Aaaand last plug of the day

This about the (Irish) emigrant experience of my dear Chile-le-le

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Exhibition at Hauser and Wirth, Somerset.

Paul McCartney was there too, appazza. Just saying.

My pieces for the Bethnal Green Nature Reserve were included. They are mostly sad things about plants.

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In Case of Death is in The White Review

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Harper’s Bazaar Korea

This article is published in Harper’s Bazaar Korea this September. If you read Korean, you’ll understand. Illustration by



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Kingsgate WorkshopsRob CrosseClear as a bell

Kingsgate Workshops Rob Crosse Clear as a bell

As part of a collaboration with the artist Rob Crosse at Kingsgate Workshops I wrote this series of (prose?) poems. The work is called “In Case of Death”, and it is, among other things, an instruction manual on how to reverse the 7 symptoms of death.

Go read them

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New things

Having not updated this for a year and a half, it might be time to do something. First off, here is a link to a poem I wrote as part of Nevada Street Poets for the Mary Evans Picture Library in Blackheath. An odd project, as we selected the pictures/subjects for each other, but I’m pretty happy with the outcome.

Also, here’s a video of me sweatily reading some sad poems at an event in Peckham. They all involve trees to greater or lesser extents, by way of fatalism, cats, prostitutes, German bombings, and people who love other people more than they love me. Par for the course.

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Here is a poem I was asked to write for the birth of my nephew. It wouldn’t have got written if I hadn’t been asked, which makes it feel something of a surrogate (ironically). But that is not the point. The point is to make something selfless, objective to the author but subjective to the ‘patron’, as it were. I’m not sure I was able to remove myself enough. But fuck it. It’s not for me. It’s for Colm.

The Sea Gives
 For Colm

All winter I walked right to the edge of the bluff.
For all the wind, I was surefooted. I knew how to be there.
I took stock of the waves, how they tore themselves up
And then sewed themselves up, how they crouched and pounced like snow-cats.

I watched them pass, threshold after threshold after threshold.
I waited, but never once a door. One day I swam out. I wanted
Desperately to see in, but the surf was like a long, white blindfold
And I was left to imagine: were there auroras of kelp? Constellations of sea soot?

At last, I took a tugboat, an old thing, like an oil lamp tipped on its side.
I let the water rise and set bread-like beneath me. I drifted off
Until I was lost. And then from the bluff the lighthouse, clear-eyed,
Took me in. I understood its language. Enough, it said. Come home.

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