I can still get lost in Sheffield.


There are still surprises to be found here.


In its shops, in its people, in its long hills

that flat and carry.


In seeing my friends, together so slightly,

before he wandered on to the hospital.


To the failure to show up to class,

the melancholy that caused it,

swiftly grey, repressed, then



To the times, many, today and

tonight where I am so close to

tears, then my excitement

holds them back.


That the architect knew

of the rising art, pushed

onwards by council,

and heart.


And we laughed about progress,

and regress, and I knocked over

his pizza, then dealt with it



I don’t think you know how

happy that simple helps me.


That there’s laughter here, through

all the palpable nightsweats, terrified

pillowtalks, self-assessments before

meetings, and forged in obvious union,

steely greetings, graceful fears almost,

but never held back.


The North is too honest for that.


That there’s still so much of a mess

to make, and smiles to see, from

people I’m yet to meet.


That I can sit here, not bothered

at all to tap into my phone, rather

than wait until the moment has



That I used to be so shy. That

I used to barely even be alive.

That I suppose we’ve all

survived, and it’s hardly

a surprise, really, when

we’re built to withstand

so much more.


In Sheffield, I am

no longer bored.


I don’t wanna be Here. Walls are going up.

I’m terrified of the Future. Walls are going up.

I’m terrifying. Terrified. Of You. Walls are going up.

I’m terrified of Me. Walls are going up.

I hate it All. The divide is Real.

The Walls are so high, I want to climb up

and jump off. The Walls suffocate Me.

I want to be suffocated. I want no breath.

I want to Die. No, I want to hide. The Walls

are going up. The Walls are up. The Walls

are closing in. The Walls are petrified.

They’re crying blood. They’re crying

blood of generations. They’re crying

blood of every race, every gender,

every oppression imaginable. The Walls

are going up. The Walls aren’t coming

down. I want the Walls to disappear.

I hate the Walls. I hate You. I hate

it All. The Walls are still up. The Walls

are real. Too real. So real. There are Walls

between You and Me. There are Walls between

Us. There is no Truth. The Truth is Terrible.

There are Walls between

right Now, and All This. Pent up.

Held back. Hold back. Scotch tape,

leaking. Tweaking. Freaking out.

The Walls feel like death. It’s too

soon. I’m attached. I love the Walls.

The Walls are our friend. The Walls

love us. The Walls are the Answer.

The Walls mean Everything. The Walls

move us forwards. The Walls are

imaginary. The Walls aren’t real.

The Walls mean everything. The Walls

are pathetic. The Walls are deceit.

The Walls are the material.

The Walls embody us.

The Walls are our bodies.

The Walls are our minds.

The Walls destroy our minds.

The Walls are built on bodies.

The State is our burial ground.

We destroy ourselves.

We are not ourselves.

We are not ourselves.

We are nothing.

We are dying.

We are incomplete.

We are paranoid.

We are at loss.

We are grief,

We are grieving,

We must grieve,

but we must also


We must also hope.

We must remain in love.

We must love.

We are love.

We are love.

We are love.

I want to believe

we are love.

We aren’t hate.

Yes we are.

We are hate.

We are love

and we are hate.

We are duality.

We are polarity.

We are both.

We are hope.

We are hope.

We are hope.

I hope, to hope,

that we are hope.

I am lost.

I am hurt.

I am grief.

I am hope.

I am hate.

I am You.

I am not.


There is no art to doing drugs,

there is just doing them.

To kid yourself into a sense of drug control,

to man the borders and customs patrol of your will,

is to miss the very point of the whole thing – losing.

Strange, that in drugs, losing feels like winning.

To be at such a complete, strange loss, is a valuable trip.

Drugs feel like nothing else.

Because they are of course artificial –

but surely, still a form of reality,

for reality is yours to be decided.

I miss drugs.

They made sense, for a time,

when nothing else really did.

They felt like an anger toward the nothingness,

a certain, demented aliveness, which for a time,

was enough – it was something. that the contrast

between the day and the night wrenched me

into some disasterly, rapid action of guilt and

the consequent, forced, “healthy choices.”

And the drugs weren’t about You – Anyone –

for they were always about me. Because I felt

that nothing was about me, really, so the

Great Overcorrection kicked in. And as my

pupils dilated and took to the outer regions

of far galaxies, I sensed in my own, always there

but beginning small, some rebellion to even addiction –

that there was still hope in the future, because

I still cared to fight – even if the arms were

pointed at my own, constructed, un-reality.

To put it simply, there is

value in loss if only you

care to see your innate

rallying against fear.

Because “fuck fear”

is the only thing that

makes sense, before

the embrace and the

final “ahhh…”

Wake Up, If You Want To. -Ben

We act like there’s more to sustaining life than eating and consequently, breathing.

We act that way and become complicit in an unnecessary lie that creates immeasurable suffering.

We act that way because to see your very consciousness as enough would be to wake up and realise that we’re letting our fellow human beings suffer immeasurably, including ourselves.

We act that way because we feel that we’re expected to act that way.

We act like waking up is an act of bravery, because that prevents people from waking up.

Am I brave enough? Am I worthy? Do I have value? Of course – if you want it.

When really all that’s left is to wake up and breathe, and perhaps that’s all there really is and ever has been, anyway.

Animals of love. -Ben

We are animals of love.

Yearning at moons that glow

in our periphery.

Deeming what is ours

with territorial pissings

whilst tearing our souls

at the equinox of hope

and pain. Sharing what

is only ours to share.

Caring for the wounds

that crack cavern-deep,

weeping on the


of a slow-drowning cub.

Whatever we can do,

perhaps it is done.

Perhaps all that is

left now is to love.

Slumber. -Ben

Roses gathered on the cloud-side

as the victims fell aslumber.

Children painted tears on the

foreheads of the adults, who

quietly wished for colour, too.

The rains brought a theatre-bow

and the shimmer lasted forever.