I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce my new short-story and poetry collection, Burn The Word.
There are roots I’ve always known which wrap around my arms, holding me deep inside the earth, breathing my breath. … More
After Kaveh Akbar There is this loveable saint: He sees me in fallen down ditches, covered in bracken.
‘How do you accessorise a bomb? I’d probably go for sprinkles instead of nails’
‘Do not look for my body, my wings, to do but what I make of them.’
‘We became as reliant as the ocean to the sky, as vital as the heat at the centre of the earth to the thin stem threading together green leaves.’
‘I wore a flag right down to its first and last threads.’
‘Being an artist means not averting one’s eyes – Akira Kurosawa’
‘Everything belongs to the rich; from your beating soul to your weeping heart, they bought it all many years hence.’
‘On one of the last days I reached out and closed my hand around your rough, scarred thumb.’
‘I look and sometimes see, sometimes read but mostly my eyes slide across your surface, not fully taking in what you’re saying.’
‘The woman took a bite out of the love of her life, and spat it out into the ocean.’
The first of two poems about homelessness. This is merely passing comment, but click through if you’d like to contribute to fending off the crisis in homelessness, by donating to, or volunteering with, Crisis, the national charity for homeless people.
‘Over-silted sand-filled wannabee footsteps shrouding the reeds in clouds of seaweed dust of mooring chain rust, bobbing buoys and clove-hitched up bleach blue bottles thrust out past waist deep as I stumbled passively in the shin-depths.’
‘Outside rented flatbread bakeries: no-one working; everybody smoking; rolling up those tarmac fumes.’