The longest day. #autism

    Some days I hear blather. It’s talking or something else. You say it. And we cut the grass. The wind blows. She is moaning. Causation, causation. I will meet you at the station. Ah, but you won’t be there. Because this is the longest day.   And I won’t swim in the sea,

Perfect storm. #autism

  The context for my poem Perfect storm is the research for my Arts Council Funded project – The Museum for Object Research. It isn’t about any one person or conversation, but more about my growing understanding of the ways in which I am disabled – despite being a competent human – by ingrained assumption

Soft clothes day. #autism

Ridiculously, I walk home quite earnestly desirous of an extra leg sprouting from the top of my head. So that you might see me and know my difference without ingrained assumption.

For I am human #autism

But as time eeks out its knowingness I no longer falter, for I find that I am myself (of course I am) and always was that self buried under a false persona.

Stepping out from under it was like tearing off my shadow.

Click, click to Aleppo.

Covered in dust and dried blood these infants say nothing. They walk with wide unblinking eyes and are led by the hand by strangers. They observe the adults around them. A mother, clothed in the same matter, cries for her children who are all dead. A youth carries a bundle in his arms as he weeps. His dead baby brother. Without a father he takes his place.

I – the slow child who could not spell: autism and poetry.

About my relationship to reading (as an autistic, dyslexic) and the fascination I have with a certain kind of vintage children’s literature.

The logic of not having any: on late autism diagnosis

And in the middle of life
I find
that I am the odd one.

Dead Squirrel: a poetic adventure

See what you think and please comment (I don’t mind honesty but I would appreciate kindness).