A woman by a wall painted with Revolutionary Poetry, in London, 1970s Richard Braine/PYMCA (from ‘Unordinary People: A celebration of British youth culture’)

Indefinite streaks of infinity running in one direction
words spilled over into cups of inspiration overflowing with obsession
so she writes
hurrying to let go of the pain caught in the palms of her hands
raindrops washed away dirt only to leave blisters of unspoken words on racing lines
how will she ever catch up?
Not talented enough to open her mouth in time to swallow the air so that she may catch her breath
not enough lines left over for exhausted words to sit and to wait
so what do I tell her?
what advice is there available for the woman with bleeding hands and a song to sing?
what kind of shoes are necessary to ensure that she keeps running in the same direction the lines are running
how many times
how many times must the caged bird write before she sings?
What advice shall be given to the one behind enemy lines?
Somewhere within the margins of the page
on the WRITE side of the RIGHT side
tell her
to stop hiding under her notebook
Tell her blue lines are not running they’re waiting
to search for similes beneath the surface
question marks these lines are empty on purpose
spoken words are not written they’re spoken on purpose
you tell her ….
this water didn’t come from raindrops in the sky
but the raindrops underneath her eye
Tell her it’s OK
to cry
even her messiah did
Cuz deeply emotional is the truth
and hearts aint bullet proof
but these lines
tell her these lines are waiting for her to get there
blank paper anticipate being stabbed in the chest
and wait for the blood you call ink to transform into the familiar alphabets the world has grown to love
called words
Indefinite streaks of infinity running in one direction
skillful lines
2 be heard

When Death Gives Birth to Humility


Have you ever felt guilty trying to console someone who has lost a loved one even though it’s not your fault? Like, why do we say we’re sorry in the first place? What have we ourselves done? We apologize because we’re sorry for their sadness, and also because somehow, their loss has humbled us:

“It is apparent, that death, it’s sting… produces a humility powerful enough to find itself a home even inside the heart of the one who holds the cup of “I’m sorry’s

hoping our voice is somehow gloomy enough to produce the kind of sympathy that peels back the brick that found itself a place inside the gut of the bereaved.”