A very old poem which came from staring into a fire in a suitable frame of mind whilst camping many years ago.


before the clutter clutched at the sun
and held it in an atomic prison
before the whispering engine
dreamed its own inception
before the vacillating powers
paid rent on a single molecule
when tears were crystal
lining the walls of our song
the burden of scale
the laughter locked in an icecap
before my mind saw itself
and realised

I see the embryonic state of the sleeping acorn
the dreams in its head
the philosophy of leaves
a voice says drink deeply of this sweet cup
it will help you forget faces
the merging corporations
are just bodies melting together
the fire contains its own future
no wonder the trees shiver

Click “like” to save the countryside

This is a fairly dense poem which came about from being given a carte blanche to try and make poetry out of the tics of Tourettes Hero (Jessica Thom). It was a tough commission because I’m not sure I can add anything to the existing poetic qualities of the tics (for example “Grandmas Back to Work Scheme, let them piece together the fucked up nation like it’s a four thousand piece jigsaw with a picture.”)

The tic “search for my soul on a database of hay” led to a piece which explores the madness of the economists who have colonised various environmental debates. Although well-meaning, I find their thinking pernicious and troubling…if you can attach a spurious economic value to an “Environmental Asset” then it can be bought. And I find it hard to acknowledge an idea which seeks to put pound signs against our raw experiences of nature. What price can you attach to the moment when you stumble across bluebells lining the floor of an ancient forest?


Click “Like” to save the countryside

search for my soul on a database made of hay
I’ve backed up my thoughts on an encrypted wasps nest
you can link to my profile, it encompasses everything
the trees are rife with possibilities for networking

the sunrise project had considerable overspend
the meadow technicians provided inadequate documentation
I’m measuring outcomes in the back of beyond
I’m tracking the secret vendettas of swans

I’m quite frankly staggered by all this free content
the pinecone meme, the opened attachments of burrs in my hair
the perfect lifecycle of warmed-up numbers
the futile attempt to monetize rivers

notify me when the seasons change
I will be muttering into a foxglove dictaphone
toggling tabs on a brackish browser
& tagging the trail of the forked path rambler