Poetry
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Charting a path, navigating the dense straggly-vined rainforest, past lives wehave left to hang and dry, look at how brown their bodies are, these woven hemp-rope effigies, these forgotten memories and elegies; with a machetein hand I cut through the past time line by line. Forging a clearing in the middle of nowhere we send
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mindful, now of the knife / fingers spread and tight-lipped / keep the secret of how to cut behind pillars of flesh / find the time to learn how to sever the here from the now / these are two different concepts / distinguishable periods in time / boredom pushes us to do these things
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Stressland stressland stressland stressland Children memorising endless numbersland Unpublished mental health statisticsland No such thing exists as a poverty lineland Stressland stressland stressland stresslandLaws and statutes lining the sidewalkland Houses so tall they swallow in shadowland Fall in and/or jump out of an airplaneland Stressland stressland stressland stresslandWhere the points don’t matter but actually they
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Sycophants gathered around the table. Every living person is a musician today,their sleek extremities pecking away at dusty keyboards. To become educated is to learn the exact limits of your freedoms.To see how far the arm can reach, and where it will get caught by the jawsof a departing subway train. What is the point
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I’ve been obsessed with shaving recently. I’m not sure what it is about it that fascinates me – blade on skin, scraping scraping scraping until the board is wiped clean. If I shave every 2 to 3 days, and I wash myself after, eventually a full head of hair will form itself somewhere in the
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Four corners to everything if you try hard enough. To find the junction where Wall A meets Wall B is a matter of imagination. To fit one body into another, an act of cooperation. Reconciliation. I cannot help it but picture the world in blocks. I have never played Minecraft in my life, but I’ve
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Prompt courtesy of Max Pasakorn: “fairy lights” In the halls of my dreamscape there is a endless room, dressedin fairy lights and photos of the days when we were not split apart by the axe of time. I hearsoft music, sneaking its way in-between bed-sheets, and it is night-time, and we are surroundedby ourselves and
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“The enormity of my desire disgusts me.” – Richard Siken Three black swans in the lake, their necksa crooning of flesh. Where is the fourth, I am tempted to ask. In my head, people falllike bombs into districts. Divisions, living rooms within a venn diagram, or a pulse. I imagine the cross-section of a bare,
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Words on the wind. Whispers in the sand, they all tell me that my words will mean somethingto nobody. A reassurance in the form of a briar tree, long-felled by a rusty axe. Why rusty? I don’t know.When I think of violenceI think of the colour brown.I think of the taste of iron, the taste
ugly stage 