‘Is man no more than this?’ – we are that forked animal, divided within and without. we are the seat of power, injustice, compassion and beauty. the human song is an atonal one, not one of sweet harmonies.

the volcano diaries

the gardener

how does unacknowledged, undigested rage manifest? in the things and in the creatures around us, of course. and what does it lead to? blindness, bitter energies, artistic courage. invulnerable artistic courage.

tiny black birds

it haunts us. we never truly experience it. it is an idea, an ideal, a promise and a threat. we are all heading into its arms. as we live and breathe, all we know of it is as the nadir, the negation, the nothing that sits beneath all we say and do.

the silence

imagined love is ideal love. nothing ventured, everything gained. all of human loss is here, fulfilled, embraced, made good.

in your arms

there is a lag between the lives we are living now and the threads, the rags, the remnants of our yesterdays that cling to us, like the agonies, the cries of children with eyes slammed shut.

perhaps the heart is free

when there's no one there to see the lonely in you, to speak with it and cradle its voice in return, there is only the world of cold fact, which in turn transforms to become the thing - das ding - through which the lonely swims around you, at strange, dizzing removes - filling the sky with dances, daydreams and terrible clarifications.

long dead song

Anxiety is the only reasonable response to life, a great man once said; and anxiety leads into the hilarity of shadows, the caustic twilight of mordant venom and all this wasted time, packed neatly into your little leather suitcase, ready to be loaded onto the baggage car for another turn around the dreamless world. And that's just how i like it.

pack up your dust

the voices of broken things aren't the clearest or easiest to hear - but only from abandoned mouths and derelict instruments can the deepest cries be heard.

the broken guitar won't go quietly

what if the two forces the drive the heart, that keep the blood rolling through the body, were mortal enemies? what if one lives where the other one dies? music at the root of silence; silence at the defeat of music. R. D. Laing's Knots live within all of us.

between music and silence

those inescapable, unspeaking forces flow in terrible rhythms toward the ache, the inflowing sound at the centre of all seas – a tide rolling in from unnumbered, comfortless shoals.

between music and silence (voiceless)

Singer-songwriter based in Brighton, UK. Collector of lost moments, discarded shadows, echoes at the point of extinction.

murnau in silver