our body shakes in throws, holds me apart, until the self hangs freely from the ceiling. it’s a good thing our mouths are our thoughts and aligned with the towering rhythms, the broken voices, made into one.

if we could build this world, we would slip cracks into the stones and long for the low shake in the ground. the halls are many, the ruins are ours.


strange floors

it trickles down the stairs in quiet streams and falls away. blocked imagery. I fall into it. ten ghosts rattle the cage, but my ribs are so thick there’s no sound inside.

there used to be sea creatures beneath my feet, bony silhouettes in black marble. I run my finger along their spines, along a curved sky, the soft nothing, and breathe it away. I watch entire cities disperse in mid-air. towers fall into the water, bricks crumble in the sun. I destroy thoughts this way. I create worlds to tear them apart.

dirty white


this room is white and dirty and too small for conversations. sadness or maybe just a sense of discomfort. she envisions others, in this moment, clutching wine bottles in candle lit basements and at the edge of chairs by fat notebooks. it’s all a big fucking mess! get off the road in a flaming accident where there’s noise and people die big deaths in the deep black-brown mud of nowhere. silver sands, sweat on the walls.


bohemianhomes:  Penabranca First Full Moon Art Print

I look down, the grey spectres are fading. Wind crashes against me up here and grabs my hand with familiar fingers that pull and pull hard in all directions. The entirety of the world below, thousand grains and shadows. Bow for me as I reach my arms to the sky and eat of the stars like fruit. Can you see, the stains on my neck are are fading too? When I scream the world will know it. I give in again and again.

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.

albion road

seafarers:  The Sierra III by Luc Busquin

The pale face of boredom or raised voices, scratching insides. I see no one for days, but the lamps are always lit out there, sensing ghosts in the hallway. A smell of burnt paper, but the windows are dead dark eyes from outside. They have disappeared into the walls, mumbling to themselves at night and passing cigarettes back and forth and I can almost hear my thoughts through the conversations because they are so shining bright and clear like a flashlight that blacks out shadows and greys. a big yellow moon and nothing around.