The Boy, The Void and The Storm Cloud


Video, sound, painting, costume, tapestry weaving, writing and installation at Chrom Gallery Dalston, London, 2021


A boy, a void and a storm cloud enter a room.


(If you can call it a boy, this shape, seeing as it doesn't really possess any edges - only the loud ambiguity of a thing growing into itself.)

About 50 years of melted snow came from me then, spelling

the word ‘daughter’

lost relevance as it bore thro’ the trees, see

I cannot tell if I am riding the horse or

being dragged over forest floor

by the reins.

This was only a matter of time he says

A hard change is going to call

in courage against spite

Either way this clatter of mine

can weigh me down

with light.


(If you can call it a void, this place, given that the doormat asks that you wipe your feet and the walls are lovingly yet haphazardly adorned with motivational greeting cards. All the while aware of some waiting room smell, and the rude inconsideration of time.)

Something as strange as puberty, slipped thro’ the trees

as if to say I, the ghostly bowling ball, have always been waiting

to snap the rope

that held the fort

that lay the shirt

upon the back

that continues to burn

long after lightning has struck.

Lo, we jellified

then slipped

o’er the flaming arrows

aimed for where the crotch would be

had the idea ever existed at all,

it recalls:

something as stubborn as a name, dissolved

a puddle of wild chemicals

and when Boy walked into my mouth he died

and he died again and

again he died

as he lay on my dirt he ceased wishing me away

began to eat the rocks i paved

began to root the fruits i adorn

and a crown ‘pon his cap did he bore


King of the homestead,

between sofa cushions

in the gap so you can breathe with the bind

Whilst I the void said,

the journey is the ending

and with the missing is the find


(If you can call it a storm cloud, this one, when it seems as though it recharges on its own power and can't look at itself in the mirror. The rhythm goes like this ~~~~ and the lightning comes in whenever.)

A young man from Texas called it Mountain Madness, upon Icelandic moss

That climbed onto snow

Over rock

Into storm


The other froze shouting

I didn’t ask for any of this, there are no handles here.

Strange sibling the shoes no longer fit, and glorious wonder I name thee fear.

A storm has no agenda, only intention to erupt

A form only craves to be unbound once it has seen how the lightning has struck.

O’ sibling, the magnitude of it all, a job simply being done.

The aftermath: split hairs of crises / certain epiphanies when young.

I break the ground below you, moss into abstract splatter

I ripped through the clouds for you, to show you how you matter.


(If you can call it a room, this midwinter picnic, complete with Greek statues and a life-long plush carpet - perfect for wrestling.)

There is enough room if they all sit inside one another, and repeat this over and over until they are the humming noise at the back of a radiator. Impossible to repeat and unlikely to stop, not necessarily in the bad way either. Together, they exist in the hanging, the limbo of an air-conditioned airport that will take any currency and call you anything you like. No one is made to feel silly here, but they still do, like all of us who are unsure and humming.

Together, it makes quite a pleasant tune.