floss under a toenail
removing strands by the strand
my dentists is over there
his self-bleaching smile
would he approve of flossing like this
i chuck a couple quid
he nods bashes his head on the dull neon tent frame
his fuck masked by sirens
i pass suited slicks on the way to pret
ready to oil em up
tongue squirms gainst tooth reacting to gag
cardboard sign held with high pitched cry
people turn away land down on
man jangling with the chill on cardboard mat
recycling as they look away once more
its recycling
not always good

That intoxicating, fatalistic scent
When it hits my nostrils I can think of nothing else
It colours everything with its shimmer: I no longer perceive
Decentred, decoupled from my view
Sight, hearing, scent born anew or maybe coalesced
Thoughts drift into a swarm of fragments
Imperceptible details that echo in my mind’s eye
I’m lost in them; angered at how helpless I am in its grip
Submerged forgetting the sounds of waves
Only their distant memories remain
And yet…
I wonder if this will become as such one day
Terrifying shifts that leave you placeless, floating,
Invested in the very impossibility
I see no edge; I wish to burrow deeper
Let it consume me whole

Sometimes I’m scared of moments like these. Moments when I actually have hopes.
A glimmer.

But glimmers are so infinitely prettier than what creates them.
Stare closer and… Blinded again.
My iris pounds trying to adjust back – no luck. All ruined by naivety.
I think I should only enjoy glimmers.
But their implied extra-terrestriality tempts. I can’t really stop myself from…

Maybe I don’t even deserve that momentary shimmer. Maybe I should rather shiver and glacially twinkle from my own pale, emaciated skin; that others may enjoy while I stay cocooned.
For now?
Can this last? Starvation must come soon.

What’s the answer?
I think it’s knowing that we’ll never learn, but forgetting it also.
Because aren’t those glimmers something? And isn’t it just so warm when you choose to be blinded? Pure feeling; unadulterated; uncooled by cognition.

And yet, here I am fumbling at the walls again. Clumsily stubbing this, that and the other. Wanting a clear reflection.
I have to wait the longest to once more see the centre; the very last to return.
But the first to yearn to go again.

What a weird cycle that keeps tumbling? Macro and micro: all are following.
I’ve been too impatient for my own at times. How is everyone supposed to comprehend the rests?
Think beyond, so far beyond…
…that you’re blind again.

Then is it the same?
Or maybe the other side of the coin.
Yet, both sides share the same material - all share.
So it is.

And so it must be.
And so I must stop trying to be above it because that denies the fundamentality.
You can’t escape; only handicap.
Get on the ride with hands high. Invert, twirl and laugh as you’re thrown helplessly in its whims.
How freeing it is being trapped?

The encore couldn’t come sooner.
Let’s hope I recall it… But which time?
This time. That’s right. Isn’t it?

a play in three acts

areem, a troubled, clairvoyant cam-girl, has visions as she presses her face up to the static filled tv sets littering her room. visions of un-sexing and her own gruesome murder scene. overpowered by these, she thinks of a plan and draws help from her faceless viewers or anyone who will listen.

currently submitted to theatres