writing & photos


people were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep


untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

draft to end all drafts (but probably also the finished piece)

It’s not an island, it’s a tuberculosis clinic on the top of the mountain.

**

He was a fat little biscuit boy and a thin wiry running man and he stood at the top of the ladder with his oldest daughter weighing down the bottom.

**

Nobody cares what jesus was or wasn’t. I care so little it’s hard to type the sentence.

**

Too tired to handwrite, full of hate for saving word documents. Loathe to do it. Loathe to

Walk another step. God. Everything is gathering in my throat right before I make a single noise. God. I’ll offer you my body, I’ll offer myself up for anything. I’m so full of this. I’m so full of this. My head is grey and heavy. I can’t say a single word about the renaissance because i never bothered to recreate a reputation. 

 Who could ever string these ideas together into something that could ever happen?

I mean

I mean

A story that ambles. Who? I’m nothing but disjointed things,

Swiping a match off your own palm, hypnotising

Your friends so you can plant ideas in their brains, telling

them the world would go on if they died. The world would go on if they died

painting

murals of your lips on abandoned warehouses,

collecting seashell fragments in the back pages of a journal. I want the teachers to like me best.

I want the students to like my dress and hair, the others

Are far brighter and duller. I’m a fish in a plastic bag. No but I’m safe, the bag

Is a womb and I’m always going to be unborn. I can’t look at things

That move too fast without feeling like my eyes are tearing out of my skull. I’m finally learning the art of truth, I’m finally learning the art

Of telling a story: don’t do it, I’m training

To spill fragments onto streets, training

To hold a baby with water running down her spine, to turn the fog into a cat,

Yellow. To give it beady eyes. Yellow. To stand outside the houses of people I know and taste their cooking smells on my tongue. Collecting

stained things like some people keep Christmas cards or seaglass.

Everybody else knows what getting good grades means, nobody else

Lays on their back on a sandy beach and says “this is me, take me”

I collect things from you, I never want to walk to school again.

I collect things from you, we’ll never live in a bubble. 

I’m scraping metaphors from the bottom of a dried up pool. Empty with cat hairs stuck to the sides, and an angel boy drowned in that pool intoxicated on nectars and tequila

He tried to swim, his wings got so wet. They dragged him down and the chlorine turned his blonde hair green when they found him in the morning.

I forgot what it was like to go the pool every evening in the holidays and cycle back uphill in damp swimmers towel-draped. I’ll never say “things were simpler then” because even I won’t idealise that,

You’re the first person I didn’t idealise. When I write “you” I always mean the same person. I’d curl up in the air you breathe, invisible if it meant i could be there

I want to be there

I don’t know where “there” is. I swear

I’m not just going through the wanting motions.

You should drive me

To the sea where my year used to slow down and now it’s only filled with longing, let’s not go

To the cape of land where it rained so much on boxing day and

Where a boy who hunts fish with spears and diving apparatus spun me in circles in a pub and he treated me like I was so beautiful that I felt ugly and confused as response.

He had fish lips, I’m an ocean. I ran home in the rain and then floated in river water with a seal spinning in currents and a red sunset.

I want to yell at girls who have done things that I’ve done things too.

But I’m not the same girl who wrote metaphors about silver studded sky. I’m not. Right now I’m not defining a thing,

This is just time. It’s all time. It’s all falling apart but also too solid to even tremble.

I exhale the fog of a whole city, it bloats me like a balloon and I want to glow. I’ve always wanted to radiate something,

Pure and clear and wonderful.  I nearly died on the bus today when I saw the girl I am,

I forget I forget I’m not everything.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.

untitled on Flickr.