creative writing & photography


2017-03-30 13.42.18Youth is summer.
Age is winter.
I lay these words next to each other like finches.
Their mechanical wing-buzz in my palms disappears.
Language is not Mathematics.


Future Perfect Continuous

Perhaps we aren’t supposed to reveal our bare knees past the age of forty, I don’t know. Does it matter, if they are pearl sheened? I am often entertained by the notion of every day sets of anxieties assailing me but all I can really do is be breath taken by the sight of Jacky dancing on stage. She’s only happy when she’s up there. I sigh, and everything falls away, every petty little human concern, every social scorn, dirty look, malicious compliment, disingenuous care, and find solace and completion within myself, and the universe myself is cast against, as is the Vitruvian man in all of us, palms and feet beaming with light conjoined to the stars. Here the words flow instead of rivers. Freed, we are bird books.

NB Never again will we be apologetic for our utmost intelligence.

All The Greek I Know / Όλα Τα Ελληνικά Που Ξέρω

20171203_115907Fish are thoughts
Ψάρια είναι σκέψεις
Who have to surface
Που πρέπει να επιφάνεια
To be tied
Για να δεθούν
in the tongue

μες στην γλώσσα
in the tongue
μες στην γλώσσα

He or she or she or he who risks wins

20171203_114058.jpgDon’t punish yourself,
my love.
How could you have known
the ways of the world.
The world of ways
of the world.
How could you have known
it would be like this?

You are spirit,
holy, prised
from firmament c,
a cut out
from a flame,
a bird
extracted like an old tooth
from the godhead
and dropped
into the atmosphere.

People are so strange.
They break the spell.
They have so much making in their hands.
They make everything.
They even attempt to make you.
Leave them,
my love,
although your desire
to be remade

is not wrong;
you were simply
in the wrong hands,
little dove. In the wrong
hands. Their hands
are holes
in the firmament.
Come to our golden hands.
That reach down from the skies.

Arms of art, arms of love, arms of creation.

This is the next step of your ascension.

He flies out the sky. He becomes a woman, and knocks, your front door.


All it takes

24294065_749154415286103_7617145679097188726_n.jpgJust outside every door,
a chance to redeem oneself.

Two thousand seventeen.
Even in the present.

The light is white and bright.
Everything touched by the light is touched right.

Gravity and its birdlessness
in flight.

It is showing time,
reads the night.

Did I get that right?
Poem, out of sight.


20171202_162111 (1)Continents are stars upside
down. As is time on the digital
computer with respect to the timelessness
of works of art. Kitchen
with light
and guy. Maybe me, maybe
not, a page is a veil,
who does it hide? Halo

on his shoulders,
round the top of his head,
a curve hold
of gold,
devastating with his tenderness,
endlessly charming with his…sweetness.

He could not be me, this guy, this saint.
He is beautiful, and I am an evil monster.

* * *

You spoke to me
today. You said, Deep within,
the stirring, thee fluttering, thy
stuttering, I rise, a dozen or so
of copper swimmers. Meanwhile I have been

telling me what to do, my mind,
my body, although, in both cases,
my mind and my body, although

mine, feel run by another mind, or
body, depending which is which.
It’s not even another person,
it seems to me from here like
an entity, an amalgam of persons,
a uniform movement of spirits,

carrying themselves above space,
and time, rhyming golden periods
of history with dark periods
of history, with a woman
and a man
in separate poems
writing rooms
and going sad
the feel mad.

it’s all part of the human experience
you cannot live without. Don’t become deranged
trying to change change /
the unchangeing.

* * *
You spoke to me
today. You said

20171202_163254 (1)

Throw us a beehive

There is no us,
There is you,
who, it seems,
is the truth.
And then there is me,
who is the lie,

Living separately.
Lives or deaths it depends how you look at it.
What cynicism and lack there of?
What is expected.

Get what one
pays for.

Son of a gun,
we are not one.
Look at these cities, those oceans, the sun:
I wouldn’t willingly do any of it.
Societal hats,
long skirts
and uncomfortable shoes:
not my rules,
But here I am. “Failing” at something
I couldn’t whole-heartedly do,
because it bores me,

truly. Us and them, we and they,
they don’t really care about us,
they don’t care about us,
Michael Jackson,
Placebo. Hey,
mother superior, give
us a kiss,

straight on the lips.
Spread your legs,
bend over,
take a fortuitous turn,
towards my face.
Come flying at me,
sprung from a catapult,
and I will catch you like birds
catch bees.

Yummy honey in the cracked shell and mechanical wings.

NB This was broadcast
and live.
20171201_120220 (2)

Thursday, 30th November, 2017

One can jump from choice to choice for so long before one makes a choice. Choose something, anything, but do it fast, because you don’t have all the time in the world. If you choose the thing you love, time will become background, instead of foreground again. Don’t think about it too much. Just choose it.
I’m rooting for you.


In the future my love
and I

are immortal luminous
goldfish in a bowl

circling each other.
No need to fear the word


Willisau, Switzerland, 1447

Our Killamore?
But she has such
beautiful red hair!
And she healed my
broken heart…oh!
They burn her