From your position in the cityscape, you can hear the sound of air being pushed through tight smog

— resonating—

in Hazard skies 

the indistinguishable pump of car speakers

the trickle of moth water licked with green on winding canals. 

the pound of sculpted muscle on concrete. 



In my palm, I can hear each bone as it flexes on the joint –  im almost quite certain there is blood rushing through these veins 


Roadside, the air is full with heavy, thick white noise. a consistent patter of rain on concrete, the familiar overtones of tires streaking through puddles

thick white noise interjected with subcurrents of lancashire drawl, 

like jet engines stroked with sand

“I can feel it within me, the change in the land.” 

Police sirens ringing, straining to listen to the words falling out of his mouth

>>the delicate balance of nature>> I can hear the ripples parting in tea as cold winter breath departs lips, can hear bloodcells shifting through veins, pearls of water gathering in the corners of eyes, pearls of water forming wells, shifting & evaporating, leaking sticky rainwater into puddles, shifting sediment 

 Zooming in & out – microscopic – out to the surrounding fields – telescopic 

Drunken heavy fog smog, drowning in it.

The ground vibrates, underneath us the earth surges like a tarred lung, layer upon layer of time shaking beneath us, ancient crinoids skulking the ocean floor, the limestone that is now mountains

The land heaves with a sub-bass vibration not audible but felt

The pipes are alive,

The creaking of earth shifting beneath us  >> into >>

Slow moving peaks, 350 million years adrift  >> into >>

The drone-kiss of fog over trees, wind shifting over mountains into dark forests  >> into >>

Spiralling sediment noise crescendo  >> into >>

Slipping silt residue  >> into >>

residue , dust on the windowpane  >> into >>

Distorted drone of hollowed out mountain peaks  >> into >>

Landscapes cracking & creaking crackling & creaking  >> into >>

Landslide of falling rocks  >> into >> deep core crunching  >> into >> underwater sub-bass bellows  >> into >>Drums off beat  >> into >> horses charging through cornfields  >> into >>

Feedback bouncing off of electricity pylons >> into >> static airwave residue — >>into>>

STATIC AIRWAVE RESIDUE>> into >>the sound of birds wings flapping around electricity wires >> into >>Under-belly of shifting rock-sediment 

Into—- continental drift


The rigs go up. They want 40,000 rigs all the way from here to yorkshire. Imagine that. They’ll be as commonplace as the electricity pylon. They blend in to the environment. Before you know it, theres holes everywhere. Holes in the rock. Holes in the earth all around us. Infrastructure goes up so quickly we don’t even notice it.


This land is agricultural land, it’s a dairy farm, and the milk is sold to people to drink. The farmer who owns the land has a fence that stretches from one corner of the site to the other, where he is allowed to herd his cows. So every now and then you will see a great line of cows marching past the drill. Imagine that. Hundreds of black and white cows herding past this great spiralling metal drill boring into the earth>>>

im at the belly of the hill and theres markings etched into the grass.

Blue green grey and heather moors sunk for miles

Craggy rocks, a steep incline, out of  breath now, dizzying heights, my peripheral vision is playing tricks with my eyes, from here I can see all the way back to blackpool, to the sea, to the tower. I can see to clytheroe..

And The sea is radioactive


I slid down a section of rock to see the layers of sediment, felt the shards break between my fingertips, cracked each layer open like eggshells in the palm of my hand, slipped through the silt to the slime and basked in the last drop of light that lingered on the belly of the hill


emotional blackmail & totalitarianism

The UK government and right-wing media have returned to their classic ‘migrant blaming’ as some refugees have crossed the channel this summer – with Farage mid lockdown filmed on the empty beaches of Kent waving at the invisible ‘threat’, and Priti Patel now setting up plans to ‘protect’ our country from innocent refugees with naval warships.

You would hope that something like a global pandemic would instil more empathy in people, but it’s also the perfect time to play on people’s fears. As we face mass unemployment, the long told narrative that these people are merely coming to the UK to ‘take our jobs’ and ‘drain our economy’ rather than fleeing war and persecution, is going to be used to affect people emotionally. It is the government’s favourite distraction, a voiceless and stateless ‘other’ to detract blame in the wake of their failings and corruption.

One of the highest coronavirus death tolls in the world, corruption within the government. It seems that a global pandemic is also perfect timing for the Tories to secure more money and power for themselves. How much are they talking about the £250m contract wasted on ‘faulty masks’ by an offshore company with links to International Trade Secretary Liz Truss? What is being done about the 50 million pounds in tax snatched from the poorest borough in London, Tower Hamlets, by Housing Secretary Robert Jenrick’s deal with billionaire property developer Richard Desmond? What about Boris Johnson’s dodgy list of nominations of those who will be given lifelong patronage in the House of Lords, that includes his own brother? Just a few things that have happened over the past few weeks, but the focus is on a few hundred helpless refugees, who have a legal right to seek asylum in this country.

Divide and conquer is a power grabbing move that totalitarian states throughout history have adopted, and it is a favourite of the UK government; make us fight between ourselves and blame those who have nothing, whilst behind the scenes they secure more and more money and power for themselves.

There is enough to go around, but it is in the wrong hands.

The main argument given against refugees coming to the UK to seek asylum, is that they should seek asylum in ‘the first safe country they reach’. This article from the independent outlines some of the reasons that France is certainly not a safe country for many refugees. https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/refugees-english-channel-boats-migrants-death-a9663031.html?fbclid=IwAR2WE3dFEpe2OUr2i8YHU067mFmATX7vfYGT9LfF0W16XyWlk7NemUCOdPs

Under international law, people have the right to seek asylum and safety in any country, however there are not currently safe routes for people to access this legal right. Northern France is a treacherous place for many refugees. When I was there in 2016, there were children being swept off the street in Paris by gangs, with no-one to protect them, and people lived in fear of the police.

The idea that the UK is a soft touch when it comes to accepting refugees, is incorrect. This year we have only accepted 4000 refugees and in total just over 125,000. Lebanon, a country now torn apart, has welcomed 1.5 million, Germany over a million. The UK has a moral obligation to accept and welcome more refugees, and we need to change the narrative around it.

Asylum seekers in this country are given less than £38 a week to live on, and do not have the legal right to work. It is about safety, not money. What lengths would you go to, to keep your family safe?

Poetry, Uncategorized


The pain of our mothers is not something that bears thinking about.

The sun has shone endlessly since this began, great brilliant blue skies and buttercups and forget me nots, dandelion and wild roses and burdoch. The sun hits a patch of my skin that sits on the patio. The sun hits, the garden blooms, and I wonder when I will feel human

I smoke a cigarette. I had told myself i would give up but just living is a cross to bear at the moment, living the most precious of states

Blood runs through my veins.

It is extremely warm for April
I spray sun tan lotion on my skin
The trees glisten
Its unreasonably warm
I listen to the still beating drum of cars passing on the nearby interchange

after the flood the tide creeps in
and I’m on hands and knees, on all fours, in the eye of the storm

The sun sets over 1000 cities
The roads run still
The motorbike engine whirrs and i fasten my feet into the stirrups
I don’t recognise myself or my body

These days the moon sits in solitude of the sun
Beneath my feet i watch the asphalt rushing by, shifting multicoloured through every shade of grey on gods green earth
I dream tonight of a world where all people live freely in harmony
Dragonflies buzzing around my head
Swatting flies from my gaped mouth.


Closed my eyes and imagined my body turned to dust, bones in the desert, flesh rising like flames licked, a waterfall, an ocean

Ran till I couldn’t breathe anymore


january 6th 2020

I run with my heart gripped between my thumb and forefinger, my muscles ricochet off of sand dunes- following the blue line into forever
Cold winter sun fills my lungs, chalk crumbles from cliffs dug out by ancient smugglers
There is something holy locked inside,

The other side of this pearly globe is in flames
There is white noise in my head
Screaming like there is something holy locked inside

Lick the flame off the root of the ancient tree, drive the hoof into the burning sand, Suck the sap from the chalk that rots, Kiss the belly of the bark that leaks, Twist and turn through flaming waters; hear the reeds sing their last lament before

Everything turns to dust


2019 dream depository


I keep coming back to something I wrote in 2016 when I was volunteering in Calais: The promised land is within us. Heaven and Hell are to be found in the same place.

last night i dreamt of a gigantic tidal wave rising. I watched it from the beach as it rose, once, twice, out of nowhere. then i ran away as fast as I could. I dreamt of a tidal wave that came from nowhere and engulfed us. I dreamt of death and all its friends. I dont understand how to deal with grief and i can feel it sitting in the pit of my stomach and reminding me of my own failings in its selfishness. last night i dreamt of the tidalwave that swept you away from the living into the sea of death.


The End

This one was my lungs filling

(or) This one was the reflection of my lungs filling 


The stillest lapping of smoke on the dashboard of the silver renault clio smashing through thai summer rain. 

Taxidermied. Stopped Dead. Temp-Mort, Dead-Time

The last frame flickers, the cellulose nitrate disfigures and burns like a cigarette butt pressed into the cheek of the car interior, of a loved one. 

Just out of shot, out of the frame, the iphone camera blurs, zooms in; a nostril, a chin, the endless grey of a motorway, and murmurs

An exploding sky. The day you turned to dust

                                                                       I learnt to read the constellations and you were making fireflies out of the greyest, bleakest, shittest of evenings. The flattest landscapes turned mountainous, corrupted and erupted. This was the corner which I found you that bleak night w/here, w/hole, 

my eyes adjusting to the darkness making constellations from dust specks on the blue office carpet in my shoebox apartment. 

How can the dead be so perfectly alive

– on the bathroom floor

– in the shower

– cold tiles against thighs

– Inside my swimming goggles which left an imprint on my cheeks for 3 hours

– In the swimming pool 

– in the swimming pool changing room 

The corners of the pool are filled with detritus, bodily debris, sand and grit, dust and plasters. I find it oddly comforting to focus on – blurred and softly shaking like the atoms in my belly that glide through the thick water, ‘I am detritus’, ‘I am detritus’, ‘I am a piece of shit’ I repeat to myself like a transcendental meditation. Ahh. Thats Better.

 The winter light was so bright that the water became nothng but a glow, and I was hurtling at fullspeed through a tunnel of night, upstream, downriver, to the top of the hill, the deadzone, with zero sound or wind or wifi to be felt for miles, that exhilirating freedom of nothing-ness in the otherwise -oversaturated,and,accellerating,swipeswipe,deadend,loveless,minimumwage,illegaltenant,barelyscrapingby – better on drugs – pissed – up – life-

Oh, beauteous power of nature, I roar into the airwaves – to delve into the deluge of the slips and slime under the mossy enclave of a 1000 year old tree where weird and monstrous creatures are fucking and flourishing. Thats where I wanna be. All slippery and sublime and out of this world. 


All Power To All The People ! 


My lungs expand with smoke rot, the belly carve, my name into the fleshy underside

Of a tree we planted in your memory

The soil packs around my bones heavy underneath damp skies

Fires are sparked from dead wood


8/8 – grateful for: freedom to choose, freedom to take part, freedom to deflect, freedom to learn, freedom to love, freedom to move your body

30/10 grateful for: changing seasons, children, curiosity, cities and all their nuances and hidden corners, that which is open and free, family and support, friends and support, art sans art world, feeling the breeze on ur face, warm cosy clothes, grime, a blue sky on a cold day, tea, london parks in the morning, coffee and a cigarette, always listening, always learning and unlearning

13/11. grateful for: friendship, comfortable silences, connection, rest, that feeling when you have walked so far your legs burn, snowtopped mountains, sunshine through fog, for respite, for just being, for caring for one another.



sitting on the boulevard eating cold noodles, its late september and summer has crept away. the sea is full, swelling and pounding against the wall with growls like great thunderstorms; spraying and folding over itself, straining at the barriers that hold it in. At Hellsmouth a great black wave rises and falls into grey and green gradients. the debris of summer teeming with flies black and buzzing. everything melts away. i woke up this morning with a cosmic wound.


poems for this 2019 (broken bones)

Its passed down, the hole. I used to play in a hole at the end of the garden, my hidden spot, the moss growing on the compost bin, the cracked glass of the dusty window on the shed lit with morning light. I would hide & spit worlds into stones with sticky baby fingers and primary coloured plastic blocks covered in specks of dirt, I would bury them deep in the ground with my secrets. 

…buried deep in the snow were my secrets; buried deep down under piles of ice. I forgot that a place could be so white, so heaving with thickness. White ice piling like soft pillows reflects the spots in my eyes.

I’m eating lukewarm bread and peeling eggs and everything is frozen around me. The whites of my eyes are reflected in these great puddles, like round white eggs fried on the ice.

I’m trying to remember my insignificance, surrounded by tiny shards of cardboard picked apart by nervous fingers, here and here and here.

Tonight I sleep restless in an attic room. 

I felt so bad I wanted to die.



Im not turned on by anything. flicking through the TV channels, the night is alive outside, dark and teeming with the kind of life that surfaces on the streets of London after 12pm on a Friday night. I got stoned and crashed out in the hotel room. The ceiling was painted with fake clouds, underlit by that same blue hue emitted by a sleeping laptop, or rather the blue hue that keeps you from sleeping. Fuck, the clouds were so realistic. I ate a whole bag of jellybeans and fell asleep with the television on. I woke to a text from a girl on Tinder about sunshine but there were no windows, and I felt like I had been pushed through a time capsule, my head was dense with sugar and nicotine. The maid kept knocking on the door and I just couldnt get off. I woke up again a few hours later to the tv blaring.                                             

Sticky walls, Babyfish, swimming upstream,

I Dont Give A Fuck About Your Art World


reading lists

> Everything has been so potent over the last few years, the political backdrop to our lives unravels into chaos and we slowly slide, hiding, into digital worlds that map our thoughts into timelines & unearth curated selections of memories. Meanwhile we navigate growth and becoming, personal lives, (un)/employment, lack of clarity, love and heartbreak, depression and joy. You may imagine it as two interlocking timelines.>,>

> I can trace these years through books read, instagram posts, tweets, people encountered/loved/fucked, bouts of depression, moments of joy. Memories become so important. I don’t know if everyone does it, but I relish in them, glamorise them, repaint them over and over in my mind as details fade and dissolve into sketch-marks. 

2012 – Brighton Beach: Noone belongs here more than you, Miranda July 

2013 – The writing on the wall, brighton viaduct 2013

Utopia Now

If You Repeat Something Enough It Becomes True

2014Ghosts of my life // Mark Fisher on Burial // 

Wanting an angel to be watching over you, where there is nowhere to go and all you can do is sit in Mcdonalds and not answer your phone. 

2015. Sunless- Chris Marker

a trace is found, is lost, all the folklore of dreams is so much in its place that the next day when i’m awake, I realise that I continue to seek in the basement labyrinth the presence concealed the night before. 

2016 Ocean Vuong. Because It’s Summer. 

You say thank you, thank you, thank you because you haven’t learned the purpose of forgive me because that’s what you say when a stranger steps out of summer and offers you another hour to live. 

2017 – Mouth Scene. 17th Feb, Seydisfjordur, Iceland

To, The Hanging Blood

To, The Burning Rain

Bitter Root

Sudden Drop

Magnolias Rot

August 14th,  Trafalgar Square

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth 

Plz capture our tears with ur selfie stick prosthetic

semiotic infrastructures become human patterns of behaviour

8 October 2017 – Robert Montgomery, Billboard, London Fields

Modernism is a psychic love wave – A big gush of sky breath. A shimmer of kindness sung by the ancient earth / it is in the voices of the wind in the trees / it is wild and high in the beauty of the wind turbines that will one day scythe the hair of the troglodyte trump 

2017 – Crudo // Olivia Laing. The long hot summer of 2017, the world is falling apart. 

It was 19:45 on 13 May 2017. she bought two bottles of duty free champagne in orange boxes, that was the kind of person she was going to be from now on.

Beatrice Gibson, Crone Music @ Camden Arts Centre

This is what happened, I suggested another kind of language, the language of things. The language of shapes, surfaces and wide screens. I suggested speaking through objects and glass. The film became the landscape of those things, the thing, made up of those things, the remnants of a conversation