel
Wipes wetter
Strokes upon crockery glaze that cries at night.
Mechanised, upside down,
Placed aside.
The strip light buzzes
Desolate tones.
Teardrops slide down my Suicide bowl.

Now the cradle is bronze. A pipe dream –
Container of paperwhite
Yellow powder shades
That fit loose as lucid dreams.
The flame I introduce turns serpentine.
Interested, throwing licks, conversing with
The bowl and my fingertips.
Flickers fall on the shine of shapes
Predated warped corners and open centres.
Theatre masks with haunting laughs
Twirling, by the serpent, an open casket
Or hot carcass, together we play. Between
A smoke screen he digests,
I inhale deep breaths.
We are both shy and territorial.
The gauze, a stage strewn, painted white
Like rose petals
Or dripping black brown whispers.
A fairy tale.
Teardrops slide down my suicide bowl.

Brackish zips, petrol sluice,
Ripples rinse in
As dawn is spent pacing a
Public house on the hill.
Shards – mirror mirror
On the wall versatile.
Tabletops, table hops –
The cleaner, the stool.
London clay. The pickpocket- prodigal.
Softly softly
Her cradle rocks. Tick tock.
Senescence red – the modern smile.
Laughter is an echo underground,
Hung round corners. Living upon
Tiled routes braced semi-circular. Terminating
At analogue station stops
Where the jester rocks, falsity
Ringing his strings. Jangly.
Laughter sits mocking upon
Un-creased clothing and
Sole taps going somewhere.
An echo turning to cries
Skimmed inside red brick
Splintered smoke frame colours
Possess a portrait of mother’s beaten riverside.
Thuds upwards – ace of spades.
Staircase spiral
outside. sounds of the
Knife dead mist, tool
Of the river, tightening warbling.
Pulling through knot work shadows
Sharpened by haunts of a curlew downstream.
I collect the touching of bridges
Upon rivers.
Queen of hearts.
Teardrops slide down my Suicide bowl.

Picture by Annie Spratt (Unsplash)

Darling Come Home

A year and a half ago, I lost my brother, overnight and was overwhelmed with shock, pain, grief, and confusion. On the night he was admitted to hospital we waited, my mind was awake all night and I wrote. I wrote to him, to come home.


The smile, the colour, the undertone –
Double doses, doubled over
Syncopated but not sustained
Rhythmic and retching – Darkness does this to me.

Sunlight stretching. Distant dappled.
Where is mine – Midnight, moonshine.
Tongues and insides. Downers and downsides.
Words like sweat: rolling, tumbling, invading

Numbers and fractions. Count, tap –
Division is the only answer
A shadow, a split, a taste.
Flesh is absorbing, creeping and crawling
Minutes in monochrome.

Weight and whiteness – pounding, ounces.
Flicker, fetter, resenting dimensions.
Shapes and shivers
Etching lines and spaces.
Two hands, four limbs, they’re shaking –
Tremors and murmurs, heat and faces.
Mimes and designs that turn on the outside
Reaching eyes and houses like dances.

To cut, to colour, to mourn.
Shading and placing and hiding
Just words, just nods, just silence
Just me.

Picture by TL (Unsplash)


I wrote this song at a time my flatmate was dating a number of guys and hadn’t had much luck finding the right guy until she met one off Tinder and fell in love. At the same time, another friend was going through her first ‘puppy love’ relationship and this song was inspired by both relationships.

I fell in love with Colors

I feel in love with colors once,

They’re bright, attractive allure,
Drew me in time and time again,
Fingers dancing on the edge of my heart,
Caressing and sighing, teasing laughter echoed in my head,
Colors drew me close, whispered beautiful things,
I saw stars in so many different perspectives,
Saw the sunset every day and each time gasped with the portrait that bleeds into the sky,
I fell in love with all the colors,
Never questioning why,
And they all broke my heart.

The day I saw things in black and white was when I met you,
When the colors had drained me dry,
Taking whatever they could,
I still hear the haunting laughter and my heart lurches.
(And it’s shameful that I miss seeing the sunset,
How the stars shone, the way the night sky bled)
The black and white, though,
It was so dull, simple and so transparent I wondered what caught my eye,
It wasn’t the vivid imagery it drew in my mind,
Couldn’t have been the thrill or excitement,
But…something still made me stay.
(Maybe I was trying to heal the mess colors left smeared across my heart)

Black showed me there was so much more to my darkness,
How shades of grey told a story,
How the midnight hue told an endless story across that same night sky,
How the white bright stars shone in a new, different way,
Colors had bled me,
But the comfort of black and white,
Of you,
Made me learn to create my own colors,
Shining bright and bold,
Mixed with a touch of your own color pallet.

Picture By Ian Dooley (Unsplash)


Nine months, twelve years –
Embryonic, ultrasonic
It’s all shapes and sound.

Developmental, ornamental –
Entrails entail
Out of hands and underground.





Tiny steps, tiny spaces –
Faceless and traceless.
Bodily fluids, the only residue.

Delivered in darkness, delivered in bunches
Red and black and blue
Uncurling, unfolding, unscented.

A tapestry, microscopy –
Fingering fabric, fibres.
It’s all layers and layers.

Plaintive, painted.
Lips and swirls and golden curls
Open mouthed. Falling down.

Oxygenating, dilating –
Undoing, undressing, unmoving,
It’s all physics and movement.

Smiles to conceive, smiles to resonate –
Terminating, perpetuating,
It’s all white and grey and matter.

Picture by Alex Hockett