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Yes, but what are we going to do?

Organised capital, a blind and bloated ouroboros, squeezes ever tighter about its specious hoard. In response, a thousand earnest suggestions, a million heartfelt pleas, a billion cries of pain: Enough!  You are killing the planet! Argument is futile. The beast is without conscience, evolved too long and too far to change. Whither the Homeric hero?  The errant knight?  The legions of justice? ‘The best lack all conviction, while the worst/are full of passionate intensity.’ Ensure your assets are tangible.   In dark times, there shall be pitchforks or ashes.

Latest posts

I'm just going outside [poem]

Lucky Sonnet

[See below]

Emergency Service (unsuccessful entry for the National Poetry Prize)

Oooooh a poem

On justice, chickens and the game of life

On bodily presence

Nine documents, two parenthetic texts, and a birthday


Amena Makes Mahshi