The rain fell
down our faces
like it did on the
fresh fruit
of spring. Would
these cheeks contain
the sweetness
of their brothers
and sisters, still
spinning on the

I’ve been plucked
by eager hands and
forced to ripen 
before my time.
I hope you know
you get what
you ask for.You
wanted me and 
now here I am
green and sour.
I would have loved
you in my own way
had you just let me fall. 

But time keeps
turning like
an empty stomach,
couldn’t bare to
watch you fall
into the neglected
bed of soil

So instead you let
me rot away in 
your arms. I'm yours
now but come 
winter when my 
spoiled and jaded
flesh begins to peel
away and you see
my core for what
it really is, seedy
bruised, immature and
tasteless. What then?
I suppose there is 
always fresher fruit
to be found. 

I’m born to the city and I’ll damn well die here


oh, cowardly dreams of my father’s promise land:
ten bone thin hounds
ten steps in the pavement
before mother earth cracks.
see but beauty is beauty but beauty
is not beauty to the word.
it’s the watchman’s wife, his watch, his gun;
love, all packaged and processed and good.
it’s the horizon, swelling orange
banner around the watchtower.
it’s the prisoners
and the stars above the
consciences they mined.
heaven serenades me in the sunlight
but in smokestacks, baby, it loves me down

while i drown in the yellow
of futures built upon the cold knees
of a figure of bold brass
and concrete solid
architecture to hold
me captive
and listening to the rhythm
of days spent
credit unpaid for goods wasted
decaying while bent eyes
avoid empty stares
at the sores that spill across
perception, visions
tinted grey, the shades
of industry and hazy mist
that settles upon this organism
every morning, swallows
the innocence of hearts and lives
turned in and over.

Collab: angleafterangle in plain text, onnothingandeverything in italics.

Squared Up Ghosts.

A lovely collaboration with the best in the west, mickeymichal who is in regular font, myself in italics.

Time unfolds like a snake, there’s only more room for pain, we tremble at tight fingers holding alcohol, we need more smoke in our lungs, we need the starvation to finally settle in, the little talks to become big, we need the correspondence of yours truly to take us out into more morbid dreams, we need the house to be empty, our muses to be free. Encapsulate your mind until your cubicle overflows, paper memories unable to be shredded, computers hardwired, electric neurons re-depositing all that was lost amidst assisted coffee runs in order to save your own skin in a rain without an umbrella, a sandwich without the bread, the pieces of you squared up into a box with no flaps to breathe out of. As it unfolds we cannot reuse the cardboard, everyone has moved onto plastic.

Up and out.

And sometimes, the smallest girl grows up and out until she is sure the tips of her fingers will graze wisps of sky. Despite everything she keeps her arms locked at her sides.

Chin tucked into chest, she smiles. Secretly, she knows what it is to be endless. 

At night, when there is no one left to look, her arms reach so she can cradle starless sky. Nimble fingers shred clouds like tear away pieces of cotton candy.

She allows herself a taste and then back to the business of gathering dreams.

She lives humbly, hiding cotton-candy magnificence from the others. The others make their business normality; not as exciting as dream gathering, but with better hours.

 The smallest girl doesn’t care about this though, she’s happy to spend her daylight hours fabricating the illusion of being infinitesimal.

This way, at night she can become all the more tremendous.

It’s then that dreams become her strawberry jam and tea cake, her flowery wallpaper or her eccentric aunt: one of those peculiar little pleasures in which one indulges from time to time, but never publicly or with friends.

She keeps her compiled dreams for herself, locked away in a leather-bound notebook with a cloud for a book mark. She looks at them when she’s alone.

The smallest girl holds the door open for you and receives no thank you, the smallest girl gets a haircut that no one notices, the smallest girl never gets more than a second glance from people in the street: she’s practically invisible.

But you should keep your eyes peeled for the smallest girl, because one day you might come across her and not pass her by. And if you notice her and you stop to appreciate her and you’re very, very careful not to step on her, she might just let you see her full height.

Trust me, it is worth the wait: For in her quiet growth there is an astounding beauty that confounds the ordinary with unusual wonder; sweet as candy floss, twice as addictive, and infused with the odour of far off dreams. 

Good luck finding her.


Estee- italics
Ford- regular text 


…wanted to grab those stars that seemed ever elusive, despite the peculiar cadence of dangling limbs. The tops of nearby maples had turned brown and leaves met hibiscus in a silken embrace. Strong winds were heavy heads and hands attached to my chest. Slumber calls.

Fingers float on air, night breezes carrying a lover’s gentle touch. thoughts flicker like distant galaxies in endless indigo, too high to grasp, despite fervent wishing. Some things are ever destined to lie beyond the reach of reality, only held close in sleep.

Lie in.

In the morning,
raising a stretched hand,
light kisses each of my fingertips
as you do.

Sun rays carve themselves into sheets,
fickle in the way they divide
themselves across cotton, casting
shadows and driving us reluctantly
from slumber.

We fight the final moments of dawn
as sheets become heavy, forgotten plans
find their way to consciousness
and the noise of the day 
grows to crescendo.

Back arched and toes curled,
eyes clamped shut in protest,
I prolong the night in blanket caves,
delaying the rise of day
with you.