stroll, cont.

gallery road, someone has written, in reference to the huge colourful scrawls lining the no mans’ land between tracks and building site. NOT TRUE, i want to scream. galleries are not so organic.

greenlight leaning over the tracks, poised. another train hums casually over.

a man up ahead appears at first glance to be pissing, but actually he is sketching a bush.  he is wearing earbuds. i wonder what he is listening to.

it’s too painful to stand on this viewing platform; the drilling is too loud. at least there is a creek today; it flows like a fat slug in the rain. brambles reach into the walkway and i find myself looking for the cracks, the in-between, the clues, caught between decimation and desolation.

this kind of barbed wire looks like a fleur de lis.

the smell of sawdust. cigarette butts and polystyrene. moudly apple core.

luxury flats overlooking the sewage treatment works.

stroll, cont.

like a goldfish in a bowl


i am not stuck fast
but i am glue-slow
wading through wet cement
circa 1970
i drink sky and

what’s funny is
if you build glass where
it never stops raining
life will be as grey
as if you’d never bothered,
and just used concrete

you have to see that
shards are just as sharp
when they fall from phone boxes
as when they stand erect
and pierce the roof

of the world’s mouth

“and this world is
the one”, we shuddered
as we sped towards it
along the DLR tracks

of the darkest timeline
history taut as a tightrope

like a goldfish in a bowl


I want to go sit somewhere up high

and smoke a cigarette,

the quiet relief of being the first person

to exist outside of space & time.


I want to become old

and eccentric,

without being outwardly considered to be

old, or eccentric.


I want to go laugh alone on a tall hill

or in a low valley,

and relish the obvious fact

that I am the funniest person alive.


I want to go lie on a roof

above a buzzing city;

a position in which it wouldn’t be too presumptive

to festoon me with CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.


There, on my back, I will stare

at the stars,

until their image is cigarette-burned

or indelibly magic-markered


onto the insides of my








i stood in that hollow once before
you raised me well, taught no feeling

bound up in tape, resurrected
a projected image flickering on one wall
i’ve been away too long

what made you so cold?
who made you so angular?

a considered scrawl
a hyperactive child running around in a cave
vowels echoing out the mouth

two windows together and apart
like white plastic wings
in a cold grey pebble dashed world

what held you apart?
what pushed you together?

broken into blue and grey
“I can’t see your face no more,
you’re standing on the opposite shore”

how do I swim to you through this
cold morning light
water two whole feet deep,

you don’t fall in, you

i stand in that hollow again tonight
neon signs flickering uneasily miles too far
the water too shallow to swim that distance

bring me up to speed:
who died? who took too much? where is your baby?
i’ve been away too long

divided up, now
boarded with cheap wood
salvaged from bonfire nights and leaky gas canisters

spokes on a wheel
deal after deal proclaimed loudly in
red, blue, yellow

colours running into one
the sun is gone, replaced by a sign
“these hazards are -“

i stood in that hollow twice before
you raised me well, i know no feeling
i’ve been away too long


Psychogeography of the internet

Screen Shot 2015-02-12 at 18.12.21

The internet wasn’t meant to be like this.

Coding was meant to be accessible to everyone; the intention was that everyone should be able to create their own webpage or website. But it was hijacked; the internet is not what it seems, and most people only experience the extremely thin and cushioned top layer that exists in the ether; using ergonomic layouts created generically by employees of web design firms. Mirroring the corporeal world, very little interaction really takes place with the workings of users’ surroundings; the wires are not exposed. People are missing out on the opportunity to experience and harness genuine creativity by being handed a sunburst-filtered facsimile of it on a meme-adorned plate. They are missing out on the potential of the glowing ether.

Psychogeography of the internet