When Julia asks I think

‘It’s difficult to think right now.’

It’s the drugs and all that.

I want to begin by talking about folds. About folds

within folds. But this

is lightning. In the pink. Sunset

sometimes. Flesh two layers in.

The colour of pregnancy tests

of watermelon, of guava.  I see

an Aries-ram-head-left-horn-eye-socket.

I don’t know what’s good anymore.

It’s the drugs and all that.

I see a shadow foetus. My head feels

like a drop of tar. Tessa says

‘When I stopped taking the drugs,

my brain came back.’ I think

‘Might this be purple?’ 

R=222 B=0 G=222, #db00db, C17 M100 Y70 K5

What does purple mean?

Or pink, or red. I don’t know

what’s good anymore. It’s the veins

under a closed eyelid. Why do veins

look like lightning? Illumination,

like neon. A headache in the gaudy light.

Or are these roots? Why do roots

look like lightning?

Cerebral gyri and sulci—folds

within folds. It’s difficult to think

right now. It’s the drugs

and all that. Are we reduced

to phenomena, reaction and observation?

Gemma says ‘You’ll get through this’.

Like lightning. Like the tresses of a spindly dress.

Like roots drawn through the ground.

A falling. A folding. We are

reduced. What is it

to understand? To fold one hand

against another? Am I asking too much

of myself. These are the facts:

beautiful and temporary and luminous.

I don’t know what’s good anymore. 


Pike-free Trojan


Cauterised, animate


In the machine


Skull the skin

that holds

The hunting deaths

and failings

To recognise you are


with blazed curled words