I’d spent a fortnight living in a museum in the city I’d grown up in, because I had nowhere else to go. I spent my time walking across the city, meeting strangers, and stories. This is about one of those afternoons, when I got stranded under the obelisk in front of a hundred year old grave, reading about them as I waited for the rain to stop.

I’d written this drunk, or high, or both, and surely in love. Make of it what you will.

This one’s about a winter past when a meteor struck and something in me went extinct

My mum, and my dog. They really write my lines. Sometimes, breathing them into existence over a cup of tea, or a long walk in the forests

A spoken word poetry, about stained letters, and moving.

A spoken word poetry, about building a home on the day the world decided to die