Poetry is alive. It’s vibrant. It’s language that’s made to dance.

Or at least that is how it should be.

On the page though it can feel less so. Like fossilised remains. echoes of something long since gone.

The Oral tradition is where it all began. It was all we had – before we developed written language everything was spoken. Everything was heard. Stories were told around fires. Words were shared only in person. This ancient lineage gives the words a power that simply cannot be attained when you slap shit onto pieces of dead tree. Just speaking them out loud gives them a life they can never have when they remain solely on the page. There is a sense of communion between performer and listener, an alchemy that transforms inkblots into fireflies.

And so i begin to release work as audio. To break down the barriers between myself, the words, and you.

Look at me being all earnest and shit. It’s almost as if that crunchy, sarcastic and deeply cynical shell I present to the world hides a gooey centre of sincerity and feelings and stuff.

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