
a pretty girl, always so calm
until he takes the piss
once too often
placid and sweet
demeanour turns
to prickles and
bristles as the
fire
flares out to
burn his skin
putting out her
fire is his favourite
pastime, which she loves so
Poetry | Stories | Photography

a pretty girl, always so calm
until he takes the piss
once too often
placid and sweet
demeanour turns
to prickles and
bristles as the
fire
flares out to
burn his skin
putting out her
fire is his favourite
pastime, which she loves so
A lover of the incendiary one,
the one who burns her shell and clears away
the old to make way for the new.
Rain doused the fire;
now green buds shoot up new life from
beneath the darkness.

Street signs tell you,
movies show you,
songs encourage you.
Be part of the community,
individuality is not in keeping with this country,
the collective is connected; one is none.
Introverts hide in plain sight,
struggling through the nihilistic dystopian days,
gathering the strength to destroy it all.
A foreigner at the train station,
living within a radical quiet skin.
Too tall for discount shoes,
too solid for little clothes.
“Looking down on me!” they
walk past and impolitely say.
There is no other way for you
are shorter than me, grumpy.
The mask covers the mood.
Tired and burnt out. No one could give me the strength to move my body from the chair, yet you have that power.
Once the kettle boils, you go into my cup.
My sweet teabag, I love you so much. I might dunk you in the water just a few more times.
Our idyllic country.
Towering stone walls threaten to stop the moon from shining, yet we want for nothing.
Each morning we chant, “All belongs to all, all move in one direction, all unite to thank our utopia”.
Our idyllic country was built on the blood and bones of lies.
Running in the snow. The forest disorientates you.
The face of a wolf in the distance clams you. A familiar.
You slump against a tree.
Too young to freeze, yet too old to endure the middle of winter; distant voices sound.
You wake from a fever.
The cat licks you.
A black and white room
Classical glam with a twist
Envious longing
Colours of your ombre hair
Mix with your blood on the floor
Tim’s friends describe him as a quiet introvert. They love his kind presence.
The news ran a story about the rise of an oppressive cult leader.
One friend swore it was Tim, and others weren’t sure; however, all agreed Tim would never do what that maniac did to those people.
Home from a long day and hungry,
looking in the fridge for inspiration.
Sitting down to take off the shoes,
floating away in tired mind clouds.
Inspiration takes hold, then “Fark!”
A single tear rolls down your face,
cursing your poor smashed toes.