Poet, Writer, Media Maker, Facilitator

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Posts in Verse
5 0 0 0 H U R T S

This Insane thing is Just the Beginning, I have a Poetry Pamphlet, Published by Burning Eye Books, released in October 2019. that might just be the start of something.

the book is A poetic experiment in the act of making poem from trauma, 5000 HURTS uses Tinnitus, rather than scarring or viscera as its central metaphor in an attempt to get closer to the poetic truth of contemporary suffering and our relationship with ‘hurting’.


But, more than this its an experiment in what I can do on the page, there are poems that are impossible to perform, poems that are announcements, poems that are ritual magic, train announcements, safety briefings, dreams. this is as far as I felt comfortable reaching into the void with a familiar subject to guide me.
and the first time I have seeded any work with elements of myself.

I Fucking hope you feel it. I really do.

5000 HURTS is available from the ThinkwriteFly Shop from the 18th of October 2019

Epitaph to.

cloud swell ushers in the haze
occluding all but satin stone.
beat smooth by north by northwest winds
holding fast, with greater chance of rain
each lintel every crowding part
that layers slivers
down the brickwork blood and
heather sprouting cobble,
is salt as part of It Is sea.

There’ll never be a better son, than the man who died inside.
There’ll never be more love for rooms that offered shelter,

heat and life
but never love

each lintel
every mortared dart
that shivered to the passing dirge
combustive thunder tarmac triumph
drawing closer

till it breaches
groundswell turns
the latter days to history
as the masons crack
the mystery shivers down
the plaster casting
love and life to spoil

Insomnia Suite #1

Sounds like thunder, smells of heat

Air, thick
heavy with bass, a rumbling baritone.
Skies bearing little, often.
Static apprehension greets the probing hand.
Fingertips parting the density
in Inquisition
bought, part from boredom,
part paid with lack of sleep.
Mauve hangs below the black.
A deep internal oration
Roars
Sonorous from the dark.
Then my night rain begins.
I catch the raindrops for a moment.
Taste the heat and smoke of cities.
Then return to my ceiling,
the mattress at my back,
and the freedom falling
torrentially outside.

 

Sooner still, I’m wakeful

 

Silence in sleep and listless dreaming Lie,
Beyond the soundless screaming of the deep.
 Rage upon the night, in which we writhe and
Feast upon the starlight paper-thin.

 I’m little in the pitch thick black of sleep,
To stop the thoughts, to hold them back means less.
I curl with pressure, underneath the sheets,
And keep the fierce pulsation in my breast.

 My mausoleum creaks, despite its age
this oblong tomb is empty as the cross.
My masters, sires of sleep mourn at the loss
My soul lies in remembrance of the day.

As hours pass, the moonlight breathes its song.
To drown the amber streetlight drone, in vain
I make peace to the silent space beside me,
and vent my heart's frustration at the pain.

The safe in which I lie, impenetrable.
The stone that guards my wake too thick to move.
The Sandman tired of luck must fade away.
In fear of coming dawn,
of coming day.