North West London’s Poet Laureate.

Poem Taken From ‘Ranch Dressing’. 2018.

And her mothers and her mothers mothers have been sat below the oak. Waiting and hoping for the sky to fall so the spirits could rise.

Poem Taken From The Boxer’s Wife. 2018.

She spreads herself like smoke, 
coiled and with subtle largesse 
through his gnarled, bound fists.
Softening the electricity that runs through his skin 
and tending to his manner, 
like the first tendrils of spring sunshine 
after a long winter.

Poem Taken From ‘Blood Eagle’. 2018.

We sat and watched her fall so we could be the ones who put her back on her feet.

Poem Taken From ‘Chat Shit, Get Banged’. 2018.

Some of us were not born from the womb but born from the dalliance of disfigured organisms, under dark tunnels and forgotten bridges.

The absence of energy and warmth fusing the fear and the fury together into one singular beast of betrayal.

For we who were born in darkness strive not for the warm, dizzying embrace of the light, but to disgorge ourselves further into the sodden black earth.

We whose flames burn cold require our forays into kindness and humanity, to cause nothing but rank misfortune and screams that arch the spine towards its master.

The tears from a rabid dogs eye.

The bark from an ancient oak.

The leaf out of a book bound by frightened skin.

The touch of malicious scree dragging you down through leagues and fathoms, where the creatures have ridden themselves of eyes to reclaim peace. 

Poem Taken From ‘Paid Partnership’. 2018.

The blind man sees the stars through his pores as the sky at night runs down his throat like honey.

Poem Taken From ‘Tryst’. 2018.

Although the concentration of the oak lay towards the ground, the hopes and dreams of those who lay beneath it’s branches soared with seemingly no limits through space and time.

As all who looked upon them clutched arms and laughed off burning cheeks, the couple were plucked through clouds and flew through skies like coy starlings catapulted at the stars.

With eyes only for each other, they were held above the earth to dance on constellations and starlight.

And then, collapsed in each other’s arms, slowly returned to the ground to become a crease In the dusty books of time.

Poem Taken From ‘The Day After I Die’. 2018.

Seven seas. Bells ringing. Dresses swish. Babble babble. Everything’s rising. Spirit rising. Spirit rising. Top hats twirl. Children scatter and form like starlings. 

The waves crash. Crossing thresholds. Resting the ground.

The ancient sound of sand in the wind. Whipping the earth. Feathers skip through arches as coasts welcome strangers.

All drink.

Repeat. 

The old woman in her own world. Replaying his touch. And the glint of sunlight on the horses mane. The brackish young man reeling lifeless in the water. It’s the lifeless ones who are the most life affirming. Cry salty tears and grab flesh until it stops and the air goes stale. 


Yearlings leap.

Yearlings leap.

Yearlings leap.

Poem Taken From ‘Find Your Village’. 2018.

As the bones and ruin of all mankind 
Are crushed to sand by the years and the hours,
The sea foam crashes.
Flinging the centuries into the air,
Collecting scattered millennia,
Before finally perishing 
On the brow of mineral encrusted waves.

Poem Taken From ‘Some Mothers Do ‘Ave It’. 2018.

And as their beliefs crumbled like scree, they were forced to consider that, although seemingly compelled by a force none of them could explain, try as they might they dare not stop praying.

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