Schrödinger’s Hyena

an act of coming home, to new

boats and old lights, clouds cast

from the same cloth

as the love that raised

the steeple. Coloured pens spill down

the steps large enough to make a small boy

use his hands to climb.

The artist is always

to tell, to hear

a lifetime

of stories.

Syntax took a wrong turn

at the cycle path,

misplacing the question

mark, as the children

skated their way through

Dickensian postcards

and small town pubs.

“… the past is never

dead. It’s not

even past.”

Stories.

is not a thinly veiled presentation of something about myself I actually perceive and, more importantly, expect others to perceive as positive.

Fuck off with that performative shite.

In other news I am over here believing in the genuine uniqueness of every person while pondering the essential individuation simply provided by space(and)time.

You are over there believing in the genuine uniqueness of every person while pondering the essential individuation simply provided by space(and)time.

Two swallows gave shape

to the blue over the headland,

the sahara spiralling

in their wake and my waking.