i see your life entire; you stand on holy fire and are cooled.
i said stand up, writers! stand up for complexity, confusion and colour. take your pennies and forget the pied pipers, they lead naught but rats.
i checked myself and saw that i was nothing; the bones of poets gone and done lay beneath the hills. i put on my boots and took my shovel, for to disturb them would be a lesser crime than to ignore.
art has slithered into bank accounts in the dead of night, while the dewy brows of poverty’s poets tremble in their plight for veracity.
this is riches over realness, splendour over solidarity… when the muses so return, tell them why you wrote.
we not one of us free falls; whether it’s earth or money or god, something’s always got you.
you may rest your eyes, but know that the world as it was will still lie there, unyielding, unforgiving, relentless in its rapport as you slumber; you know the blind still fall in love.
she’s enigma at the best of times; cluedo before breakfast.
i walked through a place where i did not belong, and i saw things that i thought were wrong. but i could not speak, for i imagined i did not have the right; it was my silence that cost the lives of those who longed for one who would speak for them. it was my fear that left their days dark and their nights nerved. to think it was not i who stood to lose, is to bury useless shame in the gravel of their graves. but to grovel is no use when the damage done is damage dealt, breath blown and money spent.
these are the days when the passing of memes across the webbed expanse of our internet constitutes a warm, joyful, public relationship, in the cold knowledge that a forgotten tag simply says no, there is nothing here.