Nycterisdream

Hold my hand. I lit up my room in fires, in red and in stars. Told you it was ‘better late than never’, and wondered when you told me ‘there is nothing to fear’. I never asked you to match me. Bonfire sparks never caught your eyes, only shadowed them in confusion. I lost my shoe sliding towards safety, trembled in a heap of mud and ruin, and more was stolen that night than some biscuits. I dreamt once we stood and heard my haunting owl, picking out imaginary constellations against the backdrop of water and frost, a warm freeze of skin and peace and darkness. A nameless man with a newly inked tattoo tipped me off balanc

If you look deep into your pockets boy, I’ve been leaving you ‘once upon a times’ buried in the loose change for years now, and I’m feeling they need compiling. There’s a heart-rending tale etched in polystyrene, and a sob story of hairpins and incense scattered across the surface of your desk. Neither have the perfect ending I was aiming for, but the pages make excellent skins for rolling, so I suppose it’s ok. I continually forget that fairytales fingertipped on shower doors fade away… but milk and bread grow mouldy also baby, and someone ate the cookie crumb trail leading me safely hom

I’ve tried all night long - whilst you weren’t looking - but I cannot reference you, though you are by far the most relevant source I’ve found. Instead I’ve resorted to unpacking your ontologies, and looking for the meaningful method under your surface. - I’m told it exists, and my fingertips agree. I just can’t hold it - Instead I’ve resorted to mapping out your hierarchies, the scales of your eyelashes - both resolution and extent – the geopolitics of your skin. - Someone assured me you are not given a priori, but produced through inquiry - Let me socially construct you, b

my city sky has plastic bag birds and beep beep beeping men and you LOOK before you cross and cross regardless even though the taxis and the buses have a secret club mission to run me over you can tell by the way they turn the wheel paper bags hide all the alcohol the old men consume in an evening some of them smell too bad and i smirk as i walk past the drug dealer cos I know and the police dont and i really wanna see all those plants sometime... its sparky to see pink sky in the morning stupid o clock and already the city breathes cold cold air and they wave as they drive the paper delivery van past pick up last nights vomit

It was a creative surgery. ("cake slice"..."spoon"..."spatula"... - "SPATULA??!") Murder made arty. Bewildered eyes, bloodshot doped "o" of surprise, taking in soup stew of his juicy innards. Poor Wilson, he's "so confused!", he really has no idea "what's going on?!" Pass him left, passing sticky smiles, and boygerms ("eww!") and cradle him careful, as you steal his breath. Headrush exhale, and he's ok, really, he's enjoying the attention, enjoying the pineapple kisses. (He's on fire.)

'Explain what is meant by "scientific realism", and explain the 'No-Miracles Argument' for scientific realism. Assess whether this argument is undermined by the various anti-realist and sceptical arguments we have considered.' Scientific realism is the conception that, having attained a certain degree of empirical (observational) success, and having been shown to have a predictive and explanatory power, theories can be regarded as being at least approximately true, with real knowledge about even the unobservable possible (Ketland, 2005)(Boyd, 2002). Realism has developed since the twentieth century as a philosophical doctrine, with its posit

We are broken, but perfect – like the realisation that we can fall to our knees sometimes and chip the edges of our romance, but still fall asleep with our fingers intertwined                    and cinnamon on our lips.

she remembers other lives: fragments of myriad pasts that might once have been her own. they shift, like shards in a kaleidoscope; catch the light and s p l i n t e r a memory into bright and broken chaos of galaxies spun from shivering mirages of worlds long-gone and the glitter-glass symphony of wind-chimes, gently stirred by passing ghosts wakened from unslumber and dragged, blind and weary cross time-worn trails, forever trapped in a music-box waltz to her wretched sigh[and someone else's elegy.] and she's the girl watching, holding fast by silken, poisoned threads by a plea, a promise to let go the silvered whisper

i. every sad story starts with love. ii. there is you sprawled across the bed with your ankles tangled in cotton covers and the golden waves of sunlight breaking themselves through fissured glass to drip into your hair like bright honey, your hands reaching upward as if they were young birds waiting on wings. you wept for those flightless, wet-beaked children anchored helplessly to your wrists but their hearts were not as weak as the foreign fist beating in your chest. they collapsed and only left behind the impressions of dying constellations they had scratched beneath your eyelids. iii. at dusk i watched the night take you in waves, glo

I swallow distorted words laughing as they reverberate in my throat and slide down my esophogus into the deep void of my soul. Every sentence tastes powder-soft like eating snow and sugar crystals with the acidic bite of love-lost poems and a forgotten muse. We drink a white-wine spritzer of verbs and ellipses with a brandy twist of sorrow and a tongue print of lemon to counteract the pain. I ask you for an absinthe kiss and you press cigarette-stained thoughts into my mouth as the shadow-words burrow into our bones searching for the truth. I write villanelles onto your hips and you slide into my wrists with ink pen scars.

ten reasons why i can't write: 1. i can't write because when i do i take inefficient showers and get in with all my clothes on and sit there like an environmentalist on strike until my jeans are soaked all the way through 2. i can't write because when i do i tell my cat, bonnie, that her name is really beatrice and that she is descended from a long line of cat-queens and one day her real family will come and claim her, and that's really not very nice of me to lie to her like that. 3. i can't write because when i do i don't sleep because there are all kinds of spitting things waiting in the dark full of words and words

1. i lost your coastline, left it behind on my way out of town. halos hanging around your neck, you were so beautiful. there is no place to turn around. 2. antique post cards, written out wrung dry, saying a sunken feeling and drunken dreams. ten cents, tops. 3. the train station makes the sky seem a shade darker than it really is. your eyes are the color of distilled water. homeless, aimless, listless, earlier we met closed signs with apathy. at least in here it's warm. at least in here we're somewhere. Thank God you are here.