essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
I wanted to be a part of their club, their conversations, their laughter. Eating, I decided, was my way in.
Stevie busies himself trying to match two blue pieces of sky. You watch him working the corners and the glands in your throat swell.
If you walk along a path
between forest and shore
between grains eroded by the sea
they were mountains once
I found that writing and art keep me sane, they’re like a room of my own in a time when I’m rarely alone.
Am I livestock or the boning knife?
Amongst the timid lambs, half-dreaming
Inside the atoms of the cavity block extension live the remnants of a thousand John Players.
They say a lot of the work of being poly is scheduling. When I say ‘they’ I mean smug influencers with poorly produced podcasts, and when I say ‘being poly’ I hate myself.
My family observes the emu cage. Beaks so vengeful, I realise we’re taking the piss.
I first saw her walking,
the folds of her ink blue dress
turning the earth;
But from time to time it does exist. Something like a stray lash under the eyelid
trying to catch its last breath.
at least the colour I’m told is
robin’s egg blue, like
boy-baby blankets, like
deep breaths of sunshine.
It’s these questions I have. (An astral whodunnit: a whydreamit).
