Saturday, 24 January 2015



That idol, with black eyes and pixie-cut, with
aristocrats nobler than artists, holier than New York City
hipsters; his selfishness running through her veins, 
purple and blue like blood, or tarnished by amphetamines
in waves of ferocious sadness and yearning.

At the border of her life- young hope twinkles, fades
and dulls out- the girl with chandelier earrings, deer
legs, dancing in silver reflections of tears gushing
from the aftermath of shattered dreams dressed up
as vivid illusions.

Ladies who stroll outside of society, girls
plucked from art school, with trust funds, superb luxury
wardrobes, jewels on show but riches hidden in the
ground of trusting valleys in burnt gardens- young and
broken with eyes full of flashing lights, sullen, princess
of costume and keeping hidden. Gently ignored and
choked, unhappy.

What boredom, without your "genius." 

It is she, the little girl, dead before innocence-
The young artist, alive, does not stoop- his life
creeks but for a second. His inspiration empty 
and studio up for sale. Her shutters pulled down
and the key to superstardom in the lock forever
because the soul is empty. 

The city's silver fountains drowned and cried for her
fabulous elegance.


I am the life who mourns like blue summertime.

I am the academic who waves manuscripts on
elusive "culture" and "style."

I am the pedestrian who looks up to the sky then turns
to the ground. Smoggy greyness and dead black
concrete pleads me to keep searching.

I might well be the same child; lost and unhappy 
and hungry. Dreaming of touching stars but miles
from Heaven.

I am the artist. Manipulative creator and selfishness
embedded into the sinews of my heart.

The lamp shines brightly on these happy photographs. I 
keep falling for these stupid books. Edie, oh, Edie. 
You have gone and the world is ending!

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

Concrete Narratives

Happy New Year!

On Monday I published "Concrete Narratives" as an ebook. You can now buy it on Amazon for £1.99. It includes a selection of 7 short stories that I wrote over 2014, documenting various events occurring in the lives of teenagers living in a small town trying to figure out things like Life & Love.




Saturday, 20 December 2014

The Trees

image source:

Dawn breaks with ethereal light streaming
Through rigid trees and palest cloud
The naked lake, is tranquil, gleaming
Leaves assemble, rustling crowd.

An illumination is the Sun
Trees hum their soul song of the morn
One fleeting moment is the one
With fluttering leaves on crumbling fawn.

When delicate birds sing their song too
The trees rest for a while
To listen to the young ones’ tune
Weaved from freedom and from guile

The trees know though they are ancient,
That youth is the idyllic state
So they hear the tiny birds in patience
Whilst the trees cast the laws of fate

The birds will sigh and end their lives
All eventually
The leaves pass with fluttering cries
No one hears them but the trees.

It Was All Whirlwind, Heat and Flash

image source:

The media bombards us with information and images, telling us that life is short and that we should live each day like it’s our last and constantly be in a state of adventure seeking. However, life is the longest thing that we will ever experience, we have a roughly 1% chance of dying today- so it is likely not your last- and maybe we’re too tired to seek adventure and would rather snuggle up for a TV marathon instead. 

I scroll through my Instagram feed gripped with a kind of paranoia that everyone else is doing more than me and that that consequently means that they are leading more fulfilled lives. I see photographs of exotic locations, fun days in sunny parks with friends, dates in cute cafes and other such FOMO inducing aesthetics that bring to question, ‘are these people living their lives more/better/in a more worthwhile way than I am? Should I be outside trying to replicate these adventures?’

I have never been frightened of seeking adventure and find leaving my comfort zone quite thrilling. When I was six years old, sitting in my grandmother’s sundrenched back garden in the middle of summertime family get-togethers, my older cousin would ask me if I wanted to ‘go on an adventure.’ Of course I did. I had been waiting all day for him to ask me that question. We would leave the garden through the back gate and walk amongst the suburban neighbourhood of garages and corner shops. Although walking round the block no longer holds the same tantalising fascination that it did ten years ago (unless I am listening to ‘Pure Heroine’ whilst I walk), I like to think of it as a metaphor for the more adventure seeking parts of my personality now.

A few years ago, instead of giving up something for Lent, my friend and I decided to say ‘yes’ to every opportunity for 6 weeks. We attended Spanish film club though neither of us studied Spanish and we entered a school gym competition (and came second!) though I’m hopelessly inflexible. Somehow I have tried to carry this philosophy through to today.

Adventures in books and films have an unshakable glamour about them that is often difficult to translate into everyday life. Going on a walk somewhere different and letting yourself get lost for a few hours or driving with no destination can feel like an adventure. But where do we draw the line between healthy escapism and adventures where the main appeal lies in their danger? Teen years are a time when this kind of adventure appeals the most. It is a way of escaping the clutches of routine, asserting independence and a way of coping with everyday adolescence stresses and struggles. Every new experience can seem like a new adventure. However, in this mindset it can be easy to glamourise terrible situations such as engaging in sexual activity that you’re unsure about or taking drugs just because you want to know what it feels like. At a party last summer, my friend and I lay down on the grass and looked at the stars and likened our situation to Jack Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’. In reality, we were both just a bit drunk and had leaned out of a game of spin the bottle in which we hoped we wouldn’t have to kiss anyone gross. I have started to sneak out in the middle of the night just for the sake of it. One time a friend rang me when I was ready for bed so I got changed to meet her in the middle of the night but I left still wearing my retainer. Perhaps these factors make such adventures less glamorous, but at the same time they make them much more epitomising of teenage years in a nostalgia ridden way.

These are things I have been thinking about a lot recently because there are a lot of things that I would commit to under the pretence of adventure in order to escape the singing regret that I fear will grip me as I lie on my death bed some day in the future. Adventure is definitely an important way to feel free and the text on the cover of Sonic Youth’s ‘Goo’- I STOLE MY SISTER’S BOYFRIEND. IT WAS ALL WHIRLWIND, HEAT, AND FLASH. WITHIN A WEEK WE KILLED MY PARENTS AND HIT THE ROAD- still sounds edgy and exciting to me but, in reality, killing your parents wouldn’t be that great. I’d rather go for a walk or something.

As published in Issue 4 of Cherry.

Monday, 3 November 2014

Moonlight, My Old Friend

image source: wikipedia

I saw you with tangled locks, who looks wide-eyed
Rheumy, back through the glass at nightfall, move
Your devil eyes towards the day
Which rejoices with its approach, shrink away!

The voices spit together, and the stabbing
Feelings listen; all senses turned
Inwards to the bleak emptiness; come forth
The gothic butterflies of my soul!

Come over the sea, and let my heart
Meet your mind, and kiss it softly,
Quickly, until the evening breathes
Its rough, sharp breath down my icy neck

O be closer! Night ends in death; leaves
Its ghostly silhouettes haunting the day
The thorny crown of death tearing my mind,
Screaming like an infinite ghoul

Moonlight, plastered in my mind and
Stamped onto my heart, wherever
The darkness lurks it follows never ending
The starry cycle, choking, haunting. 

(as published in cherry)

Monday, 13 October 2014


source: wikiart

As soon as the ship had left the harbour,
A bird stopped in the sky and blurring clouds
And said a prayer to the sea
Applauded by sunlight; flashing, blinding.

Couples drank in the small bars
In the colossal house, still soaking,
Girls gazing dreamily
At the far and wide sea.

Oh! the glimmering fish that swam so deep
And hid underneath rocks that did not move.
Cabin beds were unmade
And the sea howled its song,
Low pitched as a moan.

A door banged closed; in lower cabins
The girl waved her arms,
Understood by the sea,
And nature on land everywhere,
No chains, no bounds; everywhere, freedom.

Blood flowed in the water,
A salted abattoir, in the sea
Where windows gazed deep and dark
Blood and life merged. Currents flowed.

Mrs Smythe played jazz piano in the bar,
Whispered flirtations spread
Like the ship moving across the sea.
Romances set out. Palaces were built
In the chaos of storms of the oceanic night.

Every star wrapped up
Across the ocean wide
Shielding themselves from the bright
And the young--- glittering trance
Of burgeoning beautiful love stories.

Every morning after—it’s winter, they spoke---
Foam rolling along the decks
Lightning like cymbals, drumming thunder
Rise and fall, rise and fall
Oh! precious creatures of nautical nights!
Yet secrets hum through warmed hands
Sharing enlightenment they will know forever
But which eludes us now. 

Saturday, 11 October 2014

Beginning to Love Yourself

image source:

Beginning to love yourself is difficult. It might even be one of The Most Difficult Things. A year ago I would not have felt at all qualified to write this, but in the past few months I have taken baby steps towards the all elusive self-love.

There are times when even accepting yourself can be a challenge, and liking yourself one of colossal proportions. It makes complete sense for loving yourself to be arduous. When a couple move in together, it tests their love for each other, but even the most devoted and inseparable couple have some alone time; even if it is only when they go to the bathroom. We cannot choose whether or not we move in with ourselves. We already have; and we never truly escape. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but we are never truly absent from ourselves. This means that being critical and getting easily annoyed at yourself is an easy routine to fall into, but allowing yourself to become truly embroiled in such troubles- which we are all guilty of doing every now and then- is quite a waste of time when you could be spending those same minutes, hours, days noticing the great things about yourself.

The first step to loving myself, for me, came from being kinder to myself and praising myself for little things. I wrote something today? Great. I found time to watch my favourite film? Awesome. Instead of dismissing the things that I liked to do, I started to view them as important, because they are important. They are important in making me who I am, and it’s wonderful that I have such a strong sense of individuality.

Next I looked for some people to look up to who are big on promoting self-love. Obviously, there’s Kanye West (“I Am A God” is my anthem when I want to feel on top of the world.) Internet famous Joanna Kuchta is also fabulous. Of course one of the perks of being famous is all of the external gratification you receive. When everyone else is telling you how fantastic you are, it is much easier to believe it. However, with fame comes a lot of criticism as well as praise. Other people’s voices can therefore battle in the same way that our internal thoughts about ourselves do. So it’s not like Kanye and Joanna are aliens who we can never understand. Even if you do delude yourself a little bit and post online as if you have millions of fans, you’re not harming anyone by doing this. Be proud of the 10, 20, 30 likes your Instagram photos get, but remember that online gratification does not necessarily translate into real life.

Another obstacle in loving yourself (on top of the inevitable self-inflicted ones) is society’s attitude towards those who do so. Coming across as conceited or egotistical is seen as something to be avoided above pretty much all else, but I would rather be a little bit on the conceited side than go back to hating myself. Furthermore, I have found that being around people who perhaps are verging on the egotistical is more positive than surrounding myself with those who dislike themselves. People who do love themselves most of the time tend to be a lot more positive all round. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend that you and the people you are with are better than everyone else, as long as it’s not in an openly spiteful way.

There are no terms and conditions for self love. Don’t just love yourself after going on a 5K run or receiving a compliment; love yourself after eating a donut; love yourself when you’re dancing alone to your favourite song. There is no one size fits all formula for happiness; we’re all just doing our best.