The Fog

The Fog always seems so thick
once inside. Enters the lungs
can barely breathe, and everything
seems so far away except the
Black wall in front of you.
I used to hurt my head on it
running at it
now I can do it from over here
Enters the heart, the veins, the brain

I can smell chocolate, cinnamon
and have the dull feeling of standing
on the edge of a cliff

I can see the sea
The breeze is so beautiful
so clear


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Image by Nguyên Lâm


Scarecrow in the middle of a field
in front of the trenches

They look over the sandbags
at peace
Their eyes sit still on the figure

it raises it’s arm, the scarecrow
and commands it down

Then, in Power
with great intention
it holds it’s ground

it pulls out a flute
and begins to weave a melody for the rats.
Their slumber eases.

Gracefully, they move forward
in Droves
in Droves

and stand side by side
with the scarecrow in the middle of the field
in soltitude

The rats raise their right paws
and place it on their hearts
in fists

The grey wind blows
a moment of silence

Upright, they move as one
on two legs
forward into the mist



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Image by James Wheeler


A man follows me around
a childlike shadow
that echoes through the school hall
and to caramel fridays

I kept it with me
Tried to put it down but it
stuck to my skin
I couldn’t bring myself to brush it off

It festers in my throat
Speaks for me when I am weary
Does things that I wouldn’t do-
-The scowls
Like Alice in Wonderland
when I followed the giant Rabbit

He had a pocket watch
I saw it in plain sight

There was nowhere to go
I saw it in his eyes



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Image by Sabian Symbols

Doom Cocoon

When I’m pulled in the direction of my doom
A cringed face
A tug on my gut
That feels at once so wrong and at once so right
Like I enjoy my own demise
Like the rush of a vanishing act gone right
I could show you all in a moment just who I really am, including the shadows



I scream silent throbs in my head

and I swallow the pleasure whole
I don’t even taste it
Just want to drown underneath it
Like my favourite blanket
So that i can’t hear anything anymore
except the dull hum of this womb-ish cocoon

A respite from the responsibility of my own pain,

My shallow deep breath,

and a waking sleep for my soul


but it doesn’t want to be asleep.



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Image by Kristina Paukshtite

Autumn Rain

Wednesday evening in the autumn rain

The quiet echo’s through time. This evening I shared it with Edwardians; on these very streets.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

The tap of footsteps on familiar ground

and strangers faces in familiar clothes making familiar sounds,

moving up the long avenue of paving stones towards some piece of mind.

I followed the quiet up the high street. Luminescent men made a circle around the film set – our sacred stories – and a woman played drunk and lonely, and the cameras were there, until they were out of sight. I stood outside and watched.

I heard the whispers again.

I took the backstreet to my right and walked my own path. The street guided me along its edges and enfolded me in it’s warmth as I took the road home. The streetlight winked at me and glowed a knowing look from the puddle. The rain splittered into it; with it, and danced in the crispness of the evening

The Abbey stood patiently watching over the city, and the tree’s nestled their sleep over the cobbles.

Pottering home, I took deep breath of cold air and remembered my love of this city.



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Image by Emre Kuzu