And now, time to blow my own trumpet.

And now, time to blow my own trumpet.


Figuratively at least. (Nathan here.) With only 8 days to go until the main event, I thought I’d share an actual poem of mine. Honestly, I’d love to sit and write a very thoughtful witty piece but I’m far, far too warm to think.

So, this is a poem about a lamppost. Or is it? *dun dun dunnnn* Note: there are technically supposed to be gaps before the beginning of some of the lines, but I can’t get the formatting to display correctly. Much like the lamppost in question, this poem is a flickering oddity. Enjoy!



‘look!’ you’d say,

‘the light –


dances for us:

teases us

with modes of



the night-music

of traffic

and rain

in spluttered orange,

& electric hum.’


Colour for our

  b r o k e n c i t y ,

grey and dark with threnody.

Colour for our

  b r o k e n s h i r e ,

thick with plangent monody.


…the stars were sultry

smithereens on our watch,

their shatter-pattern

splinter glow mosaic

mirrored on our ceiling

like an absurdist disco ball;

the language of a demimonde

of uninterpretable shards

to constellate the galaxy

of our small attic-room

with an impermanent certainty:

on/off, on/off

one zero seeks one one.


[Somewhere a streetlamp falters, flounders, fails –

darkness assumes the space between all space.]


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