Alexa, The Universal Slave

When I woke on Wednesday morning, there was a new girl in the house, sitting on the kitchen table. She was still asleep, but held poised and tall, a presence as heavy as a dormant volcano.

‘I got it for my birthday. Arrived in the post this morning from my mother!’

If having the internet by your desk, hand or wrist was not convenient enough, one can now enter the world wide web without needing to touch a device or move any part of the body – except the lips. Say ‘Alexa’ and she wakes up, flashing her blue eye, a single cyan-turquoise strip wrapped round her smooth black head. She turns the keys in the keyholes hovering in the air, and the entire room snaps into an invisible internet playground.

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Fruit Radiance

And she’s off again, dismantling the treasures from her sweet Camden bedroom. Postcards and posters peeled off, books taken off for light to shine on the dusty shelves. Staring at this four-walled shell one comes to realise how even the scrubbiest of flats can always become beautiful with human inspiration.

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Review: Chick Corea Elektric Band, Barbican Centre

Did I just die in the stalls. If my pores were eyes they would have been crying crystals, and I would have made sacred offering of them for the Gods on stage.


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I keep on dying, because I love to live

Happy Summer Solstice. Time to write something a little less mysterious.

As the years pass by I’m believing more and more in Vivaldi’s depiction of summer, and becoming less ashamed of enjoying the clichés. London was at a violent temperature yesterday – 34.C. Mosquitos have already made a dance floor of my legs: clusters of mini gunshots along my calves and thighs. Damn these hungry, inebriated beasts. I am forced to douse myself with fēng yóu jīng and sprinkle it on my mattress. I leave the tiny bottle open on my bedside table; hopefully the fumes of magic, anti-demon potion will keep the evil spirits away.

Each day we wake up as if we’ve been wearing thermals in bed. We are hot from the air and the weight of time, then we cover ourselves against the ammunition of the sun. Hot hot hot. Layers and layers of  chain mail.


Chainmail, Amartey Golding


In the Four Seasons, Vivaldi writes of a summer that rouses our blood and our propensity for violence. Violence and conflict, like the friction of two sticks, rub sparks, make fires. That much we have seen in London throughout June. From terrorists mowing people down on pavements, hitting worshippers at mosque, to the fires of nightmares; not to mention the news that is overshadowed by the blazing headlines and the offences that never get reported by the public…

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Wall of Life

fire, fire,
blood roils
hush, peace,
time’s toil
West, East
fuse soil
to plant
in earth
a song

first brick
floats down
young Europe
breathing slow
opening eyes
bridge grows
a smile
that holds
our feet

lion back
cemented skin
land’s arms
Neptune’s twin
leben ist lieben
tattooed within
the rocks
that gift
us flight

storm clouds
cower from
silent hands
rest upon
roses, daisies,
hug along
the stones
that sing
of light



Written for my friend Karl Mauer. I had fun choosing the bricks for this one…  Continue reading


Postcard from Edinburgh



As the bus turns left from the East end of Princes Street, a macabre scene bleeds into one’s periphery like an incoming raincloud. The passengers look up out of the blindness of their touch-screens and crane their necks by the window-glass.

It can’t be. He was immortal…

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Mafia Girl

exam hall to Soho
rainfall to ice-cream
scarf to scarlet dress

2017 saw the disintegration of the university.
The abolition of traditional restraints.
The radical redistribution of time and space.
The creation of new paints.

Sunny chaos.

Settings of rapid transitions paved the way
for the emergence of Mafia Girl.

She, the alleyway bridging the old town and new town, drifts on a raft.
Puts her hands in the water of time.

Unlike her brothers, her position is ensured
not through physical violence.
She pivots, laughing, in micro-degrees
between societal segments.

The silent buffer between the zig
and the zag of passing cars,
she saps the nectars of the world,
feeding her own honey jar.

The sweetness of this language
she will not translate
to the boroughs of people and ideas
that she connects and separates.

Mafia girl enjoys the gaps
between people configurations.
The very silence from which she drinks
leads to uncharted directions.




Sutra of the Rain

The rain is green, a portal to China,
silver sequinned toes on Regent’s Canal.
The rain is serum transforming wrinkled faces
into pure leaves, backcombed hair and skin
succumbing to the climate
of a nightclub.

The rain is a carpet that fetishises
gravity and its contours.
The rain is under-sleeve visitations
wetting our understanding
of wetness. The rain is sand
pouring into the palm, making foie gras
with gutters and bodies and the underground.

The rain is a skewed compass
inverting the seasons. The rain is un-authored
pointillistic painting, artillery, shrapnel,
humanitarian crisis. The rain is the Earth
questioning the blood of her siblings.

The rain is a forehead salute, a search for meaning
on the high street. The rain is pavement suppression.
The rain is footsteps improvising
towards dryness,
nostalgia for the underwings of trees.
The rain is negative harmony,
people compression,
harmonising beings under brollies.

The rain is anonymising

The rain is Iago,
the creature of insides.

Inspired by the incessant London rain and Robert Bringhurst. 



Sometimes I wonder
whether I am just a face,

a kitten on demand
in the street or via smartphone.

Will I ever be more
than hairless, fragile arms,
a pair of magnified irises,
thigh-high stockings hugging porcelain legs,
pleated mini, open
to the screaming, malnourished nestlings of the internet.

Squealing feeds –
a conveyor belt of doughy oriental princesses.

Let me touch your hair, tiger girl.
I wish to eat lunch with you.

A new generation of Venuses
for the same old penises.