Focusing on the edges of emotion - teetering between memories, minuscule moments and short stories - Elida focuses her work on the mundanity of love. Mixing her observations of living in-between cultures with her brazen love for the textures of life, she composes vignettes using the alphabet. Images brim like an overfilled glass, begging you to take a sip.

Elida Silvey is a Mexican-American artist living in London. Her work explores the concept of language and memory as objects stored within the mind. She aims to establish these concrete forms through text in order to cut and collage them to form vignettes of time. To record what is so often forgotten and, in doing so, uncover the entanglement between everyone and everything. Read more of her work at or on IG @elida.silvey.
She is currently the Poetry Editor at Sunstroke Magazine where she occasionally writes, writer for Hard of Hearing Magazine and is an assistant editor for Montez Press. She is also a part of the Gobjaw Poetry Collective.

︎︎︎ Instagram
︎︎︎ TikTok
︎︎︎ Sunstroke Magazine
︎︎︎ Voces
︎︎︎ Shop 
︎︎︎ Contact

︎︎︎ Shop
︎︎︎ Instagram
︎︎︎ Contact

Join me August 9th, 6pm at Staffordshire St for Exteriors — a regular event where text, image and sounds collide. Part open mic, part visual showcase we encourage the weird, the off-beat, the experimental and those in between to share parts of themselves. We aim to platform poetry, photography, visual art and performance art that sits at the fringes.

We’ll have amazing photography from @m_e_d_b_, @millycope, @nicksilvey and paintings by @jackhilton_art. The open mic will be first come, first serve so come early if you want a spot.

We pass hundred of people on the streets of London only catching glimpses of interiority. This is a space to delve deeper into those strangers minds until they feel less exterior.

Inspired by Lou Stoppard‘s book Exteriors published by Mack. Exteriors features writing from Annie Ernaux’s book, of the same name, alongside photography from some of the best photographers of the 21st century. My aim with this night is to build on my passion as poet and photographer to showcase the work of a range of artists on a regular basis and give people the chance to read within a gallery space. 

I’ll also be running a memory based, zine workshop at Staffordshire St on the same day at 3pm.

Tickets for Memory Zine Workshop
General Admission £10
Concession £5 

Tickets for Exteriors 
Pay What You Can 
Suggested Donation £3 

Canine tooth
a mess of limbs
the act of moving for joy 
or in spite of fear. 

Consuming Space 


      verb (English);

to move or travel towards, or into a place thought of as near or familiar to the speaker; to occur; happen; take place; to orgasm.


    verb (Spanish); derived from comer

to eat; put (food) into the mouth and chew and swallow it; to absorb; ingest; consume. Can be used as an intransitive verb, which is to say an action that does not affect a person or object apart from the subject itself.


The parting comes in blinking sets, arriving at the point in which is and isn’t, now; before a moment becomes the past and right after it is no longer the future. It comes to consume, comer - en espanol - to ingest, to swallow whole and compartmentalize into parts with mastication. The slow gulp of present is taken in. The move towards or into a place, coming and going; it occurs, it happens, it suspects no other thing than that which is happening. This is happening, now, today so help me god. Come me, consume me, I ask in mother tongue angled slightly to avoid confusion. Your lack of bilingualism creates a barrier that the body fixes meticulously – an eyebrow raises pointed. Consume space itself by inching forward – come towards me. Now? Now I say with eyelids lidded, half-way between the now and the tension of a possible future bubbling fervent between my legs. Two split sides join in a kiss, which is to say the arrival of two points into a singular vertex, vibrating with want it creates perspective space. The devouring of two subjects into one single action, a ravaging tongue maps this expanse in response - nouns becoming a singular verb. The coming arrives suddenly, comiendonos con alivio parcial - a partial relief imprinting time with an after so active it beads down your forehead onto my own.

Written during Fieldnote’s Evening School

Feb 2024 

All the things pigeon is


Pigeon is




really. Pigeon is


the life of the party, she hides behind trash bins and makes her home in rafters about Bethnal Green’s bridges. Pigeon is


fickle, she clambers about the same route long since abandoned by public consciousness. Pigeon does


hold a grudge even if her tissues bare reminders. Pigeon is


dove even if she plays her in movies. Pigeon isn’t paid much for her troubles, rather spat at and scurried along. Pigeon is


lonely, with her gaggle of girlfriends and the wrinkled welsh man that brings her breadcrumbs by the church bell. Pigeon is


just a bird.

Misshapen Object of Real

There is a big hairy pimple on a man’s face
he stares into the mirror with a fish

eye kinda sight, peering closely, so

to the big bugger of a face that made
him, makes him hate.

The Egyptian cotton towel
around his waist, tight
around a complacent groin, swings

alongside his anxious weight, the swooning
of a bathtub full of circles, cut off
from completion

little bits of sock fluff balled up and
drenched, swimming

hopelessly in the vast expanse of porcelain
sea --

-- steam rises up into
the soggy, sodden tiles into
a cracked window, mould growing
speckled on the corners like the crumbs left
over a croissant kiss.

A kid

but not really a kid, just a hopeful
little no body like me
rides his bike

outside the street passing different shades
of yellow lamps or
lights or those things that you put

on ceilings but you bought them
in Ikea so they’re not really chandeliers
are they, that.

He smokes a spliff by the crum
-pled little tree whose
stump’s seen better days, sat
hollowing out above the flicker of a flame

listening to the songs of passing people he
kinda knows  but not really

a woman yells an uncomfortable word into her
phone, shrill
and shriek and too soon for comfort

tries to convince them to hold her
close like an amulet, like a trinket
no one can see her regret it
the moment it stumbles
out of her

I do I guess

tries to frame it under the guise of a cool
type of cool girl that doesn’t exist

couldn’t exist but she tries anyways and laughs behind her expensive

Bubble gum stretches with a mushed up baby
face, if you stare

real close, holding secrets once lining
canines, a
dogtooth that wasn’t really

there. Stuck onto the bottom of my shoe

I scrape it and wave
my arm towards big red rectangle that blinks
a few times
confused before it stops and
lets us on board

I smash my sides going
all the way up to top deck because, still
to this day, there’s a level of kitsch to it.

Stare onto
tv screen that isn’t
a tv but a window, but a mirror the little

of light that bangs pictures into your
brain with an itty
bitty hammer like a
Flintstones day on the job

the people around me all stare wide
open too like the little bubble gum figure I
sacrificed on my way

they try to string a sentence together
made up of moments or memories or what
would be memories if these moments actually


but they could have
and that’s really all there is to it

isn’t there.

Written during The Poetry School Spring Sessions 2024


1,2,3,4,5,6                 7,8

blades of grass made man
made material
excitement wave with three-click kick
   a tongue-licks long-face
a patchwork ball rolls chivalrous

rubious lip
take the edges
with the tips, by the playful bite of 
almost, not quite


if you could bake it, it 
wouldn’t smell as sweet

wide-open bloom
is mellow yellow, woven
carefully on wood-loom trough

the thought truncates
in sunlight’s battered eyelash

stuck onto
devastation of 
chalk-chipped porcelain alter
bathroom sink 

error receptacle

the errant mind wanders
bursting cortisol beetles
   in search of gold scaramouch
til morning hollar brings 

some rhythm 
back into it

peephole dawn

the big bright open 
is a fifty foot fall

no one can make it 
land joyous

You try anyways

because life is dot, is line is
moronic morse code 

Skydaddy brings the orchestra along for the ride in newest EP ‘Pilot’.

“Skydaddy, moniker of Rachid Fakhre, is a departure from his previous outfit Spang Sisters following what he recalls as “a heavy case of ego death and creative disillusionment” during Green Man 2022. As such ‘Pilot,’ and Skydaddy as a whole, provide the perfect recipe for his rebirth. This is both metaphorically represented in the chambers and pockets of sound, built through live instruments with their womb-like entombment and literally, in the reworking of the track ‘Tear Gas’ by Tyler Cryde (of Black Country, New Road fame). Exploring ideas of belonging, home and the wayward emotions that exist as a result of these concepts, Pilot begs the listener for multiple ruminations to savour every nook and cranny.

‘Pilot’ welcomes the listener along Skydaddy’s journey of self (re)discovery, providing them with a freshly printed passport to enter his world of carefully composed and honest songs. Through Lennon-like crooning to the eerie whimsy of conflicted lyrics put to an echo-chamber of pumping strings, he allows the listener to discover their own reflection in the spaces between each layer.” ...

Published by
Hard of Hearing Mag

February 2024

Read Here

Bill Ryder-Jones looks back to leap forward on new album ‘Iechyd Da.’ 

“Released by Domino Records Co, Bill Ryder-Jones’ newest album, ‘Iechyd Da,’ stretches languidly over marshlands of carefully considered reflections to tend to his emotional turmoil and heartbreak. The aptly named album, meaning good health in Welsh, acts like a mantra for the rollercoaster ride Ryder-Jones takes us on. The listener is delicately introduced to deep-seated confessions and hopeful yearning through a mix of expert lyricism and incredible production.

Much like James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses,’ which is read quietly on the instrumental track ‘…and the sea…’, this album acts like a modern epic utilising tempo changes, a sample of Gal Costa’s 1969 track ‘Baby’ and a children’s choir to build a reflective and responsive body of work. On ‘This Can’t Go On,’ Ryder-Jones allows the listener to accompany him on a late-night stroll where he wrestles with his innermost demons and his hopes for a future that feel out of reach. His incredibly relatable lyrics suggest he seeks help from his father who, one could assume, advises him: “You’ve got to get outside, go get some sun. You’ve got to get yourself together because this can’t go on”. The instrumentation on the track creates an expansiveness that is deeply felt and acts in contrast to the downcast lyricism, providing a light at the end of this emotional tunnel.” ...

Published by
Hard of Hearing Mag

January 2024 

Read Here

bar italia masterfully balance their trio of voices on ‘The Twits.’

“bar italia have hit the ground running after signing with Matador Records in March of 2023, their latest release of The Twits, coming a mere 6 months after the release of previous album ‘Tracey Denim.’ The band, made up of London natives Jazmi Tarik Fehmi and Sam Fenton, plus Rome transplant Nina Cristante, have produced an album that collects character profiles for an emotive blend of songs. Summoning their eclectic collection of inspirations, they brew a maddening concoction of high-impact guitar tones and rippling, depersonalised voices.

‘The Twits’ acts like a silken ribbon thread through metal rivets, their holy trinity of voices pinning down the listener into a whirlwind of character confessions. Cristante’s delicate tone is reminiscent of ‘60s continental darlings such as Jane Birkin, contrasted against Fenton’s conversational baritone providing mid-range mania, and Fehmi’s low, rumbling growl. The soundscape they develop on ‘The Twits’ serves like a series of snapshots from a booming party, replete with love triangles, disappointed lovers and exes. All of this is balanced on the bubbling anxiety that creeps up from underneath done-up faces, suggesting this work is a glance into the inner turmoil of the album’s participants....”

Published by
Hard of Hearing Mag

November 2023

Read Here

Theo Bleak fills our well of sadness with graceful fluidity on new EP ‘Pain.’

“Katie Lynch dons the moniker Theo Bleak once more on new her new EP ‘Pain’, allowing her to puppeteer her intimate emotions with confidence and candour. Utilizing everything from the impression of strings to the layering of tones, Theo Bleak creates a painfully intimate sound bath from which she delivers her spellbinding wisdom. On ‘Pain,’ she explores the fluid spaces of her mental health, particularly the difficulties experienced within the dips and dives of complex relationships, and everyday girldom. The bubbling up of sadness in her work brings with it a level of honesty that makes her work feel like nothing shy of the truth....”

Published by
Hard of Hearing Mag

October 2023

Read Here

Girl Dinner: Femininity at the Cusp of Consumption

“For as long as I can remember women have had food pressed against their lips, at the cusp of consumption, but never entirely welcomed in without some form of guilt. Some of my favorite memories of my mother and grandmothers were in the kitchen, laughing over a stove, taste-testing plantains as they sizzled in the kitchenette, or passing quesillo over a water bath to get the custard just right. Yet, they’d always be the last to the dinner table, waiting to plate everyone else before ever taking a seat, and they’d always be the ones with the smallest plates.

I remember my mother drinking flaxseed water as her dinner for weeks straight because she was trying to shed those few extra pounds that no one noticed but her. I distinctly remember doing the same in my freshman year of high school when puberty hit me from all angles and I couldn’t contend with the fact that I didn’t look like I did a few months before...”

Published by Sunstroke Magazine

October 2023

Read Here

heka delights delicately with the incantory ‘Monkey’

“Francesca Brierley, otherwise known as heka, is an elegant addition to the growing selection of lowercase musicians, as demonstrated most recently on new single, ‘Monkey’. Produced and distributed by Practise Music, this single’s use of multi-layered, looped sounds internalises the sensation of passing time. It brings to the imagination a sense longing associated with the recognition that some people are best left within the chrysalis of memory. Flashing gently forwards and back, her compounding vocals and heartbreak guitar tone create a narrative, almost physical impact. A corporeal quality to ‘Monkey’ is built upon this, with gently rumbling sounds passing from organ to organ as they make their way deeper into the listener’s system. “ ...

Published by 
Hard of Hearing Mag

September 2023 

Read Here 

Line Break 

I sit at the base of tub 
to stare 

pending somewhere between 
existing and hiding, air 

       thick with contemplation 
doused in it 

as if globules of the stuff hung 
heavy above my head. 

Droplets whisk the straggly hairs on my belly 
like typhoon to northern hemisphere 
   these hairs that shouldn’t be there 
or so I’m told. Instinctively 

I place my hand over 
as if to erase them. 

A triangle hunches over herself 
   pulling crooked knees towards face 
lurching forward 
in an attempt to shrink 

as red streaks cover the surface

a landslide glides down 
   route of spinal cord
like skiers on snowed in slopes

wearing differing shades of neon. 

steam builds up momentum
like a crescendo
to crystallize over mirrors in a hazy 
blue fog 

   I can’t see my face 
but I think I like it that way 

as if the entire world was sheltered away 

in a place where sentences don’t begin with
capital letters 
and periods exist as so much more

than a pause. 

Published in Nothings 

June 2023 

Grab a copy 

My Compost Heap for Worms Mag 

I got the opportunity to share some of the writing I’ve recently done as a result of Compost Library’s Write Whats Right sessions from earlier this summer. 

A million thanks to everyone at Worms. <3

“...I’m really interested in the connection between language (visual and auditory) and memory or dream formation. Spanish is my first language, but I find English to be the one that I am most expressive in. So I try to think critically about the language that is associated with whatever I’m using as the basis for a poem. Some of my work is an intersection of the two languages; with Spanish being peppered into a piece if it deals with themes of family, identity, or childhood, or with English following Spanish grammatical rules for a more melodic structure. These interests also spill onto some of the writing workshops I’ve run, as I often use surrealist and sense associative techniques to guide people into connecting words with their own memories.

A lot of my poetry is born out of my attempt to understand the world around me and the way I fit into it. It also acts as a form of release, allowing me to process hardship by highlighting the beauty that remains in spite of it. I’m fascinated by language’s ability to act as a projection screen, drawing pictures in your mind’s eye that represent someone else’s real, relatable but often intangible feelings. Writing, poetry in particular, feels like an incredibly intimate and honest way to connect with other people. I hope you enjoy my work and feel welcomed into my gooey, gushy, girlie mind.” ...

Published by Worms Magazine 

September 2023 

Enter the Wormhole

Electronic or Otherwise Known, Experimental

The band plays sonics
       sound spaces stretched ____
       then all of a sudden 
                           smell of bleach
pours into the room 

I lift my feet, afraid i’d stain
       my maroon shoes
               marble color around the floor 

bleed out from it 
one, sip                    two 

The song dopplers around the room 
           howling at the no-known moon 
carcinogenic hue, not that 
       swiss cheese blue blue 

                      not blue 

blast me baby, blast me 
with the twist and turn of a synthesizer knob

a portal opens 
       another mind thought closes
           tight like the mouth of an angry man

so tight you can barely see it 

           sink your teeth into its texture
so circular your head bobs about 
   bouy in all the sound 
like a warning 

not blue, yellow 
       like summer marigolds
wafting noise, an ocean of ones and zeros 
one, sip  zer_______0

you find meaning in its truncations 
finite bliss

   candels light the room in a glow 
inch-worm made inch work 
strained eyes 
       not used to the shadow play 

the sound of laughter breaks the silence 
       we are grounded 
           but only for a little while 

up sounds, speeds up, up-up and away 
ready for take off 

only in so much as 
       it straps you in 

does the astronaut merry go round 
           pulls flesh so tight 
       against your bones 
you metamorphose

into a creature 

a, alien
       you learn to assilimate 
               when landing 
brim with same-one-ness
   til it shines so chemical 
                       oil slicked pavement
only then can you move on up 

   leave this plan 

the placard says your name in tungsten 
       wiggles about against the lighting 
the sound encompasses 

you, the wholeness of nothing. 

September 2023

Star Potential: Subverting Stardom with a Playful Wink to Fashion 

Humongous patterned bows, bedazzled boxing glam-covered shins, and hyper-femme silk figures litter Bristol's suburbia in Dean Davies’ newest zine, Star Potential. Star Potential is a collaborative project between image-maker and lecturer Dean Davies and 19 of his students — alumni of UWE, Bristol’s BA (Hons) Fashion Communication programme. Spanning a three-year period, the project sees Davies offer one-on-one support to his students in order to help them develop their own stylistic voices. By effectively expelling their ideas from the realm of the mind onto that of print, Davies and his students shed light on the joys of collaboration, challenged formal education with their real-world connection and opened up the conversation on cultivating style outside of the vice-like grip of luxury brands. ...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine 

August 2023 

Read here 


Doing the watusi, bathroom 

catching the faintest lines 
roll along the edge 
       grow a mustashe 

   like the tash-tattoos of 
indie sleaze 
just sleaze now, thank you very 

bare the belly 
   to those afraid to hurt you 
       they might do, but
it’s often worth the wound. 

August 2023

Gut Feeling: Memories from Peckham and Beyond

It started with a flash of numbers as co-organizers Ella Monnerat and Bella Aleksandrova of Gut Feeling asked a room full of participants to introduce themselves with their favorite bus routes, names and pronouns. 8, 99, 244, echoed throughout Staffordshire St’s gallery walls forming the steady rhythm with which conversations about memory and their relation to South-East London were produced.
Gut Feeling, co-created by Monnerat and Aleksandrova, runs workshops within some of the keystone galleries across London — Whitechapel Gallery and Staffordshire St, to name a couple — as well as a regular writing feedback group out of MayDay Rooms in Central London. Their latest workshop was the first of many events hosted as part of Staffordshire St’s Festival of Community, a yearly festival in the heart of South-East London that was created to celebrate the diversity of its community,...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine Aug 2023 

Read Here 

BOZO’s been forgotten about 

 Big Bozo the clown’s been forgotten about
down the Strip
   points at pedestrians with his gallery-room

winks at the crowd
       mini morsel of stardom

My momma used to take me 
   back in the day 
   back in the sepia

let me play the merry-go-round 
collect tokens for pink plushies in the 
shape of 

lonely monsters. 

My eyes wander uP & DOwn
come find you, rose-tinted gaze

blocked out PLEASURE, pLEASure, pleasurE
   leisure wear

camera at the hip 

with those big balOOn eyeballs
god, even the busted up 
pigeons would stop 

to stare up at you. 

August 2023

REVIEW: ‘Shortcomings’

Shortcomings depicts a spectrum of identity conflicts in Park’s quest to add to the conversation of representation by providing us with a close-up of a life that more closely resembles reality, outside of the idealized glow of Versace shirts and Mercedes-Benz. ...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine on August 2023 

Read Here


“Now”: Toto Pena On the Spiral of Memory and Self-Acceptance

Channeling his humanity into an oscillating rhythm, Toto Peña wrangles with the wicked spiral of memory, regret and emotion in his soulful new single “Now”.[...] Shot and directed by River Stephenson with super 8 footage by Kelsey Sharpe, “Now”’s music video utilizes the stunning landscapes and earthworks off the freeway exits of Salt Lake City in contrast with Sharpe’s footage of New York City to collage a visual representation of those underlying emotions. The Spiral Jetty, a basalt and salt crystal earthwork by American sculptor Robert Smithson (1970), and the Williamsburg Bridge are such fixtures. Curious to know where these emotions came from and where they’re headed, I sat down with Peña over the luster of a transatlantic Zoom call to discuss this collage of imagery and to pin-point the meaning buried within glistening guitar tones and paddling drums. ...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine on August 2023

Read Here 


I imagined your hearty laugh
in the buzzing of washing machines

the clinking of zippers giving way 
to illusions

making something appear out of nothing. 
Published in Nothings 

Purchase Book Here

Performances by


   &  Nothings by Elida Silvey 


“Following the journey between two lovers, NOTHINGS plays with the connective tissues of sea and sky to illustrate a love undeterred by seemingly endless space. Forming vignettes of longing and lust, Elida Silvey delicately bridges the gap between her and her partner. Honest, vulnerable and visually intimate her poetry explores the lucidity of falling in love with someone you shouldn't have.”


The sky is dark blue and im waiting for 87

the taxi stops with its big bright tangerine lights


    saying look at me
I’m bound for somewhere

I clear my throAt

I’ve had three really strong mojitos
at the bar on the border of Essex street
            made me think of east village in nyc

I watched klarna taxis and yellow green ambulances
clear the street where
             Waterloo buses were meant to stop.

I saw blue men with their emotions
tied to their necks

like necklaces glided in gold

    but it was meant to be a secret

and McDonald’s packaging discarded on the street
an effigy of brilliance.

Lonely echos filled the spaces between
shattered out phone booths and that
pub on the corner
    that fills itself with teapots and minced mint

mojitos more mint water than rum

I called my man
    to try and make sense of the structure

the lines on the street were hieroglyphics

dragging on

in red and green colors

he knew the code of


and I tried endlessly to pick at the pieces

form a whole sentence from the broken bits.

These pieces make a drowned out picture
but Im drawn to it

that horizon like a big blue nothing

as if following it would make

    anything make sense

as if it was made of

            some rare kinda brujería

the worms in my belly
that live by the century stick their tongues out

they poke at the gossip

.This lull feels

a pregnant basin full of water

nothing feels as blue as i do
now. the world is
    a mashup of faces.

the collection of a collaborative concept
that is strewn across sea
and land like
some folk story told to those that dont get it
someday we’ll all be forgotten, anyways. i

blink trying to add the in between spaces

moonlight mathematics

i know

im nothing in all of this.

the sky blinks too, bruised
blueberry eyelids

to try and mitigate
and im reminded Im just another

lonely specimen.

I tell someone behind me
to fuck off

with my mountain top shoulders

as if the sentence could

structure the being

I’m dragging on
like a long hand
    made long form prose poem
boxed at the bottom of someone’s closet

cigarettes cocked brilliantly but no one actually wants me

It’s a hosted charity

The man at Tottenham Court Road plays
the rain man song
the one
they sing in five bars

with the drawling line on the guitar

he’s quite good but I don’t tell him that 
scurry along

I am drunk and the alcohol in my bladder is oppressive

I dive between corners as if that would fix things only to wait

we, others, all waiting
for the color to show,
big red streak, burst bright into a cluster

I have to piss and I probably will
on the corner
of that gas station
        where the grass grows tall
and no one can see me
bend down on the street

    to try and make it go away

the evening stings just as much
    with her fine point needle and thread

sunlight reminds me I should be home

and home is where he is and

somehow I’m drunk but he isn’t

it’s incredible

and expect

the unexpected, but it never comes

He’s not like the others

The sun still shines the next morning

The women on the train
have embroidered flowers on their shoulders
as if to puff up but somehow their

sounds sink deeper


to communicate

that lull
all of us trying to formulate an equation

as if the blue of the sky was a cipher

waiting in their tombs of blue black
blue blue blue
    so goddamn blue

        waiting for someone to know them

The train screeches on

trying to tell me something

but I don’t know her enough
just screaming to me

tell me what she tells you

I try to write out a Rosetta Stone of screeching
    a key
as if that would help me

but I’m just as lost
I don’t know where to go from here.

The blue.
    The screech.
        The crow that perches and preaches

as of giving a sermon

would give anything
    alife worth living

for it to make sense

I stretch to find the sky diluted by dollars
pounds in this gloom glycol country
    the weight of it carried on our shoulders

The ring ding ding of money-man’s converts
trying to tell each other of the blue-man’s hill --
        that lull created by others

where arch is charged for by two.

The sky is blue and so am I.

No man’s land is lonely.

June 2023

The Body is an Archive: Elspeth Walker on Consent, Alternative Archives and Art as Catharsis

Dotted across and propped on podiums of different sizes, orange tangerine, lemon yellow and lime green jellies entice onlookers through the glass encased gallery space in Central London, inviting them to come in and touch. Inside these jellies are curiously encapsulated objects — a Casio watch, crumpled sugar-soaked newsprint, a stretched thin hair tie, to a CD split down the middle, among others — all playing with the concept of an alternative archive.

“The Body is an Archive” is a research project by British artist Elspeth Walker that explores the interweaving themes of bodily archives, the limitations of consent and art as the catalyst for catharsis. Her work pokes fun at the art world’s idea of a traditional archive, with its white gloved hands and carefully temperate rooms. Instead, she creates her own unconventional archive, filled with messy, gloopy, and tongue-in-cheek representations of her own bodily memories.

From March 23rd to the 28th, 2023, “The Body is an Archive” was showcased at Liquid Gold Studios in London as a five-day exhibition and exists as one part of a broader project exploring alternative archives. I made my way down to her studio, now stripped of its colorful jellies, to have a conversation with the artist and explore these themes further...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine 
June 2023 


Read full piece here


‘My body is soft’, I tell you
want to show you
but there’s no space__

           too much

June 2023

Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here

Carmen: The Movement of a Collective Body

Most films about the Mexican-United States border feel to me like films for Americans — Films about Sicario shootouts, trucks full of drugs passing the border in an elaborate plan to make millions or border patrolmen as lone rangers in the scarcity of the desert. Carmen, on the other hand, feels different...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine
June 2023

Read full piece here


My serpent tongue, lengua

      languidly lines it’s truths
in the spaces between
     my cheek & gums neatly in a row, como un chicle  

medio masticado

to avoid confusion.

          a collection of dominos
listos para caer        
                tick-tack of drooping

        pero los míos
             son hechos de plástico

stand against mi mandíbula  
        like accessories.  

finite, they make me choose  
which ones to drop

        como si completa no fuera
                  todas mis partes
                          but some

            they, los que me sostienen
            con sus reglas


        my pronged movement
y los dejo.

May 2023

Cholombiano: Cultural Appreciation and The Rise of Outsider Cumbia

It all started with cumbia. A folkloric rhythmic genre of music born out of Colombia whose modernization at the start of the 1940s caused it to spread like wildfire across the rest of Latin America. More specifically, for me, it started with the low-tempo, raw-voice cumbia coming out of Monterrey, Mexico, initially called rebajadas. I remember the first time I heard a rebajada — I was about 11 or 12 years old at my cousin’s quinceañera. I was captivated by its rhythm and swing...

Published by Sunstroke Magazine
May 2023  


Read full piece here 


One Atlantic sea

20,000 species of fish there, each one

with its eggs
see-through like linens in

summer’s sunlight.

Thousands per
with vegetation clinging like tarps

against stone, or those lost at sea.

It’s difficult
to comprehend its size

the weight of it
is carried, as if nestled

in the memories I have of you

each one
heavier than the next.

May 2023

Published in Nothings


EVENT - 16/05/2023 

Come join me at Here After Vintage for a poetry writing workshop using a carefully crafted mix of techniques to release emotional tensions and flex our creative muscles.

The cut-up technique was popularized by the Dadists at the turn of the century and has been widely used since. You can find artists using its popular collect and mash-up methodologies from Surrealist legend Andre Breton, Radiohead’s own Thom Yorke to pop-icon David Bowie. In this workshop we’ll be diving into the subconscious by using Automatism ideals, reactively collecting words and imagery, in order to interpret our emotions and create expressive poetry to help relax, refresh and re-new our head spaces. No writing experience needed.

Here After Vintage’s After Hours workshop program is focused on presenting a series of mindful and sustainable workshops, hosted in their retail space at the heart of Brick Lane.

May 16, 2023 7:30 - 9:00pm

Here After Vintage

151 Brick Ln, London

E1 6SA  


This, OUR most animal joy;

the bruised blueberry wind

          LANGUID, tepid

swoops jasmine BLOSSOMS up

and out, into

the cold-SUMMONs air.

              Catch a whiff of summer

    hidden in the petticoats of spring

catch the STEAM, rising

rampant FROM cup

          from its EGGSHELL styrofoam


wrapping round

          our fingertips like engagements.  

Reluctantly we

recall rainstorms in the imagined

          dinosaur SHAPE of scantily                                     clouds

WE BREATHE a sigh of relief

finding sunshine peaking THROUGH the

          hollow of its NUDITY. 

I tell you about the dinosaurs in

MY HOME town

with their knitted sweaters

        and fake plastic teeth

YOUR laugh echos against

restless trees

      as we plod, plotting our own humanity

on a grid made of elderberry bushes

market stalls with SEDUCTIVE

        cream-filled pastries

with fillings

stuck to the roof of our mouths

        TONGUE takes a swing

        to clear

and continue on the conversation.

April 2023

Completely Serene

I can’t feel you between the pauses, the
    long inky stretches 

of time, that dilute ____

sandstorm rubbing
the very sharpness of mounds
    into particles  

unless seen from afar. 

There’s a vastness now 
    with its expanse of droplets 

i never imagined an ocean so full 
to feel so much    
    like a wasteland. 

Where echoes drown 
in guarded waves 
    devoid of 


    existing unpreturbed by me 
or you 
or the us in the everyday 

completely SERENE in its oblivion. 

April 2023

Published in Nothings



false sugar cubes made in sterile
white, lab-rooms

hosting synthesized chemical compounds
a union, without
the champagne bubbly_

the crinkle takes a second to

wrapper pulled taunt between thumbs
crosswalk for the eyes

I too, exhale

reminding myself of the inadequacy of

{of endless space}.

I seek warmth in your absence

alchemizing shower steam into
boiling magma

detaining, my desire for eruption
as if to attempt to correct the emptiness

left by my own Vesuvius.

A simulation, sustained
between sips of something cold

trailing stream of fire in its consumption.

This overflow
forms basins on my surface
tip-toeing raw, onto
the reddened edge of nose-tip

laying hidden

like coldwar spy lost in all his gadgetry

in the weave of heavy knit comforters
each one indescribably incorrect.

In the puff of feather filled coats combating the
loosened skies

or held by endless circle-loop, in the
that remind me of falling
for you.

Even in the tenacious stick, of
caramel-chocolate, cornsyrup
stricken bar
where I cannot escape

the reality that
nothing makes an acceptable replacement
for you.

March 2023

Published in Nothings



The dreaded ding 

bellhop bell-ring on 
    morning motel 
hotel front desk covered 
in vinyl marbling 

the man with the faded blue, wool suit 
    with frigidity in his throat 
stating the dimensions of space 
carefully tip-toeing 

    around my pomegrante face
& bee-stung slits for eyes
where i, resist


An underwhelming shade of IT
office-basement greys
    in pointilst paint 
swarms the room

like crickets to abandoned bushes.

I hadn’t let it wash over me

until now. This incredibly low rumbling

the bah-humbug buzz of space
outstretched to find myself

It’s jarring

without those clouded skies, just
a mammal, stranded

finding ways to shade from
heat-turned-cold, blue-lipped

the shock of it all

in turn
finding absence and a sharp ringing
in the ears.


I spent the passed hour sitting in silence
        vigorous air con
tap-tapping uncovered

arranging a lone concerto, made
to disrupt any semblence of
        false tranquillity.

A transmission of
knotted balls of blue cotton
peeling off the office chair, are

an unruly method of relaxation
before the undeniable stress
        of facing
some man-or-woman-or-being-or-soul
or even a robot

who marks a box with a check
    [or perhaps a circle] 

to provide permissions to love
a man.

Feb 2023

Published in Nothings


Eurostar Eels

We glide across a field
passing the blur of black trees
           thin stocks filed-in like soldiers
between the


those elegant fingertips
          itch greasy locks
leaving mirroring spaces between


my eyelids, famished
ravenously lock-open &
take it

all in.

The window
rounded out light-box
          has a captivating insistence
buried deep within
the dark

containing the brevity of a glance. Another
and another one;

we all see violet, briefly
the way one sees
          a long lost friend, just
a passerby on the same streets
a person from


           a smile, concealed in a second
then disrupted by the chaos

For a moment, existing
dissolved then, by burgundy-blues
               and the hint of yellow

daylight finally submerged into nighttime’s

as the train passes from town
to town.

I opened a case of Pringles
sour cream and onion flavored
           scared of its stench, I put entire crisps in my mouth

to chew

stretching the sides of my cheeks
like a tree squirrel hiding
her treasure.

My ears popped as we slid underwater
like ittle scavenging eels

wiggling about
fishing for something

familiarly foreign.

Feb 2023


The squawking sun rests
smugly on window sill, shoulders
propped up
as if

smirking in shades of
    its day-glo bloom, bursts
the tiny veins around my eyelids.

I must seem so weathered
to you

little crinkled cannikan
tossed onto jilted
high street

or like those signs that
    left unattended, sit
uncomfortably in their posts

like guardsmen on first

I sip bedside water
to taste citric acid
scalding my throat

and see your smile
sooth the puckered fabric

of space
between us
as you

lean in for a kiss

Jan 2023

Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here

Post-X Rush

The man leans front forward
on counter top

his cherry stained
apron, pressed
against glass case

curtains, cuts of meat

like blocks of stones
prized, equally


The fluorescent lights
coat the butchers
in arsenic

only the primary colored

plastic shopping bags, rippled
in the current of

faster_than_lightening city

high-hung behind him

appear immune.

Jan 2023


High-pitch doppler 

Rotary phones used to crank up a dial
circling symbolically like the route one took
to get there

bicycle rides down suburban sun-roofed
        echo and the bunny playing moon, men
dropping off newspapers on porch steps

plopped down.

i strain my eyes on the street
pulling ostrich neck to find bus life, left
me drummed dizzy

i felt myself turn raisin
this fructose high

         high speed
ambulances came, unannounced
to save me

gears spluttering across roadway
bits and pieces, like slivers of sliced

drowned in alcohol drenched ice blocks
melting, into champagne saucers
    like little

titanic icebergs.

Can they hear my high pitched doppler?

stretching sound around them
like sunbather’s tip-toed waves, catching a
glimpse to admit 


a pupils widened yawn for daylight, blinking
in recognition

Is the low humming coming from inside me?

imperceptible perhaps, to other


Jan 2023


Sudden Objects 

This only happens for a little
while, a blip before
it goes


washed up ashore like

/snuffed candle light, held
over brass bones/

Baby, don’t you know it’ll figure itself out?

all of the
    best parts
make you sorry

worrying over waves crashing

as if their daily uncovering was
anything but

settled, stagnant like gossamer painting
just a thin blue web__ _

_ __over sanded-down stone

England’s version of sandy beaches, I

jagged and sharp
like your tongue, exposed

to the salted air

the seagulls circle around you
    just as frenzied

sit with me here, watch this movie
    play out
with it’s ebbed horizon

fastened to heartbeat, unfastened
by you

hold my hand
and let it wash over you.

Jan 2023


Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here


we’re all gonna dive, quick
pit stop

to Atlantis

you know, I’m running late
an engine failure, man made

no one seems alerted

sea-sirens with their big, dopey
blue eyes
wave towards us, the beauty queen way

singing pop tunes in diminished keys
I CAN’T HELP but laugh at
the pageantry.

THE MAN sitting NEXT TO ME, begs me

in defiance


BARRICADES. The sound of water rushing
into my ears turns to  


when it’s SALVATION you want, think

an idea lives on
in the hidden tendrils of BEING

borne from THE END OF ONE. The
world once again cycles;

trees grow, knocked down and burnt
to cinder crisp, then
get up again





FLOAT OUT OF pollenated bushes outside


the plunging START begins AT THE END.

Jan 2023 



Play tourist
    play child
play dumb and pliable
     not cowardly, just the curious dog   

play ding dong ditch
eenie meenie_  
      play tic-tac-toe
_miney moe

play pretend with a box of Tic Tacs and a
   bag of

arrange them by color in your favorite fishbowl

collect postage stamps if
        their faces remind you of flowers

press freshly picked ones between
two book pages
            to squeeze dry them

save birthday cards by your bedside
well wishes, love stories

dog-ear your favorite poems
and read them out loud

            to your friends.

Play never ending

as if the sun didn’t set
       and the moon never left  

or perhaps like they always will

no matter how hard you try to get your
lasso around it.

Dec 2022


Party on, Garth!

The beginning of my renaissance
is paved with pebbles, pickpocket stones

     perpetual immigrant-kid—

I tell myself in the mirror
     that they’re all in on
the joke

as they laugh out loud
corn husks, stripping
in front of
my eyes  

leaving stringy bits on the ground
like the remains of
          a GOOD haircut.

i smile, pretending to know
how one thing blossoms into another

roses blooming in recession
transforming right before my eyes
      into the tight coiled curls, of lavender

IN someway, strung together
by an invisible thread

Is my shirt the wrong shade of red?

i tug on it at least ten times before
walking out the door, completely
of the recipe

        My shoes, are they too worn down?
not enough?

blindfolded, i tiptoe on this tightrope
        searching for THAT quintessential cool

is it just,
           my smile?
too open? or my eyes, too honest?

what gives me away?

I wipe the hazy fog from the medicine cabinet, in an attempt to erase--

as a way to be seen.

Dec 2022




I always knew I’d fall for

LAY down in the grass with me
to shoot away this AIMLESS doom

      with ray-gun specs
blue-printing the spheres of my head
little yellow brick road
        to our slice of heaven.

Gloom dissipating
into an evening's brittle GLOAM  

NO WAY to decide
whether, which time
is the right TIME

some days I wake up
with hearts on my eyes, taping them shut

SLOW down, slow

time is a fickle thing
it runs out from you
straight into me


Nov 2022 


Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here


Clouds have a lot to say,
but no one will listen.

they ask why it is that
we lean into our pain

      listen to the songs that accentuate
like irritating
an open wound, inflamed

aggravating it with outstretched palms
        or scratching
with poly-starched fingernails?

why we pour alcohol into fancy glasses
with differing syrup strains, lip-stick stained

if it wasn’t
      for the confinement of bedroom

topped with gathered herbs from some garden
gift-wrapped in plastic

why we incessantly pick at
our scabbed edges
as if to disrupt mending would somehow

      make it all
go away

dissipate in the midst of it
like the sun bleached remains of
        aluminum red, soda-pop cans
turned metallic pink


over the outstretched limbs
        of six or so months.

why we stay up at night

      tormenting ourselves
with nonexistent things,


flipping from thick-fat bubbling India ink to
some hazy airbrushed outline
      of reality,
not quite existing

painted in the full technicolor of
what ifs and what nows.

We lean into it so heavily
letting buckets of rain form

filling Coca-Cola pockets of
      cup holders on patio chairs
as you sit
        and stare,
        at nothing

let your thoughts run, axial-heeled
knees bent, uncompromising

        run you tired
’til only a shell remains

      an arthritic gasket inside a
run down Chevrolet, rusted
near neighborhood park

whose only attraction
is a single bent basketball hoop with no netting.

I always find myself in the middle of things
      a firulais

running on city streets or suburban
backyard, picket fencing

hiding in the gutter of two spaces
a sticky tortoise shell of in-betweens

not quite tarmac, not quite concrete
      not quite here, not quite there

going round
      and ‘round, like multi-colored spin tops
on pavement

there’s no real solution for it all

no single-soothing
      baby toothed rain drop
on freckled skin

chocolate covered comfort blanket
bought in corner road coffee shop

no song, sang
      million and one times

oil slicked bubble-bath, or
bloody hot shower or

even paper book with spine split in two

not the food I make
taking the time to look through three different knives
for the perfect slice
      of oyster mushroom

only for it to taste like cardboard

wishing for Tampopo egg yolk
instead —

      clouds, you see, have a lot to say,
      no one listens

I’m wanton with my agony.

Aug 2022


Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here


Slurping into seeded fruit,

unanimity finding a friend
on my tongue

while swollen lips converge
on concave slivers
rubious jelly-mush

wonder filled hotheaded 'noon

Dec 2021

‘Watermelon’ was reviewed by The Lit Magazine



There’s love for nostalgia
in the shades of race-stripe red,
empty sky-cyan devoid of intrusions; to incite


Kungfu movie,
played in lofty Sundance theater
built to mimic Hollywood grandeur
with finely fitted rows of columns,    
 Egyptian         motifs in        
Art Deco            filaments
forming              an entire        
sphere               between red curtains  

run-down mecca box office,
rushing spaghetti western re-runs

into all suspecting eyes, arresting
outlaws in between pano shoots of monument valley

I wear my cowboy boots in solidarity.

Five bucks for
popcorn nuggets
       stuffed in between seats
like viewers strapped in      to
roller coaster rides at the state fair,

passing the riveting view of  
mountainsides in tones of black and white
as subtitles attempt to explain Italian

to American audience members.  

There’s wonder in a split second,
a moment whose word is held between the tongue
and tip of cupids bow - here; in technicolor,

I experience revolutions.

Dec 2021


Tins in the Park 

Dandelion weeds swing,
bumping into eachother, losing

            bits and pieces
like strands of hair
slithering down drainage holes

Kitten heels and sharp tongue,

sticking the ridge of thrifted Manolo’s into
sinking mire,

wetlands minus the wet.

We imagine god losing track of his
exasperated, claiming with finality
their edibility

only to be fooled,
by track pant wearing hoodlums
in London Fields

cigarettes half-cocked in mouth, ready
to pulse
          with punctuated reason,

like shooting a gun

Exhaling the tang of adolescence in one
long, drawn-out breath

we communicate by playing ’connect the dots’,
tick-tack toe arrangements 
on pulled turf,

grass cuttings stick to the in-between of fingers
as the stars settle in for the show.

Dec 2021

‘Tins in the park’ was originally published by The
Horizon Magazine


re-published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here


Bare your chest in soho,

spin in a swig or two
        of liquor, to clear
your throat &


Where gussied marlboro bunnies,
pull, forged excuses
            out of pleather baguette bags,

and blame petit plastic ziplocks,
            warbled smilies
for their lapse in judgement.

Perhaps they’ll make sense of sentences strung together incoherently, or think of

a meaning
you hadn’t thought of

Dec 2021

‘Soho’ was originally published by  The Horizon Magazine



Resting on the base,

        forgotten against the fallen leaves
was a memory

implanted like seed in fertile

fixed soley on
the purpose of being

imprinted, then

like rolling rickety scanner, surveying negative space in order to form

lasting beauty.

I smell the same air, crisp
            flash of apple cider sliding
down the trachea, or hitting
pink rounded nose

in an attempt to render anxiety mute.

Perhaps I love you more now, crossing
            this bridge over towering Thames
realizing how much of you is in


Feb 2022

Memory’ was originally published by  Soft Qtrly 


Re-published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here

Wasting time  

My tongue runs over fuzzy Pepsi cola teeth,
attempting to wipe the sticky tack

left over from an afternoon

In Spanish we say money was wasted, rather than spent

I can’t think of us,
        in this moment
any other way.

It feels like time is wasted,
spending it
          implies there is something of value
worth saving up for.

Where you enthusiastically
          gather rusted pennies from
the taped over bottom-sides of
plastic pink piggy banks, or

collected them from embossed floral green couch seats
in your mom’s home,

the same ones she’s had since the late 90s

whose nooks and crannies

felt more like a loose assemblage of crumbs
than coins, or

pulled out of creased denim pockets,
        dusty and sharp scented from their home
at the bottom of our pale plywood

in a bedroom too far for me to walk to.

I wish I could save all my time for you,
         instead of wasting it

I find myself angry with it

a bright white-hot shade of burnt orange marmalade
sitting stored in a jar inside of me

preserved for the moment
when I can offer some of it to you
on a slice of toast.


Tiny piece of leaf,

left swollen
by rain’s incessant downpour

pear-shaped dent
in the ground where heel stuck in
and out,
        came clumps

Piccadilly station frequently finding
                  forms to the silence
from hissing frequencies
to drythroat screeching,

like cellophane plastic to the surface,

c l i n g i n g.

We’re all tossing coins,
into magnificent crystal
        ornamental spurs spewing

only to blame our shadows for their


Plant Pot 

I walked 5 blocks from our apartment,

plant pot propped
on my hip
collecting rainwater

excited perhaps,
by the prospect of growing its own
held closely like a secret 
in its cavity.

Aromatic lavender sat like baseboards
on the edges of the street,
creeping curiously

              through ironwork fences
softly easing
into the air.

I got lost

between moss bitten alley ways and canary shop signs,
on the edges of bold emerald bricks

carefully crafted
by distant hands

and found my way back at the mouth of the bridge
droplets orientate,

where illuminated peonies sit gawking
at the hurried pace of men.

Aug 2021


Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Here


Every morning I’d buy a juice from the lady across the

a little stall of blushing cubic wallpaper,
where stray dogs tend to lay
licking their paws with patience
as if collecting

I’d mix freshly squeezed orange with the heart of

for the perfect shade of amaranth
slightly lighter than the flower
in it’s carmine hue, but

as vibrant.

Sipping I’d smell chard onion stems from the man
on the corner,

whose quesadillas rallied,
my taste buds
or the rumbling in my pit
and was reminded,

love lives in the distinct flavors that surround us.

Aug 2021
‘Juice’ was originally published in Home in Limbo


San Marcos 

Trees dance by their tips
San Marcos chapel

passing and crossing

marking the hours
with the precision of a

Filigree spurts of water
shooting up into the

        As emerald
is held tightly
in the arms of 24 karats.

There’s a bull fighter that sneaks out from his clock tower at the sound of
            a bell,

an obsidian sphere
whose fingers, point

towards the passing of
time. Seemingly infinite,

roses and gardenias
litter the gardens against ironwork benches, of intricate

            Slate silver
like spray paint set in stone.
Stating confidently,

There’s beauty in the simplest
like the setting of the sun
mirrored on the edges of,

                      Aguascalientes city.

Aug 2021

‘San Marcos’ was originally published in Home in Limbo

Only love is all Maroon 

fluttering between tones

          your guitar played, slowly
in the corner of the room with that basketball,
dribbled gently

beneath the coffee table
            as if hiding underneath,in

Time can slow itself
snails pace, crawled

    in it’s entirety,
as if my breathing was suspended

alerted to the transposition of your fingertips

like swans in lakes, across that palace
    perfected place

not a castle

unless, it’s our own
above the shop selling 
    mushrooms by the pound

and plantains that sizzle in our ceramic kitchenette.

Sometimes making love has nothing
to do with touch.

Aug 2021


Published in Nothings

Purchase Book Her