Aim and release infinite




Why does life feel like a perpetual state of discovering things you’re unhappy with? We then make a choice to do bare minimum in order to change our circumstances or we take a leap of faith.
Is coping honourable? unashamedly rapturous? or downright purgatory?
God and Satan smile upon us with their fictitious teeth.

I swear that pretension is not my aim my dear, in fact I shield myself with metaphors and verse. I don’t swear to anything or against anything, I just mean it wholeheartedly in this moment.
My aim is clarity, it’s the most humbling feeling and I regularly release and miss but I keep aiming and releasing til the target is hit once more. Not many people account for the same target to move, why is that? You hit it once but then it moved so you have to hit it at this new location.

[Let my silence speak volumes for I am restless with speech.]


Water ampersand Oil




two years and nine days since we last held each other like we were the only purpose.I understand you now look at me with bitterness and hate; feelings unmirrored; bouncing dozens of moments round in my head when you creep into my thoughts. I now look at you with sorrow, for I lost my best friend who I loved so hard.
Mourning you felt impossible and I accept that I may never forget you. There’s no wrong in my sentimentality because each binding is unique; my mistakes were innocent, full of fears and detrimental to our trust; your mistakes were made: hidden, lustful and hopeful and justifiably the chain was pre-severed. You left a scar on my soul and I bare it willingly to those close to me.

Why do you, and others, choose to remember the pain over all the love and care in the world? Is it too turbulent to move forward without tricking your memories? I have no wish that we remained, romance died but not before it soared. Is it so impossible to accept that we are now immiscible? We are water and oil. If I truly spoke to you tomorrow I would be deafeningly silent, only ears. For this is the nail.

Through the warm September evening airwaves, you sobbed with your dying breath, “you’re just like the rest of them”. Static. [I’ve seen you many times but not in the flesh, like an apparition in the heat, surrounded by pangs of silver and scarlet]


The First Intention



In the error of our bodies, we’re too cruel, cruel to one another and in that cruelty we are selfish and unjust; you have done no wrong dear, you must accept.

You shed a tear for my lack of punishment towards you; you have done no wrong dear, you rest your head.

The day is honest and my mind is clear, this is no race for us to place in; you’ve done no wrong dear, you close your eyes.

I sit and contemplate, my greatest skill but not so fond of my mind at the best of times. I see the light in you, I see the light in others but their light is not the same as yours and mine; you’ve only wronged yourself dear, your light still shines so bright.

The parasol tarp loosens under the stress of heat, all creation bows uncontrollably to the conditions and tries its damned hardest to relieve its state. I’m with the knowledge that this is only the beginning of our unbearable heat. We should find someplace cool to look upon each other and say nothing at all. We can talk when the sun has set and our lungs fill with clean air.

[Your aura has a coolness that is not compatible with today’s tribulations; our pores chokes on the dry saltless fumes. The hot still city air.]

Yours faithfully

Trumpism Poeticism

‘Trumpism Poeticism’ – adj. To convert Donald Trump statements, ideologies and history into a creative product.

A book was released in 2017 by the title ‘The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump’ created by Rob Sears and published by Canongate Books.

This book was sent across to me by a dear friend as my ‘next read’ based on a lovely audible ad on their socials. I have not read a single page of this book and I’m not prepared to do so anytime soon but what it has achieved is the creation of a poem.

It’s worth nothing that this poem was written approx. 7 minutes after being sent the book suggestion after I shallow dived into the comedic works of Rob Sears. I found myself swiftly reminiscing of shameless comedic novels such as “Barry Trotter”, “Bored of the Rings” and “The Hunger Pains”, my thoughts moved onwards to the question ‘What would Trumpism poetry even look like?’, ‘Would it rhyme?’ of course it would rhyme and it would be simple to follow but if I’m writing it; I can do what I wish.

So I wrote a poem about the first Trump utterance that I remember making me hurl up my insides and my dear friend thought it would be a waste to leave this creation to our eyes and ears only (I recorded a dramatic reading that I wish I could destroy, i’m being a tease and not sharing it with you, please enjoy the poem).

Grab by Her – GBH

Grab her by the pussy

You know the way she likes

Grab her by the pussy

Whilst she’s seated on her bike

Grab her by the pussy

You know her telling eyes

The way that they avoid you

And never will they find

So grab her by the pussy

That “oh, he’s so romantic” way

That they talk about in movies

That Shakespearean speech in plays

You say me crude

10 years too late

If you had an issue

Where is pussygate?

I know you’re really want this

For i’m a gentle man 

So grab her by the pussy

She’ll fall into your hands

“You’re grotesque” I hear you say

for that I say you’re wrong

It’s simple jokes and lockertalk

Why don’t you understand?

If you quandary, you feel blue

but tweet your fake news

what can I do? 

I’ll grab you by the pussy

Then block and carry on.

– @poshjarry
Thurs 24th March 2022

Alt title GBH, Grievous Bodily Harm.
Let’s all remember that this man exists and held a seat of power;
Learn, move on and create art from our misfortunate history.