Some Recent Activity

After a long period where it felt like very little was happening in my poetry life, last week I was lucky enough to be involved in two great events. Firstly my good friend (and excellent poet) Genevieve Carver invited me to take part in a reading and panel discussion with Caroline Bird and Sarah Wardle as part of Sheaf Poetry Festival. The event was entitled Making Meaning From Madness and I loved sharing our experiences of mental health and what poetry means for us in that context, it felt like a really powerful happening and I learned a lot from Sarah and Caroline, as well as being blown away by their readings. The video recording of our event is here:

Later in the week I submitted a short presentation combining words, music and images from my unpublished The Shadow’s Dance project to the Landscapes colloquium hosted by University of Sheffield’s School of English. You can see the film embedded below.

There are loads of other interesting videos – both academic and creative responses to the theme of Landscapes – on the website here:

I was particularly impressed with some of the contributions to the Queer Landscapes panel, and Bijal Vachharajani’s creative work. I’m still making my way through the wealth of material on there.

I hope everyone is holding up as best they can, and look forwards to a time we can meet to hear each other read and discuss ideas in person.

Mad Reflections In The Time Of Covid 19 …

I’ve recently been preoccupied with some images and experiences from my past and from culture in general, and how they relate to my own and some other Mad people’s response to the Covid 19 crisis. Below is an attempt to put words to these thoughts. I initially describe some very personal experiences that have stuck with me, then go on to describe a story of Mad strength I see in some of the networks around me as they find ways to navigate the international situation, offering what insights, help and support they can. I want to explore the importance of society entering into proper dialogue with Madness and Mad people, and encourage anyone who wants to start a dialogue in response to do so.


… Often when I try and think of images that match my experiences of Madness, I am drawn to ones that sprung into my consciousness in the times where I was most Mad. One such enduring image is that of a single leaf on a tree that caught the wind just so. Unlike its companions which whispered gently as the breeze shook them – swaying with the bigger limbs and finally the trunk in a orchestra of unifying movements – this single leaf rasped so fast it become a resonant tone for a split second, before alighting from the tree and being whisked far above the farthest stretch of its birthplace. Caught by this on my daily walk from the ward to the cornershop to buy cheap sweets and cans of Coke – the only available, if sickly, consumables to punctuate the days – I felt time paused for an age, and the reflections stretched from then to this now, a decade later…


… So much of Madness, at least for me, involves the blinkers coming off, this leap from homeliness and comfort into a dizzying heightened perspective, not one more right or more wrong, more enlightened or more disordered, but one inexorably detached from the status quo. To suddenly be carried across planes of thinking and seeing and hearing – like that leaf suddenly pitched into the wind – unanchored by the physical attachment to the body that previously contained you, carries a sense of sickening vertigo but also a thrill. It can open you up to new intimations on subjects as banal as the flight of a crisp packet alongside you, or as profound as the meaning of community, society, morality, attachment. Dulled back then by stacks of benzos and neuroleptics, my head still grasped some significance in these flows of thought traversing my brain, though my self seemed strangely diminished …


… this diminishment of self, and the strange contents of this thinking, were abhorrent aberrations to my psychiatrist, their very presence the evidence of my diseased mind. Yet from my new perspective so many things seemed redundant or without value, things which society valued so highly. And nothing more highly valued than the clear bounded sense of self and others that seemed to be dissolving as my leaf reached ever further skywards in heliotropic spirals. Doubts formed about so many things we’ve reified into reality: the workings of money, the independent self, the nation, the nature of sanity/insanity, the reflective and constructive power of the Word, of the image, the conception of nature as natural …


… Yet the further I spun away from the tree, the harder it was to have any meaningful dialogue with my fellow leaves. No others would meet the meaning I was making of the world from these new strands of life, which included now voices and visions I knew they couldn’t see or hear as yet, with any proper response. The response was to deny my reality. If others were to meet me in my worlds, they would most likely also be those outcast as unwell by the rest of society, companions in the smoking rooms of psychiatric wards or groups set up for service users, others robbed of the power to be properly heard. The sky which had come to represent a kind of freedom became an endless prison, a no mans land where no equal dialogue could be established. The branches from which my mind had sprung became walls denying me and my thoughts entry to consensus reality. It was a devastatingly lonely experience, though thanks to the solidarity of the Mad community, friends, allies and my wonderful partner, it’s one that feels less so these days…


… So why think of this now? It’s hard to put a precise finger on it, but a gut feeling, one shared with other Mad friends I’ve  spoken with or seen doing great stuff in the online world, is that, with the arrival of an unavoidable change of perspective in the form of Covid -19, the rest of society feels cast adrift from its branches, unsure of where its anchored, what it values (or what its values are), where it is going. We’re surrounded by people feeling, some for the first time, the erosion of the constructs that until crisis seem so certain It’s terrifying for many, sometimes including us Mad folk. But something positive is also occurring, not due to but in spite of the horrors of the current world situation. There are people who have spent years developing the skills to deal with isolation, loneliness, sadness or anxiety who now have the skills to weather this and to share these strengths with others. There are people already used to having to rely on the support of peers to get them through when wider society lets them down. There are people who have felt the worlds imminent undoing once or several times before but had to sit alone with that feeling, or risk expressing it to derision, diagnosis or even confinement, but now sense that society as a whole is experiencing a glimpse into their mental worlds. These friends and fellow Mad people are helping others to understand how to live with such feelings. There is a general closing of the gap between the stable or sane and the chaotic or mad, or spiritual, or artistic, or autistic that makes clear that these distinctions are not as concrete as society would have you believe. It’s becoming clearer that society and its refusal to meet or make room for Mad thought is sometimes what makes those living in Mad worlds disempowered, not the existence of Mad thinking in itself …


… Society hasn’t suddenly got fair, and there are many whose struggles with mental health, and societies lack of proper response to them, will have put them at such disadvantage, before this even started, that they need our compassion and support more than ever right now. But even many of those people seem to be coming out of shells that social isolation due to stigma and sanism has constructed around them, often offering up what help they can, even as society becomes physically isolating in the extreme. Other people in need of support suddenly become less fussy about who it is who supports them, and the way that person thinks about the world. Those Mad neighbours might now be your lifeline, or just a empathic set of ears who can offer support. I hope those who these Mad friends support don’t return to seeing them as ‘disordered’ or ‘loony’ when this passes.  Something other than a virus is in the air; the strength of the Mad and their ability to sometimes cope with extreme pressures,  and to construct alternative realities that, properly discussed can help them and us through traumas; a sense that sanity is only as strong as the systems its built upon, systems that we see shivering like underpowered holograms or mirages fading as the day to day heat dies away, shifting into something quite different…


…Much emotional, physical, economical and spiritual suffering is happening all around the world and we should not shy away from the horror of it. Some of us are not coping, and that is completely understandable. Everyone’s narratives that lead them to the point we are at now are different, as are their ability to draw on social, financial or embodied capital to ease some of the difficulties.  But the fact that some are struggling doesn’t mean that we should shy away from the Madnesses that rise in the human spirit to meet these struggles, and the ability of many of those well acquainted with these states to hold our hands and help us through, if we let them back onto our branches when they need a helping hand themselves. If we let the Mad (of which I count myself as one…) re-enter our dialogical worlds instead of holding them outside, keeping the meanings of their Madness at a comfortable distance, refusing to engage with their pain, their worries, their realities…we will all be stronger for it …


*          *          *


… Another image that has recurred often in the past few weeks has been from Lars Von Trier’s film Melancholia. The lead character, Justine, is seen as weak, broken and neurotic by her family, friends and the high society they represent. Her failure to cope with, align with or tolerate the societal customs and conventions that those surrounding her abide by is seen as sickness. She almost comically embodies so many of the tropes of the Mad neurotic woman that are embedded in western literature and culture, and she is evidently paired to Ophelia, the archetypal Mad woman in the literary canon, through images of her drowning in her wedding dress. None of the characters around her engage with the reality of her sadness, or at least with its meaning, though some try their best to support her through its consequences. Yet as the film progresses, two worlds threaten to crash together, and it turns out that Justine, who already knows of the existence of other mental worlds, of the fear they bring, and perhaps the potential for understanding our existential situation, is the strongest and best placed to cope. She is prescient – the first one to notice a new star in the sky, the star which will become the apocalyptic planet that collides with earth. In the final scene she builds a shelter, a symbol, something imaginative and protective to calm those whose world is breaking down around her. It looks like a tent, or a tree. And she gains a calmness and dignity, while not shying away from the magnitude of the unfolding situation, as if this is an event her often painful life has been a rehearsal for, holding the others hands and carrying their fears as the world where they’ve been comfortable comes to an abrupt end …


*          *          *


… Romanticising Madness is something we are told not to do as it is dangerous, and I agree that much romanticising of the conditions of existing – which we label Madness or illness – denies the huge impact on people’s lives that living in states of total hopelessness or terror or despair can cause, for both the person and those close to them. But this idea that being sensitive to the damage Mad episodes can cause means not talking about the learning that comes from them in a positive light also impedes societies ability to gain from Mad thinking. It paints a negative picture of madness that leads to stigma and sanism, which add to the often already heavy burdens carried by those struggling with these experiences. Breakdowns are often also breakthroughs, and people who’ve been through them, the pain and stuggle of the experiences themselves and also their sometimes demeaning and sometimes cruel treatment at the hands of systems that are supposedly there to help them, do often have resources and insights to draw upon which are not just helpful for them but for the wider social body. But that’s only if we are willing to allow them in, listen with empathy, let them play their part in the conversations that construct who we are, let madness be a part of what it is to be human…

Litteral Drift (On Eigg)

Litteral Drift (On Eigg)

Far from their source
imperial waves
break later, rip slow.

The sands sing as your feet leave.

 Ancient flocks graze
empty croft gardens –
war graves flower.

The squeak as your toes curl free.

A Celtic cross of eerie
eroded scales ties knots
in almost lost reverence

its echo, digitally rendered,
will pull time back
in cities choked on now.

Your comfort: unprecedented
mocked by glinting eyes among the kelp.


In low light we seize the quiet
with lazered lenses, the explosive
cease of a cosmic neighbours life –

stars named the first time
long after their passing
into echoes of light

exceed the speed of endings.


Some awe, or similar,
at that voice preceding you
speaking present as hunger or waves
rolling into your ear

That presence, sifting you back
and forth along the shore,
speaking precious secrets
out of silt.


Mad Meanings and Meaningful Madness


…Madness. A word so loosely descriptive that society, science and their lovechild, psychiatry, have spent the best part of the past 150 years attempting to divide/deride it into a manageable nomenclature. A state of mind that is often denied by those supposedly experiencing it, yet more recently one which has been embraced for its very vagueness; that quality proving emancipatory for those of us wounded by the knife of psychiatric terminology. A terminology which cuts people adrift from an unstated yet implied ‘normal’; which provides society with justification to other us and discriminate against us; to lock us up against our will having committed no crime other than difference; to inflict with legal ‘justification’ medications which turn out the lights, cut us off from our stories and cause iatrogenic effects that, on average, steal ten years of life from us[1]. All this under the guise of compassion and medicine, a corrective mechanics for malfunctioning cyborgs who’ve tuned in too far to the echoes of memory and history….


…As Foucault, Laing, Cooper and Szasz all highlighted, the label ‘mad’ served the enlightenment project perfectly. The loss of reason (in the most narrowly defined sense of the word) was at various points put down to primitivism, race and ethnicity, gender or culture. But as society supposedly rid itself of the shackles of racism and sexism and the law sluggishly moved to follow this trend, the mad found themselves enshrined in law as the sick, society (un)coincidentally managing to find a nomenclature where sexism and racism thrived under an illusion of medical objectivity…

… I live among a largely educated generation, who are now rightly outraged by examples of racial or gendered insult. Yet my friends often still use ‘nutter’ or ‘mental’ to describe people or opinions they disagree with at home, in work and in public, and use a cultivated learnedness around ‘mental illness’– pushed at us from internet adverts, billboards, celebrity endorsed anti-stigma campaigns and documentaries – to analyse or judge their friends unwell, whispering behind their backs that they should take medication or be locked up, that they lack insight; ultimately implying that their all too real struggles and distress are merely the meaningless symptoms of their psychopathology, and that the ill deserve their sympathy, perhaps, but not their attentive ears as equal makers of meaning about what it is to be human. ..

… The problem with the leading anti-psychiatric figures is that they too were really of the ‘sane’, looking with fascination at the ‘insane’, at least when not dabbling with mind altering substances. Ultimately, they still treated the ‘mad’ as ‘broken’, just broken by other means than pathology. For Szasz, ultimately, the Mad were just Bad; for Laing they were broken by their home or society; for Cooper, by language and its politics. While I agree with many of their ideas, these figures set the tone of anti-psychiatry for too long without foregrounding the voices of those labelled mad themselves. Laing, especially, makes elegant statements in his writing about how the mad are abnormally alienated and thus free of the normal alienation that is cultivated by society and serves as the status quo, positioning madness as a potentially radical mode of being[2]. His notion of schizophrenia as ‘one of the forms in which, often through quite ordinary people, the light began to break in the cracks of our all-too-closed minds’[3] has been taken up by sections of the Mad community, such as Mad Pride and The Icarus Project, as a part of a foregrounding of the prophetic and visionary potential residing in Mad experience[4]. More recent writers about spiritual dimensions of Mad experience hark back to Laing as a counter to what they see as the secularization and normalizing approach of some within Mad activism, who, drawing on the social dimensions approach of disability studies, try to position Mad people as survivors of systems that disable them but in doing so diminish the radically altered perspectives that Mad experience can give. Seth Farber is one such contemporary advocate for Laingian ways of thinking, and draws heavily on his ideas in his book The Spiritual Gift of Madness, but Farber too is a professional positioning himself as an ally of the Mad and despite going further than Laing in giving space to uninterpreted Mad voices via interviews and testimonials in his books, he still often projects his own strongly held beliefs and meanings onto their experiences[5]. He is obviously taking Laing’s lead in doing this, yet my central difficulty with reading Laing as a Mad person is that when talking about actual people he encounters in his psychiatric practice, he often builds his meanings onto their experiences rather than letting their own voice be heard. When we hear what madness means in Laing, we are often hearing what madness means for Laing, not for his patients. Is he thus simply replacing one voice speaking for the person’s experience with another? Frustratingly, to me it often seems so, and by avoiding the challenge this poses, Farber and others who develop Laingian ideas uncritically perpetuate this sympathetic silencing…

…Society is captivated by the notion of ‘the fine line between madness and genius’, and yet who judges what side of this metaphorical divide a piece of thinking lies on? Ultimately, society still evaluates this from a ‘sane’ perspective; if we can’t understand something, it is non-sense, mad, worthless. Karl Jaspers famously stated a true delusion was one that’s characteristic was ‘un-understandability’, but who gets to decide on whether the belief has meaning or not? Very often it is not the person deemed mad or identifying their experience as mad. An exception seems to be made if its attributable to some theory of madness or ‘mad play’ coined by a thinker who has perhaps dipped their toes into madness, but has ultimately been judged – through judicious explanation of their thinking process, by their distancing of their own experience along prescribed and academic lines until its acceptable, or just through the privilege invested in them by society – to be sane. I find much of interest in writers such as Derrida, and especially in Deleuze and Guattari, but again, when they talk of ‘schizo-analysis’ and of ‘the schizophrenic’, it is of some state of mind or person who is fascinating for their distance from humanity, as an organ-machine, a conduit through which history and politics are expressed, and the experience of the people they speak for is never received unfettered by their interpretation – and that of other academic and medical professionals – in their work[6]. Though they are sympathetic to the ‘schizophrenic experience’ – and suggest ways in which it is a meaningful one – as a Mad person I find the anthropological slant of their writing troubling and at points quite hurtful. Who are the sane, however sympathetic, to decide whether our Mad experience is the ultimate expression of ‘transcendental empiricism?’ Would we allow someone male to be the ultimate authority on how meaningful a female authors representation of her experience is? Would we support the white American professor who judged the work of Nigerian novelist Chimimanda Ngozie Adichie ‘not authentically African’?[7] In most fields of academic study it is no longer acceptable to position your subject as a passive object of study, but when discussing Madness we are still scared to give the Mad themselves a voice, or when we do, we treat it with medically ratified suspicion, a form of sanctioned stigmatization that people working in the field of Mad Studies have argued should be labelled ‘Sanism’[8]

… There is increasingly an acknowledgment even within medical circles that we need a move towards a hermeneutic understanding of madness, but the prosaic way in which psychological narrative is captured often fails to capture the reality of mad experience due to the fact it is preoccupied with sense making, with writing madness for the sane[9]. Mad Studies demands that Mad people be involved in shaping societies laws, attitudes and philosophy on madness, and, in a similar vein, I believe a Mad Criticism is required in literary studies, adopting the general perspective of Mad Studies that – instead of ‘psychiatry’, which has ‘always seemed to narrow understanding’– ‘excites through the breadth and focus of its discussion’ as an alternative to the ‘psychiatric reductionism’[10]. It should align itself with objectives set out by Mad people working in academia, such as to ‘recognize the lived experience of madness as a fundamental form of human knowledge’[11]. Mad critics should respond to texts with their own lived experience of madness itself, to seek out and celebrate expressions of states which are recognised as similar– though not the same – as those experienced by a huge and silent Mad minority, who for good reason are often fearful of expressing and communicating their madness externally due to the stigma and state apparatus that suppress or humour it…

… Literary Criticism often seeks to find reason of some level in difficult texts in order to rescue the author from the charge of madness, or acknowledge that madness plays a part but speak as if the meaning was made despite the madness, rather than because of it, a charge often reversed in the testimony of Mad people themselves, such as Mary O’Hagan in her powerful short Madness Made Me[12]. This has occurred particularly prevalently in the field of Blake Studies, in which figures such as Yeats, Northrop Frye and Leo Damrosch have gone to great lengths of spectacular mental gymnastics to ‘un-mad’ Blake, and others from Swinburne to Youngquist, among many others, have dismissed the parts of the work they struggle with as mad – or in the latter’s case – pathological, and thus as signifying failures in the work. This implicit ‘sanism’ in criticism also makes us feel like certain writers are difficult because we are fearful of accepting madness as it is and feel the need to decode it by a process of theoretical codification, naming it or breaking it down according to psychological or psychiatric dogma. The Madder the writing, the more complex the diagnosis or formulation we need, until, to me as a Mad reader, the criticism along these lines is often only transferring its fear about its method’s limitations onto its failures to adequately explain what’s going on in the text, or in its writer. You can understand more about the insecurities of these modes of enquiry through reading such responses to Mad writing than you can derive any understanding of madness…

… I want to investigate whether such texts are actually are difficult or whether it’s more the case that they are difficult to interpret using the tautological frameworks of interpretation we adopt from the ‘psy’ disciplines and from theory – frameworks which they evade. Why is it that poets such as Blake have such a large following among Mad communities? Perhaps it’s because he very effectively and accurately speaks to madness, that to properly understand Blake is either to be mad or to be driven so by the work, and that to be sane is to never experience the texts as Blake intended them to be received. Their purpose was to reorganise our consciousness away from ‘the sleep of reason’ and towards something ebullient and excessive, in an ever-evolving state of contrary turmoil; something which psychiatry would fearfully label as pathological. David Fuller is the contemporary Blake critic who perhaps gets nearest to understanding this in his 2005 essay ‘Madness as a Refuge From Unbelief: Blake and the Sanity of Dissidence’, in which he writes ‘what is true for the writer is also true for the reader: it is impossible to hear a great or noble thing unless the spirit is moved. The reader as well as the poet needs to be in some sense “mad”’[13]

…This new Mad criticism must break some of the conventions of the academy by necessity… those effects valued by the academy – the strong argument, the confident conclusion – are all tools that enshrine reason, reductionism and capture of a moment isolated from its infinite context  the ‘wellspring of sense’ Derrida describes – as the bedrock of critical writing[14]. A Mad critique must also by necessity critique the way critical writing style serves a certain way of conceiving of knowledge, must make bare its emotionality, its subjectivity and its transience. As Audrey Lorde puts it, ‘the masters tools will never dismantle the masters house’[15]. Mad criticism must discard divisive terms which literary criticism has adopted too unquestioningly from the ‘psy’ disciplines, and thus reclaim the right of people’s Madness to express itself unfettered, as I suggest Blake’s did in his work. Madness’s inability to be pinned down, it’s evasion even of its own definitions as they come into being, is characterized in Blake’s work, and makes even the systems it necessarily creates for itself transient and un-transferable, perhaps making of the fallen world, which Blake suggests we can’t escape, a Diagrammatic Assemblage – as Guattari might put it in one of his more useful formulations on the radical potential in such thinking – that forces new modes of thought, new lines of flight, makes breakthroughs of our breakdowns and always challenges accepted modalities of thinking about politics, art, theology, sexuality…life in all its fullness. If we can celebrate the Madness of those whose writing speaks to our own, and share their terror, joy and pain – share their vision – then so many of us will feel less alone and may learn, in time, to speak and write ourselves freer of psychiatry’s, society’s and, because we are of them, our own ‘mind forg’d manacles’. And society, if its embedded ‘sanism’ diminishes, may come, via attentiveness to the messages in people’s madness, to break some of its chains too …




[1] Schizophrenia, neuroleptic medication and mortality.  Joukamaa, M. British Journal of Psychiatry 188 (2006):122-127


[2] R. D Laing, The Politics of Experience and The Bird of Paradise (London: Penguin Books, 1967) p. 25

[3] Ibid. p. 107

[4] <> [accessed 20th November 2018]

[5] Farber, Seth. The Spiritual Gift Of Madness: The Failure of Psychiatry and the Rise of the Mad Pride Movement. (Toronto: Inner Traditions, 2012) pp.50-52


[6] Gilles Deleuze, ‘Schizophrenia and Society’ in Two Regimes of Madness (Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2007) pp. 17-28

[7] Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, The Danger of A Single Story <> [accessed 13th Novemember 2018]

[8] Mad Matters ed. Brenda LeFrancois, Robert Menzies and Geoffrey Reaume (Toronto: Canadian Scholars Press, 2013) p. 339

[9] Bracken, Pat. ‘Towards a Hermeneutic Shift In Psychiatry’ World Psychiatry, October 2014, Vol.13(3), pp.241-243


[10] Mad Matters ed. Brenda LeFrancois, Robert Menzies and Geoffrey Reaume (Toronto: Canadian Scholars Press, 2013) pp. xi-xii


[11] Mad Matters ed. Brenda LeFrancois, Robert Menzies and Geoffrey Reaume (Toronto: Canadian Scholars Press, 2013) p. 188


[12] Mary O’Hagan, Madness Made Me <> [accessed 20th Novemember 2018]

[13] David Fuller. ‘Mad as a refuge from unbelief : Blake and the sanity of dissidence.’, in Madness and creativity in literature and culture. (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan,2005) pp. 121-143.


[14] Jacques Derrida. Writing and Difference (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978) p. 62

[15] Audrey Lorde. The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle The Master’s House [accessed 15th November 2018)


The Market Decides

The Market Decides

We are lived by powers we pretend to understand – Auden.

a returning ache
cold rain
and a film of damp on the mantle

feels like autumn
though the calendar and clock
show the equinox is months off

a thirst for order
normally not noticed
parches the throat

traps you in five parts to order thoughts
which had no such thought behind them
when closest to conception


shrink wrapped
all first fears coalesce
in a christmas market memory

the town     chattering
congregates in duffel coats and shellsuits
hot-rocked by sparklers and soapbar

coal dust sparks from the hearth
and petrol thrown
on funeral pyres of livestock

that ignite the barren fells
around the market square
drawing stares years into the future

now then     first of five emerges in image searches
hiding from extinctions
in a reconstructed daydream

shielding his eyes as through his own
he hunts himself by scent and sounds
these stills and scanning lasers lead us back to

fast motion over Ravenglass sands
no footprints left among beached crabs
and the silica sculptures an absent ocean
carved in Sellafield’s shadow

a mechanised gaze now
clicks between colour and
the monochrome of childhood documentary,
dazzling ions as yet
undeveloped in darkness

your own voice calling your own name
phases as it’s doubled tracked     making it
metallic when re-received

other too cold and close to be other
than you        we called it Guardian
then we forgot


the sun of sunday school genesis
irradiates with knowledge
and small feet run for shade and shelter

but end up back at the market square
built of a hundred recurring
conversations carols and coughs

the dry of december air
freezes vowels hard selling
chops and legs on beds of ice

o small world bound by cut stone and bricks
limestone scars and repetition
this and there is too much for you


the first kid hides in a subterranean stairwell
head peeping at toe height as ears tune out
the voices and marching tracks of boots on snow

tune in to the hummingbird thrum
of a heart tacchycardic for a first time
which always feels like the last

no matter how many times we others
brush this moment
from our futures


the chattering recedes
pushed aside by something preceding
and following him          and all of us

fast forwarding from the tide line
along train tracks taken
grey ribbons of road from the booster seat

past white scars of lime and fingers
stroking the ammonite imprints
that insignificance

even as this conjoining rush past
viaducts and pay phones hones
these myriad spheres to a monad

all sound reduced to the tinnitus charge
of a flash bulb reddening his scanning eyes
as darkness explodes for a fractioned second
leaving us gasping on dry light


then ghosts begin their slow and neon dance
with each blink of the eyelids, becoming
like forms we know and yet evading us

the movements we lose between strobe lights
and stressors    the kick drums    footsteps    downloads
the fixtures of cadence



A close-ish look at London…and a subsequent spiraling outwards and inwards.

I’ve been ill recently and thus invoking Blake, as I often do, to get through the drudgery of bodily enforced rest (what ‘invoking’ Blake means will become clearer as you read on…).  Here are some of the wanderings/wonderings that ensued from me staring at the image below…



…One way in which the baggage of a history of interpretations can – at least in part – be lost, seems to be in cultivating an attitude towards close reading a text in which the personal reflections and resonances springing from the process are given primacy. Putting something like auto-ethnography at the heart of the process of reading Blake’s madness madly. As an experiment, I decided to spend a period soaking up the plate 46 of Songs of Innocence and Experience – London, seeing what links would flow forth from my previous encounters of the poem, my memories of ‘innocence and experience’ and the presence of the (facsimile) plate as object sat in front of me…

…The first thing that strikes me about the plate is the illustration at the top. In comparison to some of the other plates in the series, there is a firm division between sections – marked by the strong line that seems to be the floor beneath the elderly man and the child, and the pale blues and straws of the section below on which the title is written. I feel – perhaps because of the colours, perhaps the cloud like patterning on the right of the page – that this area around the title is almost like a sky beneath the feet of the two figures, suggesting to me a hypogeal or at least ulterior world existing simultaneously with that one in which they walk…

…What is happening in this section with the figures feels profoundly to do with light: the child is leading the elderly figure (by the beard?) from the dim left hand of the image into the beam of light that strafes the otherwise dark wall behind them. A simple interpretation would centre upon classical/biblical tropes of light and darkness as good and evil, of the child leading the figure of the adult into the light, and those notions, I think, are undoubtedly something Blake is drawing upon in the image. Yet I notice there is something terrifying happening in this light beam. The older man, turned away from whatever the source of the light beam is, has a degree of detail in his expression, brows and cheekbone evident by the shadows they cast, a hint of what I take to be a kind smile (but why?) on the part of his lips visible above his beard. He is defined in the interplay of the darkness and light across his expression. Yet the child’s face, flooded by the light source, is nothing but a spectral outline and a dark blob of an eye…

..What does this say about innocence or light? Maybe that it is a state where self is weak, or non -existent, where the scoring of persona into the person by forces of experience has not taken place. Or perhaps, since this child is, seemingly, leading the older man forwards through but away from the source of the light, this self-erasure comes from his turning back, like Lot’s wife looking back towards Sodom. It’s while looking closely at this child figure that I notice its right hand. At first I thought it was reached out as it is simply because of an aesthetic neatness, mirroring, when taken in with the other arm reaching up into the older man’s beard, the diagonal made by the beam of light itself. But that in itself sparks another look at that light beam, and I realise it ends with what looks like a door frame. Why doesn’t it pass this point? It defies the way that light as a physical property should work. It also makes me realise that this door is something more than embellishment or background setting, and that, far from simply being held out in an elegant pose, the child’s left hand is reaching to touch or open this door, this door which stops or swallows all the light…

…Or, having had a break for coffee and looking more closely again, the image seems to suggest that this door leads into the ulterior world in which the poem is printed. Having initially noticed the strong division between the upper and lower sections of the plate, I am now struck by how powerfully the beam of light ties the two together, as the line that is the left side of the beam in the top section becomes the boundary between the cold blues and the yellows that crosses the bottom section, a sunbeam through what I earlier described as the sky of the ulterior world. I start to see other (fearful) symmetry’s between the two sections and as I do, also notice that the child, but not the older figure, casts a long shadow. This troubles me deeply, I feel it in my belly, but I can’t fathom exactly why…

…I return to the plate after collecting a parcel (a printer cartridge, which seemed also a lens by which the poem interfered with my day..). I walked the mile there and back on foot, bumping into two people as the shadow the child cast obscured my vision and I stumbled along the pavement. Queuing in the sorting office, I couldn’t get rid of the gut ache it caused, and the image also of that face melting away under the radiance of the light source, leaving only its eyes (or their sockets)…

…I notice that now I am looking at that shadow from the eyes of the older figure, seeing that face as an aporia in an otherwise three dimensional image, a face shaped framing of a flaming light – like film burn at the end of a roll of stills. I start to think this pair of figures are also one, like in memories when two selves co-exist uneasily with one another. I contemplate this idea of the child as innocent and childhood as the state of innocence, and inevitably try to remember that state in myself. Yet as I scan back through my memories, flooded by scents of pollens and farms as I leave the city for the Yorkshire Dales, the images of before I first _________ burn until unrecognisable. I can’t work out whether this is a loss or a protective mechanism. I feel 80 years old, like the grandfather figure in the painting (I have decided now that he must be a grandfather) and feel my memories pulling me back with the stomach churn of vertigo, the tug at the chin. But the face I look to to lead me towards them is always burning away…

…London has no corresponding poem in The Songs of Innocence, one of only a few poems in the two collections where this is the case. What relevance, I wonder, does this have to the child’s erased face? Are children born experienced or robbed of innocence so early in the world of London that a constitution of innocence is impossible? Is that why the child’s face is undefinable? I think of the infant’s tear in the last stanza of the poem, blasted by whatever the harlot’s curse is, is there something here about intergenerational trauma in industrialised society? Are the manacles hereditary (like the postulated psychotic ‘disorders’ which have become so set in the concrete of language)? I am starting, I realise, to look at the words, so I should really turn to the poem, albeit with that molten non-face inevitably hanging over the encounter…

…So to the text, and I can’t help at this point reflect on my first encounters with this poem. It was also, after The Tyger in a book of children’s verse my parents read to me from, the first encounter I’d had with Blake, at least as a (at the time nascent) critical reader. I was at school studying for GCSE’s, not particularly hard working, and more interested in a strange pursuit of religion or perhaps spirituality. I would sit staring long into the screen of a candle flame’s flickers on my bedroom wall, trying to suss out some kind of meaning, or just dying temporarily inside the dancing light, drifting away into other things. And yet something about this poem, first heard as another pupil read it out to the class from an anthology, made my mind stand to attention. I realise now this had a lot to do with mishearing and thus my very first encounter was already somehow askew…

…as someone who lived largely and willingly in a dreamlike state (not much has changed perhaps), I instantly took the first ‘wander’d’ to be ‘wondered’. Therefore I begun by thinking of someone purposefully thinking about something, and thinking through the medium of something else I got wrong (this might be the fault of the boy reading the poem out…)- I took ‘charter’d’ to be ‘charted’ and thus something to do with maps. This had no doubt got something to do with the fact that I had (and still have) a bit of an obsession with maps, using them as prompts to plot and take imaginary journeys through the landscapes cartography suggested. As well, it may have been because my knowledge of the Thames at the time was more topographical that experiential, having poured over maps more than I had visited London, and the idea of the Thames being charted thus made sense. Yet I also thought of something being charted as in understood, or well explored, and took the practice wondering by means of these charts as a way of making them new, as I was used to doing in my own mental life at the time. I was always reinventing the world and my spiritual beliefs in order to escape difficult encounters, bullying, fears, ideas and, perhaps, what I took to be the impending assuredness of adulthood…

…so these first understandings of the first stanza were all informed by misreadings, and yet such readings still inevitable bear on my readings of the poem in the present day; I explore the relationships between these misreadings and the way I look at the poem now. Let’s start with the wander/wonder. To wonder is to purposefully contemplate what something might mean born from ‘the desire to know something’ but also in some sense to doubt. To wander is to amble aimlessly and without direction, or perhaps, if its applied to the operations of the mind, to think without structure or path. Perhaps Blake/the voice of the poem was in some sense taking what would later be defined as a ‘derive’. Perhaps wandering is a form of liminal madness from which other ‘truths’ can emerge to topple the industrialised and dark London the poem portrays. Perhaps purposefully (and the tone of the poem is purposeful…the rhythm forceful, the form tight…) being directionless is a state the poem is drawing value from, an exoneration of a state of aimlessness as the antidote to industrialisation. I realise that actually my sideways look at the world, even as a 15 year old, was perhaps constituted of wondering as wandering or wandering as wondering. Similarly, though my notion of charted was again misheard charter’d, the activities now seem to converge and resonate together within my mind. Are charters in some way a mapping procedures of industry and law, defining what is and isn’t legitimate, and therefore what is legitimately real in the industrialised society…

…on the idea of ‘marking’ my younger self had no such penetrating insights. I think I just read ‘mark’ as ‘saw’ or ‘see’. I probably even embarrassingly used it wrongly based on this misunderstanding in essays, something I was was in the habit of doing with new vocabulary I (thought) I’d picked up at the time. It was only later on in life that I saw the ‘marks’ in the faces the poem encounters as being something that the voice of the poem is active in making – it is a projection of weakness and woe onto the faces as much as it is a recognition of something innate. This is laden with significance in relation to madness, for to be declared mad itself is often the work of some other projecting the quality of madness onto you at least as much as them recognising something within you. Many readings of Blake, which I’ll look at later on, note his perceptiveness around areas of psychic relations that had not yet been defined or named- areas such as what Freud coined ‘projection’…

…Moving onto the second stanza, and the mental chains – the ‘mind forg’d manacles’ -have always been an image that has stuck with me since that first encounter. I was taught what to think of them almost immediately by my teacher, he saw them as to do with class or almost a caste style acceptance of place by members of society, and the unchanging role those people played in society. Although contained within the mind, this always suggested a somewhat visual image of peoples mind being bound somehow. And yet what the teacher, and indeed me myself, never paid attention to was the fact that the voice of the poem doesn’t see these manacles: it hears them. How do you hear a manacle? How does the aural bind you, being you? Maybe it has something to do with the naming or utterance that closes off other worlds of possibilities, bans difference, forces one into position. This, for someone with experiences like my own, will always lead to thoughts of psychiatric labels, those tools of the ‘shrink’ which do just that to human experience in order to subjectify and quantify, to bind our emotional response to suffering within a static framework, divorced from time…

…yet the voice of the poem is the one who is hearing the mind forg’d manacles, not those who’s cries and bans he hears them in. Again, like the marking earlier in the poem, it is something to do with the forces that guide the perception of the poems voice, rather than something innate. Is this poetic voice, I wander/wonder, playing the role of the shrink, flitting up to some panoptical viewpoint to look down cast the lives of others into his poem and vision? Or is this recognition of the manacles the first step to liberation from the system that binds minds with them? Is this a position of hopelessness or hope, or can it be both – sometime it feels like it – is the poetic voice a diagnostician? And is this what threatened my former diagnostician about poetry?…

…or is the colon where we should be laying our attention? ‘in every voice: in every ban’ – does this colon make a clearer causal link between voice and ban than we understand? Is is that, just by voicing a statement, we restrict the potential for other statements or modes or thought? Is every time we speak itself an injury to freedom on a micro level? Maybe I am reading too much into this, but I think that Blake would want this to be the way we read him…at least the Blake I make would. Thinking about the illuminations again briefly, I think about how important to Blake the method of his production was, the infidelity and differences in every version. The one I use above, the 1826 Library of Congress Copy Z, sparks these interpretations. Others are coloured differently, and take our journeys in conflicting directions, or perhaps contrary is the better word. What I mean is that Blake wants us to be doing this, this wormhole of thinking, reflecting, living. Otherwise he is the one with the keys to the mental chains; he wants the keys to be ours, or at least to share them with us or teach us how to make our own; he is not a jailor, though thinking this way always carries a risk of jailing yourself.

…there is a firm line drawn beneath the second and third stanzas on the plate, and with no clear purpose in relation to the images and illuminations I think it must be seen as part of the poem, despite the lack of indication in most typeset versions of the text. I wonder what the significance of it is, this cleaving flourish that chops the poem in two after the manacles are heard. Is it a limit of said manacles, a bounding line? Does it correspond in someway to the other clear divisive feature of the plate, the line beneath the floor of the child and the old man’s street in the sky? Or is there rather a link between its trembling nature, the firmness of the line under the title, and the sine wave of the line beneath the poems end? Not serving any real illustrative purpose, I wonder/wander whether the lines represent some kind of metamorphosis of the mental state of the poem. From one of the firm certainties of place and its naming (something that Blake comes back to often, most notably in the lists of places names mapping out the London of Jerusalem), from the stability of selfhood or self/other divisions, via this middle line, starting to flex, a threshold where solidity wavers, through to the pulsating vibration and interchange between contraries that the bottom line now suggests to me…

…Or, looking again later, it it just that the sine wave is a root structure for what could be a tree down the left hand margin, its waviness organic by comparison to the confident underline underpinning the city like the bounding wall in the illustration above?

…beneath this dividing line, the poem takes a turn away from a situation where the voice of the poem is overtly constructing the reality of the poem, to one in which the vision has taken full control and I, for a stanza, fades into the background. A chimney sweepers cry appalls the blackening walls of the church. A soldiers sigh is transfigured into blood flowing down the wall of a palace. The poem here moved me so deeply because it makes the cost of industrialised society clear with metaphors that also have a physical truth. The church’s walls blackening reminds me of the churches of my Sheffield childhood, many of which had not yet been sandblasted clean of the residue of industries sooty blanket: the sootiness of industry also being the physical environment of work that made sick and ulitmately killed the chimney sweeps of London, often before they reached adulthood. But the fact that the church was impotent or actively ignored or collaborated with industrialists in the development of a society in which such poverty could exist alongside its own wealth and power, and serving its growth, also appalled and blackened the institution metaphorically too. Similarly, the cost of the imperialism and expansionism of the country at the time was very much blood, of soldiers let alone their adversaries or victims at home and abroad. Yet there is also a potent metaphorical aspect to the image of the sigh being transfigured into blood, part of this potency deriving perhaps born from the reality of the human cost of the city, of nationhood and identity; self, state and religious…

…in the last stanza the “I” returns to stress the voice of the poems most damning impressions of the city it marks out. The way the “hear” at the end of the line is intersected by the dividing line between blue and yellow in the background in an almost identical way to the “hear” at the end of the “mind forged manacles” line makes me think the hearing here is meant to be a continuation of that mental binding. I remember not thinking much of this stanza when a young man, trained in the misogynistic and judgemental environment of the schoolyard, classroom and church, the very institutions Blake is railing against – albeit two hundred years later. I saw “harlot” as simply a deserving insult, almost a true statement about a person in the sex trade, who had to be morally corrupt or evil in some way. It shames me to say so, but I thought of her as nothing but a vile being, shouting swearwords at her poor child for crying at the cruelty of the situation that life is. And maybe the poem’s voice feels similar, but, without wanting to defend Blake against quite legitimate accusations of misogyny in his overall canon, I feel like something different is going on here. You see, as a Mad person, defined as insane or deviant by the diagnosticians and society as a result, I often felt cursed – cursed by my position in society and cursed internally by seeing myself through societies lens. Now when I read the curse here in the poem I see both a curse-as-swearword and curse as something a person carries with them – burdensome – inflicted on them by their situation and by the labelling of their response to it. And, having seen how society neglects to help those subject to abuse, I know too well – to my shame because I have done it – how being hurt leads to you being more likely to inflict hurt on others. This cycle of abuse and poverty which industrial societies almost cultivate as a by product and can’t seem to exist without, is the curse blighting both the infant and the harlot, and the institution of marriage, with the way it propogates misogyny and the strange fascism of the family (see terre thaemlitz’s Deconstruction project on this) is a hearse…trapping people by bonds mental and legal into systems that enslave them into the service of the state and capital just as the family, to protect itself from falling, must submit to such systems to survive, perform the rituals. At the same time, then (and now) infidelity was accepted and tolerated (for men). As Damrosch puts it, the sex trade, “officially condemned but in practice condoned, grew up for dissatisfied men; women’s need were not considered”. For Blake any system in which you became ensnared was a form of death. The hearse of marriage was perhaps all too real, especially in a time when many such arrangements were still loveless and focused on retention of status and possessions, though the Blakes’ doesn’t seem to have been that way…


…I’ve often got to a point where I am perhaps as much talking about my own experiences and views than I am the poem, letting the close reading morph into some kind of essentialising analysis of today’s society. But then Blake often leads me towards this kind of thinking. It is as if he gives license through his writing to let madness run away with you, to see things from multiple viewpoints, from panoptical and introverted and dialogical and social angles all at once. This excess, this overwhelming sensation and expansion of thought, is homely to me these days, as a Mad person, though not easy. And yet it used to terrify me. Something about finding the same or similar sensation communicated so well in Blake’s writings de-stigmatised my self(ves) to myself and my relation to others. I realise this version of Blake as belonging to me, and to the mad, is down to the way in which I read Blake. But then isn’t the way we read experience a large part of Blake’s writing itself. How the poet ‘marks in every face’ according to his own state of mind, how the voices of his poetry map out different ways of seeing that make clear that such ways are polyphonus, and yet each voice still speaks with authority even when doubting. These contradictions become contraries and the spaces Blake defines poetically envelop them and are enveloped by them, subversive lenses to perceive injustices, authoritarian lenses which replace like with like and show the danger of convictions, much like Nietszche’s statement “Convictions are more dangerous foes of truth than lies”. These are lenses of myth that control, lenses of creation which limit themselves in wounding ways. Illustrations with lines so confident they erase doubt and so lead you to doubting the authority of the lines (which themselves become wobbly, like the aforementioned point in London)…

…I think of Blake’s complete works, the Erdman version staring at me from the shelf, spine buckled and tatty from the weight of its impact on the last few years of my life. I think of how many pencilled remarks of my own marginalia contradict each other; so many moments of contrary insight to be comfortingly derived from such sacred yet all too human words. I have contributed mine to Blake’s own marginalia which is also published therein. I think of Iain Sinclair’s lecture on “Blake’s London: The Topographic Sublime” and how he refers to his copy of the complete works as “a personal I Ching, an almanac of divination.” and of (his) Blake as someone/thing he invokes – “I invoke Blake and step out into the world.”  For Sinclair, too, Blake’s Madness is an essential feature of his writing and something which too confident an analysis negates. As he writes, “A lot of the more cultured, socially succesful people of the era, the university poets, would have looked on Blake, if they were interested in him at all, as being one of the tribe of the mad”. The “necklace” of asylums which Sinclair traced around London demonstrated exactly what people did to the mad at the time: they pushed them to the edges. Perhaps they were far too eloquent as critics of society, as I see Blake, and as Laing sees the psychotic, to be permitted a place at the heart of it. “Malignancies” to be removed to the fringes, as Sinclair puts it. But perhaps just because society places no value on Mad (non)sense making. When it causes a disturbance they might be shipped off, like Blake down to Felpham, or myself on various occasions to a mental health respite centre, or worse, an acute ward. They may even end up in prison, or worse, as almost happened to Blake. But for the most part we focus on legitimatising their methods of communication or attempts to convey their experience, so as not to “corroborate” such delusions, so as to avoid the reality of their metaphors, or to resist their “reconfiguring of the topography”, as Sinclair would put it, of London, which for Blake symbolises the project of industrial society. For me this version of Blake is immensely attractive, this firebrand visionary revolutionary that Sinclair delineates in his lecture…but this vision of Blake doesn’t seem to accommodate sufficiently the suffering and confusion that exist alongside the prophetic insight in my Blake, in the way I read and empathise with his orchestra of poetic voices, as a Mad person. And I feel that Sinclair, for all his distaste for regulations and revolutionary fervour which he attributes to Blake as a spiritual guide, neglects or romanticises the Mad Blake I know and invoke…

…If we are to discuss Blake’s being mad or otherwise, aren’t we just joining a history of people entertaining such judgements one way or another from his own era up to the present day? Yes and no. The challenge a Mad perspective brings to previous versions of Blake is one born of the experience both of what constitutes madness (which can surely only be defined by those who’ve experienced it), and of what it feels like to read Blake in relation to those experiences. Mad studies challenges the notion that there can be empirical method to defining madness – but this is something many critics of Blake have attempted to do in their work. One such writer is Paul Youngquist in his book Madness and Blake’s Myth. His reintegration of Madness into a version of Blake is important, when the Blake the man who experienced and wrote from it had almost been faded into the background by Northrop Frye, Yeats and other critics’ explications of the entire work as some kind of bold and contiguous system of meaning. But his methodology for deducing Blake’s madness, though he tries to distance himself from the charge, is essentialising, based on what he calls “empirical observation of experience” which is exactly the kind of attitude by which psychiatry proceeds. He is anxious to avoid the language of psychoanalysis as he believes it becomes as much about the interpreter as the analysand, that its approach is “too literary to yield conclusive results”…but then proceeds with a system of interpretation which hides its biases behind a false objectivity, much the same as the one which Mad studies continuously challenges, as it challenges any approach that seeks to essentialise or generalise about human experience. It is exceedingly personal, to someone like myself, to see the biographical, poetic and personal set of writings and art which constitute today’s Blake being pathologised in such a way. And ultimately, Youngquist, though acknowledging the part madness has to play in Blake’s work, feels that it succeeds despite its madness rather than because of it: “Could it be that an artistic achievement as great as William Blake’s was born in the collision between a sound mind and its pathology?”…

…Youngquist creates a false choice in the opening of his book, saying that the choice of how we define madness that we are faced with is one between “historical relativism” and “clinical determinism”. Reducing such a diverse and broad set of experiences and interpretations of said experiences to this is faintly ridiculous, and also still falls short of an interpretation where the voices of those labelled or identifying as mad are given any attention. Youngquist realises that the division is too neat, but his third way, “a phenemology of mental life” is restricted by his notion of a ‘sane’ common humanity which madness poses a challenge to. That madness changes the status quo can not be doubted, but the way in which madness arises is seen as an “aberattion” to Youngquist, rather than something related to the idea of a sane reaction to insane circumstance, or trauma and oppression. Youngquist introduces biography of Blake, but never draws the link between the way in which Blake’s visions interact with trauma – bullying as Basire’s apprentice and subsequent isolation, the loss of his brother and the related visions, the poverty, exile politically and mentally and other factors that made up his life experience and often seem to shape the visionary experience of the world. More importantly, he takes the seemingly popular view that Blake became ‘madder’ in the period after the Songs of Innocence and Experience, especially in the later phase in which he produced his longest prophetic works. There’s a whole lot of unraveling for me to do to explain why I think this position doesn’t match up with the themes Blake’s texts engage with, but for now lets just say that to the modern person, someone seemingly holding unshakeable belief in the power of their insight, someone like the voice of Blake in London, is judged far madder than someone who doubts these powers or feels cut adrift from society for expressing them. To me the later writings of Blake don’t reflect a descent into madness, but rather mark one of the most harrowing and yet beautiful accounts of what it feels like to be cut adrift because society labels you mad. The self doubts and stigma that arise internally as you are taught by powerful processes to doubt your experience and insights due to the way they digress from the social norm. Mad studies relates the experience of oppression, trauma and the mad experience explicitly, relating through narratives of personal experience and academic study the way in which pathology is a way of hiding the trauma and meaning making of distress, but it also marks the wounds inflicted by isolation, invalidation, and internalised self doubt which become inevitable for those who express their madness publicly, at least initially…as I continue to explore Blake’s work, I want this to be something we hold onto: how it might be the external relations that Blake has with society that leads the powerful voice of London to fragment into the myriad warring entities Blake uses to outline his worlds and his mental life in later texts. The distress and suffering that results from this isolation is all too familiar to many who have had and expressed Mad experiences and thoughts; it is not a question of our psychopathology but of societies refusal to engage with our thought unless its converted/perverted into a Sane-itised version.








A Nuclear Winter In An Artists’ House


This is an old poem, but one I remembered this weekend because the 5th November was when I wrote it a few years ago. I’m still quite fond of it.


Nuclear Winter in An Artists’ House

We’ve barely the money
for teabags and fags
so the broken bulb stays
in its bayonet stays,
jolting in bursts
of light dictating
our jumpy search
for sugar.

The Cat’s progress to
the water bowl is
stroboscopic, captured
snapshots of silver
and black leaping
on his Rorschach
back. His

glasspaper tongue
scratches surface tension,
sending ripples bouncing
into halos of blue light
across the rhythmic ribs
of a radiator spluttering in-
to life.

When we had more moments
of incandescence the
air was opaque with
smoke and conversation,
but now vapour breath
wreaths empty heads
quivering in rare
flickers of brightness.

Silent but for sniveling
at Fairy scented ghosts
rising from the sink,
we hear darkness descend
the stairs by teatime
and draw close,
glowing embers defying
ashtray grey as we
hunch- backs to boiler-
hugging ourselves
until our inky blood thaws,
rushing towards
hissing touch papers
in the distance.


Hallam Towers

Hallam Towers is a series of poems with photographs that I wrote while obsessing over and occupying an abandoned building in Sheffield, both mentally and physically exploring the spaces it created. The interplay of text and image is not supposed to be illustrative, but sometimes it is.

As the building has been demolished over the past fortnight, this has become an elegy of sorts, but its various signs continue to signify and interact with Sheffield, its society and its collective memory in ever evolving ways.These disused institutions keep creating stories and adventures long beyond their demise as public or even physical spaces.

Here is the opening sequence:

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1) Point Of Entry

Gunmetal    blue wood fence    leaps
into straw with a slip of the sunlight.

The abandoned garden wrapped
in razor wire or slicked with ink left
to tattoo each point of trespass.

Hands remember being   eight years old
efficiently feeling out    the knotted contours
of ascending branch biceps-

clothes tear on steel barbs    green finger
-tips from the nervous    lichen clasping    traverse
that ends hung above
our destination.

Take moments to breathe.
Feel the stomach churn of vertigo, the rising
lactic burning in   calcifying tendons, then
let go-


Screen Shot 2017-10-13 at 12.07.04


Construction/demolition site – enter at your own risk.
Head, I and ear
protection required.




3) Target

Squared steeple of a brutalist wet dream.
Pillar propping thick quilts of fog up,
reaching space-wards.


When I was six I was taught the trick of aligning little ink stained fingers- just so- to forge a link to heaven.

What rushing as pastel light stretched from scratched nails to meet the sunbeams!


At 2:58 a cloud break illuminates
the tower- pale white at its base
but shit-shaded up high by the strafing of chattering starlings.

The sundial shadow intersects tree roots
of childhood               frogspawn halt their blinking
in the ponds.

Gaze stretches up to the sudden dusk;
treasure digging stops to admire the shredding
of the skies lacuna by this square eclipse,
by some shadow
I wish to flood.


Screen Shot 2017-10-13 at 12.21.00


4) Look Up

On haunches     legs still sprung with
sinews full of the fall.

Scrape dirt from pebble-punctured palm heel.
Check ankle: turned after mis-reading terra
firma: sore but useable: clunky hinge.
No spare parts anyhow.

Slowly stand    exhaling    coiled tension    or

my heart rate races the drone of small flies
swarms over cakes of decaying
pine needles brushed off grey denim knees,
leaving forest scent-spectres
which later haunt laundry with memories.

But now
still hums with tiny life and sunlight
the pine cones are still     wide open     I’m too early.
The thought rattles me     out of the stasis of evergreens
planted to make this hotel ever-young

now red lights and a lens
mark a moving image glanced by multiplying other

I decide to walk calmly through the shot
in the tradition of unnoticed film extras
– it pays –
but how do you consciously walk

At school I never played an attendant lord,
never mind Hamlet.


[Control Room: captures focus on the wonky walk of a kid trying to be invisible as his limbs move- klunky, dyskinetic – between duct tape crosses on the school stage, between the gunmetal blue and the straw light. Laughter rings for a while, then fingers hit buttons and binary departs down the wires…]



A squirrel sifting rubble for acorns     senses     twitches
bolts away with my kinetic energy, leaving me in a rigor –

a cacophony of polyphonic sirens razing- panic racing
to a speed heart rate anticipated                   chest pains
dart down arms to frozen finger tips                all action
condensed to the head
and eyes wincing in security lights.

TANNOY: Warning, you are trespassing, the police have been informed.
Warning, you are trespassing, the police have been informed.
Warning, you are trespassing, the police have been informed.

Mute metamorphosis: beam trapped rabbit in The Grapes Of Wrath-
squeal,                                                                                       imagine that
your final thought.


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