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.
Collision.
Consuming Space
Come
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.
Come
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.
Come
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.
Come
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
Feb 2024
All the things pigeon is
not.
Pigeon isnot
pretty,not
really. Pigeon isnot
the life of the party, she hides behind trash bins and makes her home in rafters about Bethnal Green’s bridges. Pigeon isnot
fickle, she clambers about the same route long since abandoned by public consciousness. Pigeon doesnot
hold a grudge even if her tissues bare reminders. Pigeon isnot
dove even if she plays her in movies. Pigeon isn’t paid much for her troubles, rather spat at and scurried along. Pigeon isnot
lonely, with her gaggle of girlfriends and the wrinkled welsh man that brings her breadcrumbs by the church bell. Pigeon isnot
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
close
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
perm.
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
happened
but they could have
and that’s really all there is to it
isn’t there.
Written during The Poetry School Spring Sessions 2024
eight-course
1,2,3,4,5,6 7,8
1
blades of grass made man
made material
excitement wave with three-click kick
a tongue-licks long-face
a patchwork ball rolls chivalrous
2
arachnid
rubious lip
take the edges
with the tips, by the playful bite of
almost, not quite
strawberry
3
if you could bake it, it
wouldn’t smell as sweet
4
wide-open bloom
is mellow yellow, woven
carefully on wood-loom trough
the thought truncates
in sunlight’s battered eyelash
5
stuck onto
devastation of
chalk-chipped porcelain alter
bathroom sink
error receptacle
6
the errant mind wanders
lonesome
bursting cortisol beetles
in search of gold scaramouch
til morning hollar brings
some rhythm
back into it
7
peephole dawn
goddamn
the big bright open
is a fifty foot fall
no one can make it
land joyous
8
You try anyways
because life is dot, is line is
moronic morse code
message
for
one.
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.” ...
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.” ...
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....”
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....”
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...”
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. “ ...
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.
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.” ...
Electronic or Otherwise Known, Experimental
The band plays sonics
sound spaces stretched ____
dwindled
then all of a sudden
aggressive
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
outside
we are grounded
but only for a little while
up sounds, speeds up, up-up and away
ready for take off
transendental
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
par__________________ticipate
the placard says your name in tungsten
wiggles about against the lighting
the sound encompasses
everything
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. ...
Wound
Doing the watusi, bathroom
mirror
catching the faintest lines
roll along the edge
grow a mustashe
like the tash-tattoos of
indie sleaze
just sleaze now, thank you very
much
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,...
BOZO’s been forgotten about
Big Bozo the clown’s been forgotten about
down the Strip
points at pedestrians with his gallery-room
gloves
winks at the crowd
mini morsel of stardom
My momma used to take me
back in the day
back in the sepia
childhood
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.
Big Bozo the clown’s been forgotten about
down the Strip
points at pedestrians with his gallery-room
gloves
winks at the crowd
mini morsel of stardom
My momma used to take me
back in the day
back in the sepia
childhood
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. ...
“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. ...
Tuesday
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.
Performances by
@natysgg
@lewiemagarshack
@brodie_rake
@em._bennett
@artbyradish
& Nothings by Elida Silvey
23.06.23
7pm
“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.”
@natysgg
@lewiemagarshack
@brodie_rake
@em._bennett
@artbyradish
& Nothings by Elida Silvey
23.06.23
7pm
“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.”
Blue
The sky is dark blue and im waiting for 87
the taxi stops with its big bright tangerine lights
tambourine-ing
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
E V E R Y T H I N G
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
replete
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
seamstress
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
Inside
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
it’s
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.
The sky is dark blue and im waiting for 87
the taxi stops with its big bright tangerine lights
tambourine-ing
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
E V E R Y T H I N G
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
replete
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
seamstress
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
Inside
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
it’s
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...
Space
‘My body is soft’, I tell you
want to show you
but there’s no space__
too much
space.
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...
Serpentine
My serpent tongue, lengua
partida
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
pending
tick-tack of drooping
porcelain
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
subdue
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
Transatlanticism
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.
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.
︎
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
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
untitled_1
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
ring
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.
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
ring
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
undetectable
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
undulation
existing unpreturbed by me
or you
or the us in the everyday
completely SERENE in its oblivion.
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
undetectable
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
undulation
existing unpreturbed by me
or you
or the us in the everyday
completely SERENE in its oblivion.
Twix
Additives
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
exhale
wrapper pulled taunt between thumbs
crosswalk for the eyes
I too, exhale
reminding myself of the inadequacy of
substitutions
{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
melodies
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.
Additives
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
exhale
wrapper pulled taunt between thumbs
crosswalk for the eyes
I too, exhale
reminding myself of the inadequacy of
substitutions
{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
melodies
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.
Ding
The dreaded ding
bellhop bell-ring on
morning motel
hotel front desk covered
in vinyl marbling
the man with the faded blue, wool suit
stings
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
separation.
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
dwindling.
It’s jarring
without those clouded skies, just
a mammal, stranded
finding ways to shade from
overwhelming
heat-turned-cold, blue-lipped
sunstroke
the shock of it all
in turn
finding absence and a sharp ringing
in the ears.
The dreaded ding
bellhop bell-ring on
morning motel
hotel front desk covered
in vinyl marbling
the man with the faded blue, wool suit
stings
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
separation.
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
dwindling.
It’s jarring
without those clouded skies, just
a mammal, stranded
finding ways to shade from
overwhelming
heat-turned-cold, blue-lipped
sunstroke
the shock of it all
in turn
finding absence and a sharp ringing
in the ears.
Biometric
I spent the passed hour sitting in silence
vigorous air con
tap-tapping uncovered
knees
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
pulled
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.
Eurostar Eels
We glide across a field
passing the blur of black trees
thin stocks filed-in like soldiers
between the
skies
those elegant fingertips
itch greasy locks
leaving mirroring spaces between
strands
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
another
lifetime
a smile, concealed in a second
then disrupted by the chaos
surrounding.
For a moment, existing
dissolved then, by burgundy-blues
and the hint of yellow
daylight finally submerged into nighttime’s
embrace
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
slowly
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
︎
︎
Cannikan
The squawking sun rests
smugly on window sill, shoulders
propped up
as if
expectant
smirking in shades of
chartreuse
its day-glo bloom, bursts
the tiny veins around my eyelids.
I must seem so weathered
to you
little crinkled cannikan
sun-bleached
tossed onto jilted
high street
or like those signs that
left unattended, sit
uncomfortably in their posts
like guardsmen on first
assignment.
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
regardless.
Post-X Rush
The man leans front forward
on counter top
his cherry stained
apron, pressed
against glass case
curtains, cuts of meat
marbled
like blocks of stones
prized, equally
as
barren.
The fluorescent lights
coat the butchers
in arsenic
cover
only the primary colored
plastic shopping bags, rippled
pirouetting
in the current of
faster_than_lightening city
winds
high-hung behind him
appear immune.
The man leans front forward
on counter top
his cherry stained
apron, pressed
against glass case
curtains, cuts of meat
marbled
like blocks of stones
prized, equally
as
barren.
The fluorescent lights
coat the butchers
in arsenic
cover
only the primary colored
plastic shopping bags, rippled
pirouetting
in the current of
faster_than_lightening city
winds
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
neighborhoods
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
crashed
high speed
ambulances came, unannounced
to save me
gears spluttering across roadway
end-to-ends
bits and pieces, like slivers of sliced
lemons
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
presence
a pupils widened yawn for daylight, blinking
in recognition
Is the low humming coming from inside me?
imperceptible perhaps, to other
beings
Rotary phones used to crank up a dial
circling symbolically like the route one took
to get there
bicycle rides down suburban sun-roofed
neighborhoods
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
crashed
high speed
ambulances came, unannounced
to save me
gears spluttering across roadway
end-to-ends
bits and pieces, like slivers of sliced
lemons
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
presence
a pupils widened yawn for daylight, blinking
in recognition
Is the low humming coming from inside me?
imperceptible perhaps, to other
beings
Jan 2023
︎
︎
Sudden Objects
This only happens for a little
while, a blip before
it goes
out
washed up ashore like
barnacle-bottle
/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
amicable
settled, stagnant like gossamer painting
just a thin blue web__ _
_ __over sanded-down stone
England’s version of sandy beaches, I
suppose
jagged and sharp
like your tongue, exposed
to the salted air
the seagulls circle around you
bated-breathed
just as frenzied
sit with me here, watch this movie
play out
with it’s ebbed horizon
pulsing
fastened to heartbeat, unfastened
by you
hold my hand
and let it wash over you.
This only happens for a little
while, a blip before
it goes
out
washed up ashore like
barnacle-bottle
/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
amicable
settled, stagnant like gossamer painting
just a thin blue web__ _
_ __over sanded-down stone
England’s version of sandy beaches, I
suppose
jagged and sharp
like your tongue, exposed
to the salted air
the seagulls circle around you
bated-breathed
just as frenzied
sit with me here, watch this movie
play out
with it’s ebbed horizon
pulsing
fastened to heartbeat, unfastened
by you
hold my hand
and let it wash over you.
Seeds
THE PILOT APOLOGIZES
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
slow
measured
contained
singing pop tunes in diminished keys
I CAN’T HELP but laugh at
the pageantry.
THE MAN sitting NEXT TO ME, begs me
to WAKE UP
to PLEASE PLEASE please
WAKE UP so
I PLUNGE back INTO
THE DEEP BLUE sleep
in defiance
i see weird-FISHES DANCING TO THE TUNE OF UNDERWATER song
WAVES CRASHING TO FORM bass notes
BARRICADES. The sound of water rushing
into my ears turns to
beeping
__BEEPING
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
SEEDS
SEEDS
sperm
SEEDS
FLOAT OUT OF pollenated bushes outside
HOSPITAL WINDOW
NO ONE SAYS A WORD
BUT THOSE WHO KNOW, know
the plunging START begins AT THE END.
THE PILOT APOLOGIZES
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
slow
measured
contained
singing pop tunes in diminished keys
I CAN’T HELP but laugh at
the pageantry.
THE MAN sitting NEXT TO ME, begs me
to WAKE UP
to PLEASE PLEASE please
WAKE UP so
I PLUNGE back INTO
THE DEEP BLUE sleep
in defiance
i see weird-FISHES DANCING TO THE TUNE OF UNDERWATER song
WAVES CRASHING TO FORM bass notes
BARRICADES. The sound of water rushing
into my ears turns to
beeping
__BEEPING
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
SEEDS
SEEDS
sperm
SEEDS
FLOAT OUT OF pollenated bushes outside
HOSPITAL WINDOW
NO ONE SAYS A WORD
BUT THOSE WHO KNOW, know
the plunging START begins AT THE END.
Jan 2023
︎
︎
Lasso
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
M&Ms
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
PARTY on!
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
sprigs
somehow
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
UNSURE
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
︎
︎
FLAME
DAYLIGHT floats OUT THE BLOOM
I always knew I’d fall for
you
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
down
time is a fickle thing
it runs out from you
straight into me
THE FLAME IS ITS OWN REFLECTION
DAYLIGHT floats OUT THE BLOOM
I always knew I’d fall for
you
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
down
time is a fickle thing
it runs out from you
straight into me
THE FLAME IS ITS OWN REFLECTION
Firulais
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
disgarded
over the outstretched limbs
of six or so months.
why we stay up at night
thinking
tormenting ourselves
with nonexistent things,
imagery
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.
Watermelon
Slurping into seeded fruit,
unanimity finding a friend
on my tongue
while swollen lips converge
on concave slivers
of
rubious jelly-mush
wonder filled hotheaded 'noon
Slurping into seeded fruit,
unanimity finding a friend
on my tongue
while swollen lips converge
on concave slivers
of
rubious jelly-mush
wonder filled hotheaded 'noon
Dec 2021
‘Watermelon’ was reviewed by The Lit Magazine
︎
‘Watermelon’ was reviewed by The Lit Magazine
︎
Film-reel
There’s love for nostalgia
in the shades of race-stripe red,
empty sky-cyan devoid of intrusions; to incite
reactions.
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
neo-realism
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.
There’s love for nostalgia
in the shades of race-stripe red,
empty sky-cyan devoid of intrusions; to incite
reactions.
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
neo-realism
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,
stomp
sticking the ridge of thrifted Manolo’s into
sinking mire,
wetlands minus the wet.
We imagine god losing track of his
mushrooms
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
blindfolded.
Exhaling the tang of adolescence in one
long, drawn-out breath
we communicate by playing ’connect the dots’,
forming,
tick-tack toe arrangements
on pulled turf,
grass cuttings stick to the in-between of fingers
as the stars settle in for the show.
Dandelion weeds swing,
bumping into eachother, losing
bits and pieces
like strands of hair
slithering down drainage holes
Kitten heels and sharp tongue,
stomp
sticking the ridge of thrifted Manolo’s into
sinking mire,
wetlands minus the wet.
We imagine god losing track of his
mushrooms
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
blindfolded.
Exhaling the tang of adolescence in one
long, drawn-out breath
we communicate by playing ’connect the dots’,
forming,
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
‘Tins in the park’ was originally published by The
Horizon Magazine
︎
re-published in Nothings
Purchase Book Here
Soho
Bare your chest in soho,
spin in a swig or two
of liquor, to clear
your throat &
Speak
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
before.
Bare your chest in soho,
spin in a swig or two
of liquor, to clear
your throat &
Speak
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
before.
Dec 2021
‘Soho’ was originally published by The Horizon Magazine
︎
‘Soho’ was originally published by The Horizon Magazine
︎
Memory
Resting on the base,
forgotten against the fallen leaves
was a memory
implanted like seed in fertile
dirt-land-property
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
tickled
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
everything.
Resting on the base,
forgotten against the fallen leaves
was a memory
implanted like seed in fertile
dirt-land-property
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
tickled
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
everything.
Feb 2022
‘Memory’ was originally published by Soft Qtrly
︎
Re-published in Nothings
Purchase Book Here
‘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
residue
left over from an afternoon
spent.
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
wardrobe
outlying,
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.
My tongue runs over fuzzy Pepsi cola teeth,
attempting to wipe the sticky tack
residue
left over from an afternoon
spent.
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
wardrobe
outlying,
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.
Piccadilly
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
fountains,
ornamental spurs spewing
only to blame our shadows for their
loss.
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
fountains,
ornamental spurs spewing
only to blame our shadows for their
loss.
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
garden
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
whose
droplets orientate,
where illuminated peonies sit gawking
at the hurried pace of men.
I walked 5 blocks from our apartment,
plant pot propped
on my hip
collecting rainwater
excited perhaps,
by the prospect of growing its own
garden
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
whose
droplets orientate,
where illuminated peonies sit gawking
at the hurried pace of men.
Juice
Every morning I’d buy a juice from the lady across the
street
a little stall of blushing cubic wallpaper,
where stray dogs tend to lay
licking their paws with patience
as if collecting
droplets.
I’d mix freshly squeezed orange with the heart of
beetroot,
for the perfect shade of amaranth
slightly lighter than the flower
passionate
in it’s carmine hue, but
just
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,
sometimes
love lives in the distinct flavors that surround us.
Every morning I’d buy a juice from the lady across the
street
a little stall of blushing cubic wallpaper,
where stray dogs tend to lay
licking their paws with patience
as if collecting
droplets.
I’d mix freshly squeezed orange with the heart of
beetroot,
for the perfect shade of amaranth
slightly lighter than the flower
passionate
in it’s carmine hue, but
just
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,
sometimes
love lives in the distinct flavors that surround us.
Aug 2021
‘Juice’ was originally published in Home in Limbo
︎
‘Juice’ was originally published in Home in Limbo
︎
San Marcos
Trees dance by their tips
besides,
San Marcos chapel
Weddings
passing and crossing
quinceañeras,
rolling
marking the hours
with the precision of a
clock.
Filigree spurts of water
shooting up into the
sky.
As emerald
stone
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
delicately
towards the passing of
time. Seemingly infinite,
roses and gardenias
litter the gardens against ironwork benches, of intricate
designs
Slate silver
like spray paint set in stone.
Stating confidently,
There’s beauty in the simplest
of
things
like the setting of the sun
mirrored on the edges of,
Aguascalientes city.
Trees dance by their tips
besides,
San Marcos chapel
Weddings
passing and crossing
quinceañeras,
rolling
marking the hours
with the precision of a
clock.
Filigree spurts of water
shooting up into the
sky.
As emerald
stone
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
delicately
towards the passing of
time. Seemingly infinite,
roses and gardenias
litter the gardens against ironwork benches, of intricate
designs
Slate silver
like spray paint set in stone.
Stating confidently,
There’s beauty in the simplest
of
things
like the setting of the sun
mirrored on the edges of,
Aguascalientes city.
Aug 2021
‘San Marcos’ was originally published in Home in Limbo
‘San Marcos’ was originally published in Home in Limbo
Only love is all Maroon
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
reverence.
Time can slow itself
snails pace, crawled
felt
in it’s entirety,
as if my breathing was suspended
alerted to the transposition of your fingertips
gliding
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.
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
reverence.
Time can slow itself
snails pace, crawled
felt
in it’s entirety,
as if my breathing was suspended
alerted to the transposition of your fingertips
gliding
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.