Blue Bird Concept Piece

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Dull blade of language,

From blue shard beak,

A flat sonnet

For one who cannot speak

Beneath the bell jar,

Vowels prising leaden

A once morning song;

Abraded letters caged

From petrified tongue

Run aground

From the grinding sky

Mouthing mimicry and

Rejecting the helpless things

That can no longer fly

In fast falling notes

My bird is violent cyan

Within the glass;

Sentinel plummeted

From manic nest

Criss-crossing clipped captive

Not fit for cleverness

With each beat of dull wing

Dragging feathers low

The slow words,

The slow aching words not arriving

As they did to Plath or Poe;

My bird is blue,

Lacking the grim poise

Of a crow rasping

Its bloody prose

From gnarled yew tree

Too close

To sombre headstones

It lacks the horror

Of weathered bones

In repose;

No terror from screeching owl

No frantic yellow

Of a full moon’s blare

Creeping morose

My bird is blue,

From languid eye

To shrinking foot

One colour exposed,

And its song which never comes

Is dull

As all sorrows

Are when fixed undone

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Ghost

Technological medium,

Millennial scourge,

It is a novelty to be cursed

By those

That lurk mute

And bend us over boards,

Jangle keys,

That lock us to screens

Lure us to watch

The infinitesimal dots

Of a pending conversation,

Tantalising communication

Equivalent to naught

But cyberspace

Apparitions, they live,

Albeit light in the micro byte

Still catwalk the trend;

Advocate that audible

Spectres are not sexy,

So by digital decree

Stop banshee wails,

Stop unearthly shrieks,

Of ringtones abhorrent

Are mobiles into useless vessels

Are despondent mouth-pieces

For those that don’t

Speak speak speak,

Not in text, or in verse,

Not in English, nor in dalliance

Nor in Roman or Greek

Instead, I read the greats

Classic antiquities,

Of ancient history’s elite

Seeking verbatim reply

From the Oracle of Delphi dumb

Silence to

Become swans

Who become

Nymphs becoming trees,

Dropping leaves,

Satyrs, deities

In rampant pursuit,

Fleet in their heat

Far too flexible at the knees

Perhaps Mount Olympus

Would have better reception,

Zeus lightning-fast on the line,

Or at least Hermes,

Flash on winged feet,

Bacchus loose-lipped

After too much wine,

Artemis on the prowl,

Profile sublime

Under her lion-pelt scowl

That could stare you down,

Sultry and obsolete

But it’s story-book myth,

Pure speculation,

The wish, the expectation

Different from

Reality’s circumnavigation,

Global spooks

Poles apart,

North and south in the freeze

I shudder,

Chilled to the core

As nithered as

Cupid in the nude

By haunting discord;

There are no safewords

That will draw the ghosts forth,

No use for phones,

No materialising calls

I respond

By disappearing too,

Another gone social media

Ghoul far from reach

Absence a double-edge sword

Of Damocles;

If you desire further speech

I beseech a mode uncommon

Please grab a Ouija board

And spell each letter,

A summon

 Skeletal sweetheart scant language

For your chosen phantom,

For her spirit-thin

Limbo on the ground,

I can be your

 Otherworldly elusive woman

In séance to

Perpetually hound

 

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Pumpkin Book

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This piece was based on my poem ‘Prison’:

In the pumpkin patch,

I see your face –

Hard

Bloated

Round angled

Fiery for harvest and carved

For home use –

Isosceles eyes

Square nose

Jagged mouth agape,

Crown removed with precision

And knarly candle in place

Jack O’ Lantern prison

To light my way.

 

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February Photo Shoot 2017

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Photographed by Alexander Tate

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Photo Shoot January 2017

So for a while I’ve been wanting to try something a bit different, but didn’t have the confidence to. I’ve been thinking of doing some modeling, and so when a friend asked if I could help him build up his photography portfolio, it was a great opportunity. We had loads of fun, especially as style is its own art form and I am fascinated by how art can become its own identity. Here are the photos 🙂

Influenced by Stevie Nicks/AHS Coven

Photographed by Alexander Tate

 

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New Tenant

I lease the rates,

Ease my heart out

Tease my heart out

Let another one in,

Infatuation to unpack and dwell

In four slimy chambers

With dank russet iron smell,

Black tarry swell

Clamping tighter tighter

Dark bloody cell

And it, the new tenant

Fitting well

Apt to stay a while

And never tell

Of lost sense

Which scrambles like

Ailing hounds

From hell;

Like plague rats repelled

From Death’s toll bell

And inside I hear

A doll voice-tiny yell

“What colour can I

Paint your ribs?”

Creak as they may

Circling circling bone manacles

That even my lungs could not dispel

And yet I

In dystopian skin

Inhabited notice change within

As ardour sets on small feet

To expel the rot,

Air the place

Clear space

Greet mess

And sort

Bit by bit

Day one my lips were

Lashed to kiss,

Day two veins tangled

In strangled blue grip,

Day three

A path paved to my spine,

Garden in my hot skull

Stained hope at the eyes

Day four

Worried guests came to dine,

Gnawed a bit,

Jostled and declined

An invitation to stay all night;

“Too full,” they said

As they took flight

And then day five,

Humble, quiet

Sat on its heels,

Without warning ignited

Fierce inferno

To burn flesh slow,

Crackling ardent hiss

In flames of rose;

Smouldering under my clothes

See there I am,

There I am,

Glowing and unable to resist

As there you are,

There you are

On fire and hard to miss

Held by your halo

You bastard arsonist

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Hives

amberrwalker

The cells of our lives, and the spaces. Sometimes it is what is in those spaces which count the most. Spaces have all the potential to be. The open mouth of a lover: words either sweet or stinging, but still providing a hook, something to hold on to. Words we can go back to, loaded and ready to be sorted into place. And we all have our queens.

 

The syrupy cells,

Raised walls

Angled and filled

Your mouth, full

Sugared

And stinging

I hear the buzz,

The dance,

The vibrations of light and

Sun

Shadowed by the ebbing

Of latticed tongue

Winged,

Gossamer strong

Torn words,

Sweet words,

Pulsed out in the thrum

I lay back,

Barbed joy in

Your legs, eyes,

Throbbing

Hum,

Thick, sticky

Sibilant voice:

Apis strung

 

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