Buy my poetry books. Validate my life choices.

So a couple of volumes of my poetry are available to buy online.  Paperback should still even reach you before Christmas if you hurry and order now.  And you can have it on Kindle in a whisper.

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US readers: get it here.
And UK readers from here.

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Available from here in the US…
… or here in the UK.

It’s available everywhere in the world, but it would have taken forever to link every single Amazon site by country.  A cursory search will turn it up, wherever you are.

A bit of iridescence

It’s cold and dark and wintry, but here are a couple of photos I just rediscovered and edited from a botanical garden trip a couple of months back.

Something Like Agony, I Guess

It’s always two minutes to midnight,
and we’re always in the Garden of Gethsemane.
I don’t remember when
moonlight started to burn like this, but
it seems like this is all there is, maybe all
there ever was, ever will be.
The brain has never felt more like
spoiling meat, nor the excoriated soul itself
more reassuringly transient,
as we dance these slow, sad waltzes
with mute, irradiated ghosts
beneath the branches of the doveless olive trees.
The night is sharp with splinters and iodine
and other traumas.  Muffled voices, raised
in song: listen! they are singing inside
the fallout shelters.   Ash drifts like
apple blossom.  Wolf skeletons relearn the
ability to howl.  Everything we fear
is inevitable.  Much of it has
already happened.  And maybe tomorrow
won’t bring betrayal, crucifixion or torture, just
something else,
something like agony,
I guess.

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Poem my own
Image: “The Moon” by Hare Raising Designs

We Are Product

So this, it seems, is what happens when I go out listening to Adam Curtis Spotify playlists on headphones:

“But maybe your real job is shopping…”

Sleepwalk through stock footage.  Life as
documentary.  Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
Nazi love songs.  Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing – they all want to
be queens – and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead.  We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?