I have been so slack with posting since summer but I am determined to get back into it this year and really have fun with writing in my final stages of Uni. With dissertation and final assessments I’m definitely going to need some fun!

So far in my third year I’ve been trying to get my head around modernist poetry, me and poetry aren’t the best of friends anyways so I’ve been struggling. So for a laugh (and a bit of procrastination) my friend and I have been making silly ‘post-post-modernist’ poems to try and wrap our heads around it all. Here’s a couple, eat your heart out Mr T. S. Eliot…


What have you done today,

to make you feel proud

bedding changed, washing on

what have you done today,

to make you feel

scroll scroll scroll scroll

double tap

what have you done today,

to make

je pense, donc je suis

what have you done today?


Make America great again.

Grab her by the pussy

There is strength in solidarity-


Make America great again.

A young beautiful piece of ass

37 more victims


Hedi Klum, sadly she’s no longer a 10


Make America great again!





Objectification of the Mundane

Over the past week, I attended the Port Eliot festival and put my writing skills to the test by trying something new, journalism. For three days we created a daily newspaper that was researched, written, edited, printed and hand folded on site. It was amazing. And I thought I’d share a snippet of the work I created with you all…

Objectification of the Mundane

Against the sound of the falling rain came the operatic voice of the first Neo-Naturist. Dropping the robe that covered her, she began to set up home on the Art School stage, busying herself with tidying. Her body paint looked tribal and raw, contrasting her preened 60s bouffant hair. Following her was a man in sandals and nothing more. His blue body was smeared with neon hand prints, smudged and dripping in the rain. He poured himself a glass of wine. Next came a young man, painted with jeans a t-shirt and following him were the stars of the show, Jenifer and Christine. In something of an evolution, they were transformed. To their mud smeared bodies the others added bold swirling lines of pink and blue paint. The almost ritualistic scene was topped by the blue male shouting the prose of absent Neo-Naturist Wilma’s book, Surf Mama, in an animalistic cry.

The Neo-Naturists absorbed themselves in their own little community as passers-by walked on with uncomfortable bafflement. But some stopped. As a small crowd formed the oddly mundane performance came to a close and three small children led the crowd in a cheer. They had got what the others had missed: these people were not doing anything unnatural or strange. They had not objectified the mundane acts simply because they were done in the nude. It was the adults that walked on who were straying from nature, their instincts warped by the culturally encouraged prudishness towards nudity in this over sexualised world. Why is it that we can only be naked in certain spaces or for certain reasons?