I love what the team are doing over at Visio Mag.
This issue they’re looking at the shady world of conspiracies, and there’s a whole host of great artwork and writing to be found within.
I’m glad to have my poem ‘Conspirograph’ included.
Check out the the Conspiracy issue of Viso at: https://visiomag.squarespace.com/
It’s been 8 years since my diagnosis with (Relapsing Remitting) MS.
I feel very lucky in the fact that most of the time I don’t think (or write) about it very much. I have strong support from my partner, family and friends, and most of the time I don’t experience much evidence of the condition in relapses. Subtle things like concentration and memory are the main things I need to watch out for.
This week I’m starting a new DMT. I feel positive that I can continue to live largely free of any ill effects of MS.
Stand up walk about
Live for the day
Sleep calm at night
Stayed up all night
Wrapped up in thought
Drifted through time
To this point
Where looking back
They are still awake
Outside and inside
Inside and out
Within and without
Painted flowers and printed leaves adorn the interior of Jasmine’s modest studio. The pattern slowly moved in front of her reddened eyes.
The wallpaper had been Dean’s idea, of course.
“It’ll look good,” her ex had said. “Remind you of outside when the weather’s shit.”
The weather was fine now, but Jasmine didn’t want to leave the flat. Not under any circumstances.
She had been inside for six days now. Unable to leave. Not from agoraphobic anxiety or mental stress, but from the certainty that today everyone outside would be in grave danger. Like a ticking clock, she knew the Change was due to happen at some point today.
It was the wallpaper that told her. The movement and shapes on the unfurled roll that wrapped itself around the four walls, like a mesh, like a jacket.
After a few days the message of the markings became clear; “one week from now, everything will change. Stay inside.”
Dean didn’t understand. She can’t remember what happened. He wasn’t around any more. Either by accident or design, she had dropped her phone in the toilet. So no more rambling texts or pissed up WhatsApp messages.
He’d be out there when it happened. She would be inside. The painted flowers and printed leaves had told her.
Cells recycle themselves over and over.
The elements of myself that were once then
Are not the same now.
Things have changed.
As the body changes,
So too does the mind.
I wrote and drew ‘The Boy Who Never Turned Up’ last year.
It’s a short comic story exploring childhood imagination, school days and myth-making. It’s available to read on Issuu.
Tiny rip in the structure
A little light blinking out
In otherwise absolute darkness
They are here somewhere
Stirred to move
By this unexpected change