(I had a “big birthday” this year (I know – it can be difficult to tell it’s a half-century, what with the beard and the web cam quality… and the connective tissue disorder…) and what with that, the inevitable changes people like me go through at this time, public perceptions of other aspects of ‘people like me’ in these interesting times, and a certain person’s two-word public put-down recently, this piece is very new…) Forty-Seven < Fifty (or: This Too Shall Pass) I am a quiet piggy, dehumanised for consumption, stumbling as hormone shifts strip me of privileges I once thought mine for life, I’m striving to find a place in society, propriety forbidding I dispossess anyone else of comfort while I navigate unpredictable waters, body a slaughterhouse of assumptions, a dumping ground for many things we collectively deem “failure”, apparently. (And nearly impossible for mortals to achieve these days, let’s face it.) I own nothing grounded in earth; I possess a dearth of reproductive function, lumbering like a frozen fool, destined to never progress beyond wasted adolescent, for lack of offspring, walls to call my own for life. I have nothing to pass on except the output of this fevered organ, more and more ignored as time wreaks its curse and I am burdened with gags.  He says Quiet, Piggy, and silence presses, suffocates, applauds the mordant thrall of this epitome while the jackals cackle, released from good behaviour by their putrid saviour and we’re told Oh! It’s not that bad! It could be worse! And another verse trickles into my fingertips signalling the power of the liminal, the highest prize of sentience inexorably reduced to a useless sentence.  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… endure forever. Wretched prose opens up my cranium, carves new markers for Here We Are, startled daily by old commands: Thou Shalt Not Sleep in Peace… until thy synapses surrender their burden of hard-won knowledge of threats and punishment. Know your fucking place, swine. Strangers mining data, mining perfidy tell me, confidently, that I’m a danger to society, a danger to children, projecting everything they fear about difference into this sliver of flesh, telling me that I don’t deserve to even piss in spaces designated for the holy alone, those who’ve ticked all the boxes their bodies were allocated, can’t wait for me and my ilk to do them the favour of extinction.  Danger, am I? Threat to society? Moi?  Interesting. I never knew I had such power, that you cower at the thought of more of this. More of me. more of us. Oh, honey. We are so much more.  So, for the score, I… we… will not be quiet, piggy. When you’ve stripped us of everything, denigrated our importance as hoarders of words and nothing more, our scorn will live on, recorded, transmuted, translated, debated, because our core is RAGE, not just spilled across pages but stages, neurons, electrons, a spectrum signalling the coming storm. Best make the most of that shelter, friend. Nothing is endless. Image from Raw Pixel

I did a feature slot at Oooh Beehive in September 2025, and did that thing where I write a tribute poem to everyone else who performed that evening. This is my best attempt at replicating it: Block of Writers (for Oooh! Beehive) A work in progress… Coherence is a dream, a sliding scale Clive of lyrical larceny, stockpiling interruptions in shrill voices from the foaming depths. Cracked marble vaults release all sorts of Michael forms from the silent cells, incanting the repetition of conjuring, anticipation satiated. The forest strums our senses, tricked out Laura in night, blossoming bitterly, inducing the beauty of beckoning eloquence. Lines drift, comparisons shattering peace, Mary silence outlined in the quotidian, gratitude clattering where powerlessness drags and drags. Prayerful poetics hurt the knees, making Fin fools of authorities, howling the intimacy of surprised whiteness, men’s voices loud and long. Jobs done, window-shopping, stopping us in our Pelagie/ Roger tracks, mapping souls to appearances, glittering, a twist of reflections on humanity. Filled with emptiness, we can grab maps from Annalisa brain chemistry, track onanistic paths, unlandmarked, barren, deafened by silence, white noise, waiting. If you have been affected by any of the above stanzas, Sandra fume about the consequences – or lack – and whack out your own in retaliation, biting tales. Spinning misery into a big, beautiful bill of fare, Rick – Poet of the Three Rivers tanned and glad-handing reality into a knave’s menu of land-grabs available for the 1%. Pictures flicker past of partnerships and glancing Christopher connections, memories etched in laughter lines, National Geographic papier maché lending a hand. The snake coils, scary, soul-baring, a snarl gripping the Elmien tails old wives roll over and over, tucked under wild hair – a story in itself, over too soon. Let’s judge books by their covers, entitling heroes, Jeff listing the best bits, fictional, all wham-bam action, soundtracking the sort of reports we’ve anticipated. In the meanwhile, the knuckles of the hard-boiled Pauline brag that their voices are the only truth, but we can wash free of dirt and blood, soaking in new, moonlit choices. Let’s bunk off from responsibilities before repeating Claire the lessons of the past, hanging on for points that matter, covered in sauciness, locked in for our own safety. Celebrate blasphemously, swearing generously across a Ashley spectrum of unapocalyptically brilliant attractions, tracking an expanse of joy for everyone who can truly hear it. Linking symbols across a Sunday in Swindon, picking up Gerald the lost and disregarded, claiming better judgements, precision gifting us great, poetic mysteries, an epic of many parts. Labouring in vain, the privileged cannot represent us, Clive (again) blessed with nuclear terror, complicitly handing over the core of their souls for pats on the back by oligarchs. Supported by faltering technology, hot fixes are cool, Kev the Poet wetter, darker, slower, unlocked with fingerprints glittering in seaside lights, hard day’s night, eight out of seven. Painted in primary colours, innocence touches us, warm Io as love in wintertime, but it’s frozen in time under an obscenity, shrugged off as a distant, foreign water off our backs. Rhythmic truths glitter with precise ire, bright as firebombs Ian arcing through the night towards the baited trap, feeding the beast that snarls armageddon beats, cleaving unity. Understanding is the key to authenticity, fighting the resistance to Melissa care, softening the hard edges, cutting out doubts, smoothing beauty in mirrored stars, mapping the future in glorious constellations. Define the fires that shimmer across a spectrum, glorious in Phoenix non-conformance, existence a resistance that has us flying, bright kites that inspire, defining joy in a brightening sky. Gifts can be triggers, abandoned in doorways, never hot enough River to beckon attention, returning the false construction piece by peace, bereaved but breathing, thriving, climbing back to light. Orangutan is a compliment to a bold, spoiled shmuck, playing Rob tiddlywinks with lives, grift trumping humanity, empathy abandoned as dreams are strip-mined for commodities. A golden gate to choices gifts us with the liminal, views you’d Garland miss if you dodge the crossroads, bearing witness to the true beauty of fellow travellers, heat-hazed and numinous. Shadows kiss, riding history’s mysteries, imagination projecting Marieta vaudeville on the night’s curtain, simmering with the glories of northern lights, summer’s heat, passion resonating right and wrong. Communication in pictograms reveal depths limited only by Eike imagination, travelling in accumulation, a gathering of injustices, projecting a modular future onto a cinematic disorder. Last one standing acts out corporate blocks of thought, Kate effort a heavy, dragging shell-shock, knocking back the trauma, gentle and fierce as love, concentrating in engineered precision. For this, and future lines, thanks for the inspiration…

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