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Announcing Emergence - A Poetry Pamphlet
A few years ago, I stumbled on an article about the idea of panpsychicism where consciousness is a part of everything. In this theory, the face we can think and dream is an emergent property of the universe itself. I'm not sure I fully believe this theory, but something about it stuck with me.
Between Skyscraper Atolls
vast vague humanoid machines
plunge deep into gloom and glide;
each elbow engine oil encased;
each articulated camera swivelling,
scanning sea beds for patterns.
Going Live
if they drag you from your car
aim blows at your skull
try to burn down your hotel
Abyssal
Dark of course, but dancing shades
that lap and swirl and churn and roil.
Her eyes have depths she did not realise.
No sound but the slap, clap
of the metal hull bracing, leaping.
The First Day of Mourning
Soon, they joined together in hordes
of increasing size, shudders running over
their bodies like waves in a storm.
They sat together over the cenotaph,
the shopping centre, spilled out into two
lane roads, holding each other as their sobs
became life rafts. Confused crowds watched,
unwilling to leap over to understanding.
Soon traffic stopped altogether, drivers
unable to see through salt water.
Quick Dice Poetry Exercise
Update 26/04/2025 - I've made this into a mini zine! Download here
Always That Chimeric Skyline
Streets now sliced streaks of
shimmering turquoise, scarlet and
funeral grey blurs, suggestions of
doors, signs and windows barely
registering. How long, running for a
lifetime? No wheezes, no stitches, no
sweat. Pavement treadmills, that
red car ahead suspended in
motion. I need to catch up. Why? No
time for questions. Legs now
pistons, push my hazy memory of a
body forever forward as the city
loops over again towards the
vanishing point, never reached —
Creativity lessons from Dungeons and Dragons
For the last few years, I've been playing Dungeons and Dragons as a Dungeon Master. This is the person who creates the world and encounters for the players to explore. Every session is fun and I enjoy inventing increasingly strange situations for the party to react to.
A Ritual
I have been unable to describe the shape
of my body. Birds sing laments, mourning
for our forgotten winter in a language
only they know, nonsense to me. The sky
is a sermon printed on cheap paper,
orange markers bleeding through the page.
My garden whispers like a fading dream
as thoughts transmute to smoke,
wisp and separate and float. Recently
G Man
When asked to provide an account
he spoke only in pollen drifts.