This Is Now My Website

A brief mention of why.

The Visitors

The Visitors Once again… Every day I walk the same fields and think of John Clare. When Clare was born, I once heard a historian say, a rural Englishperson knew with certainty that the beginning of their year and its end would be exactly the same. By the end of Clare’s lifetime, industrial revolution victorious,

Come Back, Darling

Come Back, Darling Listening to the Uncanny Vale What does it mean for an always-empty place to feel empty? The field is a vacant pasture with soft, Suffolk undulations. Among the old scattered trees is an oak that’s been struck by lightning. A border of cow parsley lies on the east and another, of blackbirds

In the Algorithm

Stuck in the Algorithm (Mayday.co) is a fascinating, short, sharp shock of a read from the ever-interesting Timothy Morton. Morton has been a key figure in my imagination since I stumbled upon his Romanticism courses on the now-defunct (I think?) iTunes University 10 years ago. He’s the inspiration behind the ideas of the Pastoral Noir,

Torches Burn Slowly

The third in a very occasional series of found landscape poems. Texts are only slightly altered from the source material. Torches Burn Slowly Torches burn slowly. The kettle is empty. Drop anything you are Holding or carrying. The air is heavy. Wet, and musty. Mildewy. The atmosphere Resists combustion. A coil of heavy rope. A