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



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


This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

At Sea – Part Two

I stood under necrotic grey,

And heard the calling of crows,

Long caws stitching wounds

Only I and the gods could know,

And I grew tired,

Sank into winter’s monochrome

Painting the ceiling

Of the cathedral

Of our planetary home,


Pray, ground, alone;

Despotic vespers half-danced

From the knees

To a blind dull dome

I writhed and exalted for summer,

For other birds already flown,

Whispered words about

Bright plumage gone

Added an ‘amen’

In a stream of sibilant drone

Land-locked in urban wilderness,

I still find myself at sea

Stranded on the frozen waves

That will not bear me

Closer back through the years

To when the Albatross

Didn’t follow

Nor to when the roars

Of prevailing loss

Couldn’t other sounds swallow

Nor to when the sky was

A victim of theft,

Robbed of blue and indigo and yellow,

Nor to when I was robbed too,

Made bereft

And knew the blow

Of death’s fist

Punching in sorrow

You aren’t here,

It’s black and white,

Written in 2D shades


The light has been dialled down,

I will age,

You will stay young,

Cue the hissing of haunting serpents

And the dimming of the sun

Moon Cake

Birthday cake, yours,

A bloated moon that doesn’t shine;

We gather and ignite

Candles as gnarled as trees

Grown in fairy tales

You are not here

To blow them out

But have still taken root

In thoughts that sit like petulant goblins,

In belongings that slump unused

I cannot fill your boots

Lurking by the door

There is nothing to get you but flowers;

We are heavy

But still sing, uninspired drone

Fan the flames away

In thin whines of smoke

And I see the long wings of grief,

Dogged albatross sorrow

Cutting incandescent night,

Dipping across blackened wicks,

Wax sticks standing small

Beneath their now extinguished light

Like the Ancient Mariner,

I must tell anyone with ears

Your tale

Since eleven years

Have over passed

And I still find myself at sea

With the battering waves

And twisted serpents

Howling up a gale

As long as the loyal bird of loss

Takes time to follow me,

Everyone will know your name


I’ll take this November

To remember,

Not gunpowder, not parliament, or plots,

But you who lived,

Law of language running.

Treason when you were made silent


The words you could

No longer say were coloured,

Torture on the rack;

Golden words,

Goodbye in red

Splintering dark between

I think of my co-conspirator

Your consonants of love in green,

And want my childhood back