Australian writer and tattoo artist based in Brazil. 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
Well Old Son: Part Four
IV Liquid fire burns but does not shine in misty night skies. In the shadows of a broken imagination, a bewildered body cowers. A simple remedy: spoonfuls of psychedelic poems stirring the sound of colour. Toxically allured by scintillating oil rainbows, more vivid and less illusional than those of pure rain.
Living Twice Squared Through Poetry
Celebrating LGBTQ Poets for Poetry Month There are some experiences in life that leave imprints on your soul. Eileen Myles is a legend who rarely needs an introduction. But just in case: Myles is a queer badass, lesbian punk, poet and writer.
Well Old Son: Part Three
III Wholehearted devotion destroys cruel minds. He dreams of dreaming in dreams of bottled paper boats, blood curdled in breathless lungs, a ragged harlequin's muted scream. A single taste: metallic-nectar erotic-carnage haunts the warmth of noxious breath.
Well Old Son: Part Two
II Diluted memories, ebb & flow, wash ashore. Golden Gate lights fade behind peppered peripheral wastelands. Vermin nourishment: a single image. Torn Levi's. Rotting toenails. The unlit corners of a Sausalito cave, where poems wait to die.
Well Old Son: Part One
I Tangled stars hang like barbed wire in mutilated skies, in blemished horizons of empty-green & broken-blue lines. A single image: female, stretched sideways, effortless hills, faded rosebuds, scarred thighs, haunts the darkness of closed eyes.