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01.05: Three Line Thursday
Orange whispers on forgotten steel,time’s slow kiss, a bleeding bloom—the bridge between metal and memory. Written for Three Line Thursday “Rust”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not…
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1 May: A Thursday Door
With weathered panels and a faded, dignified face, this old wooden door stands like a guardian of forgotten stories, its peeling paint and scarred surface whispering memories of countless comings and goings. The ornate carvings and the rusty knocker sit like a brooch on a well-worn coat. Despite its age, the door holds its ground…
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01.05: Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Adopts a Mould Culture (For Research, Obviously) The petri dish gleams on the windowsill—a swirling nebula of sentient blue-green,thriving on neglectand last Tuesday’s lasagna sins. The cat, honorary Head of Microbial Astronomy,presses its nose to the glass:“Fascinating. It has your eyes.”The old woman nods.“And your manners.” The crow, MSc (Disaster Studies &…
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30.04: A Six – The Book of 27
3 of 27: Threshgold – a Colour once felt, not seen—the terror just before hope Content Warning: This post discusses topics including suicide. Reader discretion is advised. If you are feeling vulnerable, please consider whether you wish to proceed. The Colour Called Threshgold Her breath is steady, scarf tugged loose by the wind, and she…
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29.04: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Milk’s Mortality Crisis the cat paces before the fridgelike a wee, furry coroner,one paw pressed to the milk bottle’s pulse. “it’s clinging to life,” purrs the cat.“one more dawn, maybe two.”the old woman peers at the use-by date—smudged, dubious,possibly written in invisible ink. “it’s fine,” she declares.“time is a construct.also,…
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A Few Hours with Joe Bonamassa
Where music lives not just in the ears, but in the bones—sometimes shattering boundaries to write new stories within. Joe Bonamassa — Brighton Centre (27 April/25) Second row; first two seats on the left of the centre block—we’re close enough to see a trickle of sweat. The lights search the room, then settle on the…
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28.04: Threshgold- The Liturgy
3 of 27: Threshgold – a Colour once felt, not seen—the terror just before hope 3 of 27: Threshgold – the terror just before hope I. The Threshgold Threshgold is not the leap—it’s the foot hoveringabove the abyss,the heartbeat where fallingand flyingstill wear the same face. You’ll find it in the pausebefore the pistol shot,before…
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28.04: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and Aleph in the Garden My mother’s name is Aleph—a swallowed alphabet,the dirt’s own first vowel. The robin cocks its head.“Explain the worm, then.” The old woman with no catsinks her spade again—bites clay, bites air, bites centuries.“Aleph,” she mutters,“is the shape a worm writes—a letter no god can read.” The robin…
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27.04: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Quantum Lawn Gnome The gnome both is and isn’t—Schrödinger’s kitsch, grinning sideways through time,one foot tangled in the chives,one foot hovering in the seventh dimension,tracking mud across both. The old woman squints, pokes it with a rake:“You’re technically trespassing.” The gnome winks.(Or doesn’t. Or winks in thirteen simultaneous realities.) Bells…
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26.04: Poem-a-Day Challenge
A Hermit Crab Poem: On the Back of a Receipt 1 bottle full-fat milk(life is too short for skimming anything)3 overripe avocados(they bruise faster than first loves)1 jar of honey(thicker than apologies at 2 AM)2 donuts(the baker knows my name.asks, “where’ve you been?”I say, “somewhere warmer.”he nods like a priest absolving an absentee.) 1 bouquet…
It's Still Life 