Featured

Platform

Layers

Snaking layers

Dropping through gaps in moving layers

Turbulence

Graphic sideways view of multiple swapping options

Drop.

You see the side of me

I flip to go backwards

From face on I’m a black line – the same when I face away

My limbs a jarring representation of real ones.

My hopping form gives the illusion of movement.

Layers slide on.

Featured

Plants and sex (For goodness sake)

I’m not really that into plants,

I mean thanks for the oxygen and stuff,

But I’m not fussed,

I mean I do need them to eat, as do all other beings.

And I am a vegan, I mean – they’re cool and useful and necessary blah blah,

But.

The thing is.

When I write about plants,

I always turn them into human bodies,

I make it about me and other people I’m missing or I missed out on or whatever.

It’s not that I’m turned on by plants or anything,

It just happens, and before I know it I’m shamelessly writing about sap and wood and buds and growing together and all this.

There’s something about soil I like, imagining writhing around in it like a worm and being all free and wormy,

That’s kind of like sex,

Good sex anyway.

Being a little creature and doing what feels natural.

Maybe it’s because I’m just a little bit repressed in my day to day life and I like the way plants just branch out and be themselves (ha).

I use them as a conduit to talk about other things,

It’s just as well really, sometimes things can often get a bit anatomy focused and medical otherwise.

Anyway I’m going to stop analysing myself now.

*Leaves.*

 

landscrape

that grass-roots feeling of loss

that cliched unsaid unfinished shiz

that heart-worm burial

that digging notion of things gone wrong

the unfixable memory convoy that won’t leave and parades up and down my mind

aisles and the corridor’s tight and the squeezing march grates on the sides and drags

me down with it

that corn fed turd that is you

a handprint on my psyche

a snow angel on my lawn

parasite

untapped texts ache my skinny fingers and my back is a cracked mess

my muse is a twat i once met, so often

grinding feelings need an outlet

and i’m the flour between stones, it’s not foolish because it’s not something i think about

it’s bondage around my innards,

it’s a grasping feeling of loss that is so resilient and wiry and it’s all strung up inside me and it worms around with hooks that rip my muscles and it spreads my feelings thin

i have to look through a ragged pinhole, the sides are so heavy and i’m tired

memory blue

loose visions of you

blue and darting

you’ve thickened up since i left

awkward feeling

rosy memory

a hazed border between what really happened and what i think of when i think of you

a memory that’s darting

a memory that’s blue