it was months ago when i picked rosehips along my path home by the sea, slipping each one like a little gold nugget into the pockets of my grey, zip-up jumper. i’d imagined doing it so many, many times, like a child in a candy shop, reaching up to pluck the beauties down; this time,…Read more i dream of rosehip tea.
poetry~
…That Thing with Wings
Autumn breathes on my face from afar — so fresh! — stirring every unique nerve ending to sudden, electric life. As if my mother’s cool hand rested gently on my arm, I’m startled awake. And out from the ashes of languid, summer days, my heart rises up and up, spiralling higher, higher, and higher still, feathered and beating…Read more …That Thing with Wings
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Capital
you reach out a hand to pull sky down the stars, yes the heavens themselves are but bread to you, so break it, break it all upon the ground, shake this broken universe until it begs for release from the ungodly bass of your voice; your ego polishes its own brass to trumpet a truth…Read more Capital
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Realism.s
My own particular brand of bleak is firm, and unambiguous enough to recognise our dark as a basic truth: the world-rending fire of the human soul is fearsome, yet only another face of the death seeded so deeply within us. But bleak is neither black nor white, only barren -- and what is barrenness but…Read more Realism.s
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Potent.ial
at the end of days all days, including today, I am terrified of tomorrow, as if every sleep is a death, a dreamless, black hole that will drain away and shadow all future colour and life ~ I know it not to be so, but there is knowing and there is knowing, and until I…Read more Potent.ial
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Poet (dried).
This is trench warfare. As bloody useless and harrowing as. No one really gains ground. No one really wins. Even waiting or withholding takesone to the grave, one torn limb at a time, a burning treespitting firey sapdesperately - not to live, you understandbut simply to discharge excess energy.I could throw some aged work your…Read more Poet (dried).
