Blends of watercolour


Watercolour sea


As it lasted, we met: the blue entirety

Of an open sky. Our new expanse of time

Meant we could be two loves, like two distinct

Songbirds in the distance, flying apart

Together, free. We painted love like art

And overlapped like waters: we were linked

By something wide, a shade both yours and mine,

Ourselves, but drifting in our surety.


Perhaps the colours spilt: lost subtlety

In how we were. Eventually, I’d find

Our shared horizons distantly would shift.

We shared too much, perhaps: for every part,

And every pulse was beat from our same heart.

One cannot live by halves. So, cast adrift

As our own, we learnt to shade our own blue skies:

All that we share now, is blue entirety.


Inspired by Kate Bush lyrics and a good friend.

Spook Parade


I am rather astonished. I sat down to edit a novel I’m working on: I wake up a few hours later to find that my fiancé has imagined a sort of dance macabre, a sort of mardi gras of death. It’s quite wonderful and a little irksome how talented he is.

Originally posted on Glamourgeist:


My fiancé and I have been setting ourselves a theme each month to create a piece of art around. The theme for March is ‘Parade.’
We have both been steaming away today and I have produced this picture entitled ‘Spook Parade’.

I wonder what will appear next!

View original

Instrument of atrocity


I am learning the language of objects. So, the kitchen knife

Scintillating before me: I must undo a thousand

Years of knowing what it can and must do,

And see it as steel, as inertia. I must unlearn

It purposes and desires, its thirsts, its cunning gait,

King Duncan’s end and many before him;

And instead embrace its precise and harmless form.

For the thing is without harm: only in redefinition,

Holding it and giving it purpose, is it made

A murderer.


As I might too, in my own way, be cut-throat

And thirsty for the salty taste of red along my fine

Clean sides, merciless; sometimes, when held, I too

Become an instrument of atrocity. Can I

Distract myself from these, the most delicious

Incidents, and render myself natural?

Observations on Hope


Smoke of incense, even when curled across

Its own question, is perfectly balanced.


Candlelight, although by definition rising

Upward, is in essence motionless.


There have been nights, so black that one can’t feel

For surfaces, or signs of what is there;


Yet calmed awhile there’s light enough to sense

That lack-of-light: we see what we can tell.


And though it weeps, the most deserted heart

Can only overflow with surplus love


Or it weeps not; just as a window pane

Though clear, in sunlight, becomes saturate.


On Discovering Manhood


This manhood will unmake you. See the pain

Run down your brother’s face in red arraign.


That racing heart, this blood that triumphs through

Your aching body shall not nurture you.


Some day, once aged by loneness and concern

You’ll find that shame: and how I hope you’ll learn


That hate and harm are fed on emptiness

And strength is found alone in gentleness.


Sleepless Sigh


That sigh you slept, that dwelt from dusk til morning

Tells me that your sleep is but one breath.


Even in dreams I feel your waking woes,

Held in uneasy sheets, in lost repose:


That life, kept in, keeps hold until our dawning.

Breathe out your wakefulness, and sleep in death.




I know it’s hard: but imagine, if you can,

A world without you. Think of my landscape

As it was for countless years before you came,

Valleys carved by the care and fine attention

Of millennia of accident. With no help

From you, a source of water happened: utter

Serendipity, in motion, washed

My face and praised my fierce, proud body

Right down to the seas. There was life before you,

Wild and terrible things, beautiful, savage

Honest death; creatures in paradise;

And though you fancy yourself unique, I’ve buried

Stranger things than you. So you see, although

You thought you had a pretty sweet deal here

And that I’d let you ride me raw, young man,

It pains me greatly to have to break it to you:

A thousand years from now, when all that’s left’s

A cache of five hundred pictures you took of yourself,

Cave art, if you will; when those quaint daubs

Of your face are your last mark, I tell you, babe,

No-one’s going to see them, and want you back.



Partially inspired by my pagan friends and their faith in that the Earth will outlive man, despite ourselves; and partially inspired by the different but analogous philosophy, that even in the toughest break-up, you can’t let any man invalidate you. I think we’ve all had moments where we feel like our identity or our individuality is being challenged. It can be particularly bad in some relationships. Well, I say, bury the caveman. It’s his loss, his own stupid, neolithic fault, and nobody’s going to miss him.