top of page


Fallen Angel 

You tore a star apart with your bare hands

Ripping it in two like an over-ripened fruit


Every dimension felt the consequence of your destruction


Your investigation ricocheted like thunder

Your incision cutting deeper than any blade


In your tinkering, the shape of being was cut and chopped and bruised


The winds that filled the gaps you made
fought /(found) their way to a better plane

Only passing through your faithless way




Base Line


Through the nonsense of language

And the heat of revolution

And the depravity of our condition


the baseline endures


Through our displacement and destruction

Despite suns absence

And freedoms captivity


We hold tightly onto the promise of our foundation


Mud redder than dusk fixes our feet to what was before

Spirit lighter than air tangles us to the intangible


All that can ever be, traced on the map of our palm

Transcribed in and between each crack of our skin


Whispered into the fruit of our veins

the baseline endures

I have been granted permission to understand. But only for a moment. Only for as long as it takes for the power of truth to run through all of me. To set my nerves aflame. For peace and contentment to feel at home in my soul and then it leaves as swiftly as it entered. I try to trace my fingers around the shape of its departure but I can only comprehend its absence, not its presence.



I spit out the window from the sixth floor

And in the dark I cannot see

As my saliva laced with beer and tobacco touches the ground


I wonder if love can last but 24 hours

If a connection can be destroyed with the swiftness of skins touch


I have forgotten how to nurture a flame

How to blow into a fire just to see the kindling rise


All I really want is to kiss the softness of your earlobe

For you to gently stroke the bare and tender flesh of my neck

But through the worlds deception

Through memory and habit

You ask and I accept your proposition of more


I am reminded of my earthliness

And the angels leave me for a moment

As I indulge in the movement of us


And as your body leaves mine

And your spirit leaves yours

And you walk out of the door

With an embrace

And a ‘ca va’ aimed at the floor

I feel alone

Left more alone than I was before

Before I knew


What love was

I felt it

And then you left

As lovers often do


You promised you would dream about me last night, but as I walked the plane of fantasy, the land of green sand and polka dot sky. I saw, I felt, that the memory of me had escaped you. 


the us we were

I feel as it slips away

Fading like the fog of a dream


The material

The physical

The tangible


Leaving me with a whisper

A hoarse and forceful shadow

Drying up the well of my being


Until all that is left is a pruned and wrinkled thing

Gently held between the finger and thumb

Of someone who used to know my real name

The Market with Grandma 


I remember Longsight market

the suits and sofas

As I walked down Dickenson Road

The narrow paths

The wide hips

The smell of new shoes

And old people




Returning to somewhere familiar


He acts as though

he remembers my face

With my newly gappy-teeth

I beam up at the man


Birthday cards

Christmas cards

graduation cards

anniversary cards

Cards with words

Cards with pictures

Cards with numbers


She grown big hasn’t she?

My grandma states proudly


I didn’t hear his reply

I was distracted

By a dress

Deep red

Gold finishing

A scarf

embracing a neck

The ends

handing down a back


I look around and see the dress

In different colours and shapes

On women and girls


My grandma takes my hand

Leading me near the carpark

I hate this part


I scrunch my face

And hold my nose

first the toilets

Then the fish stalls

I knew she was going to stop

Before she did


It was always the same routine

The same adventure

The same exchanges


A wave of brown faces

(I went to Morocco as a Moroccan I left reminded I was not) 


If the ants ceased to scurry

You would never know there was a hole present

one by one, like an army

they marched

from the crack in the wall

across the cold floor

to the fridge

I watched the ants

As my Senegalese twists were tugged

and pulled, by the handful

as words and phrases

were said by the mouthful

so sped

I forgot to understand

It didn’t hurt

but before it had been issued

I knew

The style wouldn’t suit me

It was made for straight hair soft hair silky hair

not my hair

instead of thinking too deeply about the oxymoron of my competing hairstyles as a physical amalgamation of my internalised cultural dispute

I looked closely at the uniform ants

all aware of their place

along the cracked white tiles

I looked closer still

One wasn’t quite in line

(poem originally published in Rife Magazine 2020) 


Looking Back


The memory of us hangs low

Like an autumn moon


Shrouded by the shape of the season

Smudged like ink under my thumb


Our legacy glows the faintest orange

The warmth below the silver


It ripples silently



orange dusk rests on everything my eyes once touched

Sometime Now


When the mist is lifted

And I am submerged completely in now

In its peace and its unraveling


The tide of truth collecting at my feet

The shape of being

Slowed down to a stillness

To the whole of a greatness

It is then that I will say


bottom of page