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We're sowing the seeds of a better you.
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Choose your own path. I travel the world to have uncensored conversations with uncommon people. Fellow misfits and explorers whose stories will help you find your way when you don't fit in.
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A sunken raft of weeds woven into a verdant morass of sound, song and story. Broadcast on London's Resonance FM every Thursday, Into the Moss is a 14 minute drift through original music, soundscapes and liminal yarns.
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What you do not know lies somewhere on the inside. Open up and see.
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Roots rooting seasons. Body sacks sup the coffee. The stroganoff blues.
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Dive into the folds, annihilation awaits Prig floating in the pool.
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Rise from shore to sky, evaporated opera. Dissolve in water.
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A door-whisperer, hiding the resident truth, praise for the shut door.
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Emerald gardens tilt towards the dying sun, as visitors fall.
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Fingers guide this one, digits point with urgency. Idiot for sale.
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Smashed into living. Empty my bags, architects! Get out of the house!
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Support systems down, mum and dad are orphans now. Sob amongst yourself.
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Resolute harness. Familial bonds transplant hair. Daughter risen high.
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Inheritance chokes, released like flatulent guests. Regret at all cost.
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Homes built for shelter; technologies buried low. She swallowed a cat.
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Brawling figures judge, fear fearing a fearful drug. All symbols deranged.
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Now’s the spider’s turn: A facile reduction, up the chelicerae.
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The village hall waits, all the while nothing happens. There is so much pain.
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Web-bound surveillance, karmic cycle's swift return, silk-spinner draws near.
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Definitely, the Pencilman’s virility. Certainly it is.
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With Obsidian, fault's with the candidate, or there's no fault at all.
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Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.
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Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?
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Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.
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Alchemical balls: swearing’s not big or clever, even in your head.
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The red-flag woman, tweed-sleeved arm outstretched, spraying: "dogs are mist's princes".
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Car-to-car living. Lemonade fever dreams fail. Give back my money.
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Dark across the brow, the fields are met by fingers scratching in the dirt.
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The world went to pot, because you did not donate to the fundraiser.
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Pulped sardines on bread, shelter for the yuppie bones, huddled in the hall.
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The decks creak with a litany of transgressions. Judgement mans the helm.
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Worlds as yet untapped, backwash over this charcoal (quantum forest sketch).
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See the Nightingale whirr to where the air is thin. Wait for what will be.
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Don't give me all that "la-di-da-di-da", I'm sick of people like you.
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Retching, I'm pulled back to the frozen underpass, animals snorting.
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Voices from the past scatter through the open door, that you left ajar.
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Listen to the sound of stilts tottering across the banquet table.
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Eyes play on pages, photos in the unlit hall. Fell asleep again.
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Bulging bloodshot eyes, born too soon to be shuttered. A throng congregates.
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Silent aftermath of cats nurtured by insects. The dust of ages.
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Engaged Listening Skills For Workplace Efficiency: It's a fragile snare.
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Ignore the voices and listen to the morning. Give another chance.
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In coveted chair, microdosing ethanol, salad haunts me still.
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O hungry hunter, climb the stairs of the taste buds, and eat the city!
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Dad's breathy whistle Mists the cool chrome trim of the Austin A40.
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Chris, a name mispissed, eliciting unconcern from authority.
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Time is a phantom, unmasked in the final chime, as nothing at all.
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Impenetrable street of limitless bakers, bread on top of bread.
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Colour comes to bear, On the things that we have lost, Naked in wonder.
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Unveiled hues observed. Francesca's work reassigned. Truth seen in strange light.
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Canvas visions bloom, chaos amidst the tableaux, the gallery creaks.
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Telephone dial up audiobook with fragments by Brittney Fleming
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Boxes and grey chairs. Silent faces, piled up limbs. Thursday's grim demise.
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