Stop making that big face!

Poems written at festivals


The back of my brain is bored

The back of my brain is bored Now that I know writing on camp mats is allowed I collect the little black bugs that nub my collarbone and hold them snug. My face under the coloured canvas is enchanted.


She took us there to teach us what happens when water leaves a landscape 'Tke me away from the tees' he says in sleep, his nordic slate-grey lake brain ticking over, infecting heat. She tries to help him see between the reeds,

Bricks, sink things

Bricks, sink things And she wants to tell him that writing a poem is like packing a case that sometimes she finds red seaside buckets moth nusling next to packets of A4 copier paper, thick as bricks.


When no one was listening we were cavalier with sound quality. played the moog synth in the bath

Ready salted

I write poems like lists of things for you to get at the supermarket. I hope you notice 1. mushroom 2. cleaner mean that I want you in aisle 9,

you interrupt my brain sweetheart

jittering with glass boxes of spogs and tom pips which seem to say 'you interrupt my brain sweetheart'


Statement Leaving the Little Chef I say I like the look of Lancashire and with my fist make like a JCB in a bag of pickled onion monster munch.