Tuesday, 9 October 2018

Fool's Journey

The other thing I've been working on is a poetry and art book based on the Major Arcana of tarot.

I wrote the 22 poems for this collection in a glorious writing in Can Serrat, at the base of the Montserrat mountains. I then commissioned 22 amazing artists to create tarot cards based partly on my poem, partly on the original card from the Rider Waite Smith deck.

The artists are all women or queer or trans* or some delightful combination of these things, because these are the people I know and also these are the people making the best art, let's face it.

Now I've been typesetting the book and I'm blown away by all the gorgeousness. I'm looking into some very exciting things, including printing a super limited edition deck to go with the book...

I'll be launching an Indiegogo campaign before the end of the year to put together the funds for the first print run. In the meantime, if you want to be the first to hear news of the project and see the art as it's released, you can check out the Facebook page here.

Wednesday, 3 October 2018

We Were Always Here

How has it been so long?! 

I have been distracted, finishing and editing a novel and querying agents and wow, that is a unique and beautiful process, like ripping your own heart from your chest and holding up the bloody detritus and screaming LOVE ME PLEASE until the sonic backwash turns you deaf and all the globby heart bits turn your best shoes crimson.

But there is other lovely news! I have a story in the upcoming anthology We Were Always Here from 404 ink, who are the most perfect small press I ever did meet.

The cover is full on 90s Garbage wonder and the line-up is KILLER and you can pre-order a copy right here! It's going to be so good. <3

Monday, 30 April 2018


A pulse is a man’s inner mouth. No, it’s important
to contain the rocker. It’s an inside clump of birches
and a box hedge. Most of the time a scare will appear
as a ripple at the precise instant of India’s breathing tube.
Audrey Hepburn seemed a lucky thing. She’s only like that
for about an hour, a barefoot doll in the lobby of the Overlook.
A doll in a doll’s house, blandly saluting clocks. She’s just
having a bad slender, like the city of Bombay. Perhaps
a coarse blanket fell from a small head to cause multiple agonies.
But what if a monk?

Saturday, 21 April 2018


After the feast I found a glassblower in the woods to craft me a new heart. You should have seen it. The glass was made of sugar and she told me I ought to be careful with it in my chest. Steer clear of sticky fingered children; try not to sneeze until the heart has settled. It was strange to be so beholden to the vessel of my chest. I walked delicate as a full cup deep into the trees. Twigs snapped beneath me. When I got to the clearing I placed my old heart upon the ground. It was rancid and leaking but looked quite natural amongst the leaves. Soon the boar would come, I knew; soon my old heart would return to the forest. By the time they snarled into the meat I was already gone. I am heading north. I am taking my faint crystal heart to the tundra. The snow is lovely this time of year.

Friday, 20 April 2018


The creature in the sauna tells the future
even though we all know there is none.

It is a comfort to play pretend. Bare
your back to the bannik and wait

for a stroke or a strike. All I want
is to believe in divination because

if the book is already written then no
ghosts have torn out the pages. My favourite

time of day is the one we don’t have clothes
for. I will strip myself to skin if it means

a second helping. In the sauna we are all
on the spectrum—on the one side

it’s past and paster but in the future
I’m hoping cake to the ceiling. I want to be

told I sweat so fancily. Can you whisper
a history as thick as thigh bones?

I’ll show up again playing the breakfast violin.

Wednesday, 18 April 2018


My body is a thing that leaks. I didn’t train it
this way. In the lesson I said hold it together
but my body heard hole. I wake with a stain
in the sheets exactly like the pool that claimed
Narcissus. What a live and shimmering thing.
I fold the stain into a perfect rectangle
and tuck it in my underwear
and all day long my own self is amplified.
When my lover arrives they tell me the stairwell
is ripe with barbecue and tropical flowers gone to rot.
I do not explain. I take my lover in my arms
and our underwear falls to the ground.
The stain spills across the floor like mercury.
Another tinfoil puddle. Our reflection is someone
beneath the surface screaming. When I pull my lover
to the edge of the lake, I am laughing.
They are not afraid. I clench my arms to push them
but they have already dived inside.

Tuesday, 17 April 2018


we played dress up as boys who went mad

I tried to, anyway    he was better at it than me
he was Syd in eyeliner    Syd, too, in the small

& smuggled hours    all it took was a bicycle bell
Jack Daniels    all it took was a chemical experiment

there is nothing more romantic than a brain’s
unhemmed edges    I used to think

there is a game in the soft-smudge hallucination
that remains    when the psilocybin’s gone

we played life’s cassette backwards    for a while
dredging for the delusion that would prove us real

he kept the socks on in the morning    he looked good
in madness    he wore it like a suit coat

with all the pockets sewn shut    it hung well
on his ribs but there was nowhere to keep anything

he told me it didn’t matter    & we rewound the tape
we sat tight around the player        we listened again