these walls collapse out of boredom

Eadweard Muybridge

red marks on my chest in an explosion of disease. they’ve all got it around this building, some kind of ambiguous bug that puts stones in your eyes and thoughts down the drain. a scattered sense of self along the pavement and walls and through the mud of north london. limbs are rotting up and down the stairs and in your bed too. a hand across my mouth, I bite holes in the sky.

wet mud covers my skin, already breaking in jagged lines and falling off like nothing has happened.


old stations

From The Underwater Mermaid Theater Annie Collinge

a tour of familiar places where I’m lost in a hugging crowd. detached and useless and pitied, alone in the corner with a drooping face and red eyes, acting out the inevitable scenario. it’s all so fucking predictable. why not drink ourselves comatose and sleep it off on the bank of the thames, down by the comfortable curve of deptford where I will rest my head on thirsty bricks and ragged faces half buried in the rust red sand. you should see their whisky eyes all confused by the time of day. the beginning seems just like the end.

window scenes

Francesca Woodman

you drink straight from the bottle, like some bored teenager. the empty streets call you out and you paint the sky with wine and future love scenes, both blood red and magical, so when it rains she licks the walls and valleys of london for you to feel better, she gives in, gives away, picks it all off the floor like gleaming pearls or shells in the sand. like it’s nothing and a beautiful day.

steam leaks from the brick house rows in the morning haze and she sees these scenes above the rooftops. you know when tomorrow was just a blank screen and she didn’t narrate the story. life was new and cinematic and she never stopped to think or sleep.

no title

London behind a wall of glass, dusty and absent, while I walk my thoughts away like some persistent hangover. boring conversations invade me, dislocate me. so infused with tired phrases and perceptions, I go home and performs monotonous tasks to the noise of other people’s arguments. I open books and I close them hard.


halls of music

from above

I light up from within and the rays filter through my pores like spikes, touching the ceiling suddenly. from here I see everything. colours, like sound, like colours. in waves of gold my hair flows down and under, sliding through the grass fields to a slanted skyline. I turn my head and I see them.


Helmut Newton, Self-portrait Hotel Bijou Paris (1973)

the streets are different: after a winter of sleep without dreams, I drink the air greedily and talk to strangers. I watch the wickerman burn on top of the hill as the sky burns with it, touching on the limits of being, touching death at sunrise.

I pick wood anemones and hold them in my arms like a skew-eyed mother. In the mornings I implode suddenly and without warning.