Dorian David Leigh

A landscape photograph of a river at sunset. In the foreground is a thin trunked tree whose leaves are silhouetted against the sky. The tree grows in short grass, to the right of the riverbank. The river winds from the bottom left corner to the horizon line, tinged orange by the sunset and partially obscured by weeds and long grasses. In the middle distance, a small pebbled beach fading into grass just out into the river where the river bends. Trees are silhouetted in the distance. Above it all, a brilliant beaming orange sunset bursts through a cloudy sky, spreading its orange hues into the blue grey night.

I love the sky.

Fun fact: they're called "Favourites" in Aotearoa and they are exactly no one's favourite. They're the gift you put under the tree for in case you forgot someone.

Please assign me an ambivalent confectionery.

Totally understand the fear and anxiety. It's omnipresent. It's why I try and uplift my queer community when I can, and why it's so incredible that you're out there posting selfies being joyously and unapologetically you. Because that's the fight: community and joy and visibility are the weapons.

That's their goal. Make you feel like you don't deserve to exist so you stop going out into the world and being a part of the fabric of normality. It has been such a joy seeing you discover yourself and blossom as the person you were always meant to be. That's what they're afraid of.

Prompting AI to write about a particular thing will never replace me prompting my brain to write about a particular thing and then my brain writing about something completely and utterly different

I love how this poem centres your child, and centres your child in landscape, yet is so powerfully not about him at all. Beautifully saying something else entirely.

Also, "The sea is waveless, though veined and muscular:
all potential pacing menace." is just killer. Brilliant line.

Cupcakes by Dorian David Leigh On the screen You glow brighter than Your name in lights Pretty words slip sweet from ashbitten lips soaked strawberry by the makeup department sugar gloss illusions spilling lost script allusions Someone behind the camera makes the sunlight brighter glowsoaked teens pretend trembling that it’s you luminous you everyone has to shine in Hollywood Sell me the meet cute with sprinkles and kiss twinkling shyness smiling convince me we’re another accident away from being cupcake strangers In my dreams You hiss louder than The kiss drenched nights

Your need unpins itself from sleep stained walls leaves scraps of happy endings papercut sharp against your smile sharper still slits open my tears spilling Watch glory days spit little stars tracking lust the VHS cuts you flicker solid swathed in razor sharp grey focus bittercream shade too gritty for critics Skin meat nude scenes diluted screams sweat frosted sex crammed battered into paper cases cream drenched and plaster garnished in fucked down ceiling dust In our heat we Throw caution at the wall To see what sticks

I sort of wrote this for last week's #PoemsAbout but it didn't quite work or fit. So I gutted it and stuffed it with 90s nostalgia and we get this for #TimeSlips. Not sure it quite works or fits either, but here we go. @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Just before I woke up I dreamed I got invited to a crab wedding

Everyone had to come in sideways, the celebrant was a lobster who all the crabs took the piss out of because he thought he was better than them etc

I think this might be the first time I have ever felt okay about needing help and asking for it and trusting that it will happen. Probably that's progress and a good thing and stuff, but holy fuck do I have some trauma.

Today I locked myself out of my house. I messaged my friend who has my spare key and asked her to drop it round, and she did.

Crucially: I did not panic about asking for help, make a million apologies, or try and explain how it happened. I just asked for help, and help happened, and it was fine.

Literally a publication for eight-year olds 40 years ago

Dr Assal Rad—

"This seems like something news outlets should report.

"Western headlines: 0"

Misophonia = bad sensory input, which can often be somewhat offset by good sensory input. Can you watch the show in optimal lighting, in comfy soft clothing, with a really good fidget toy or thing to squish, while smelling or tasting something you love? Not a fix, but maybe makes it tolerable?

We stop this by stepping up.

Punch a sex pest.
Prevent future war crimes.

This is the fault of every person who excused blatantly awful behaviour, who not only turned aside but handed power to someone who clearly violates boundaries over and over, who believes he has the right to do whatever he wants because other people don't matter unless they have power or money.

Re Venezuela: This is what happens when you let rich white men get away with stuff. We would not be here if Trump had had the shit kicked out of him the first time he tried to grab someone by the pussy. And it is not up to the victims to issue the beatings.

The dried stems and heads of wild fennel crinkle like wooden fireworks on slender stalks. The dessicated flower heads form circles or small starbursts, dusted across a row of slim twig like stems. The leaves have long gone. In the background, soft cirrus clouds glow peach coloured against a lavender twilight sky. The lower quarter of the image background shows farmland: a grassy paddock bordered with trees, deep green under the darkening sky.

Timeline cleanse. Wild fennel at twilight.

A quiet nudge for the week ahead.

#WednesdayWIPs is coming up.
A space to share what you’re working on — or how it’s going.
A line. A paragraph. A struggle. A pause.

No polish required.
Progress counts.
Care is reciprocal here.

You might win a stick of rhymes with...

dAIrrhoea

You may never know how much being actively kind, saying or doing something supportive and genuine and caring, means to someone.

It doesn't matter.

You don't need to know.

You can just do it. Just do kind things.

It will make an impact. It is important. It might even change the world

We've been trained by social media to judge our words and our worth by likes and follows and shares.

But it isn't the thing with the most likes that will change the world or make people remember you.

It's the small gesture, the kind words, the thing that felt like it passed unnoticed at the time.

Maybe you made someone feel less alone.

Maybe you made someone feel seen.

Maybe someone else heard or read or saw what you said, and it had an impact beyond the intended recipient.

You don't know. You may never know.

Maybe you helped someone hold on for just one more day, and that one more day was the day they needed to see that there would be more days to live for.

Maybe you validated someone's identity or experience in a way that allowed them to be more fully and openly themselves.

You might find out, weeks or months or years down the track, that something you said or did or shared meant a lot to the person you said it to or did it for or shared it with. And they weren't able to say so at the time, but it meant a lot to them.

HERE IS THE IMPORTANT BIT.

Sometimes you'll say something kind and supportive, and the person you said it to will tell you what it meant at the time.

Sometimes you'll say something kind and supportive, and you'll never know how or if it was heard or what impact it made.

Say kind things anyway.

But people don't run on algorithms. Human interaction isn't always immediate or discernable. Humans are messy and weird and wonderful. Sometimes we can't respond or say what we want to say in the moment. That's normal. That's human. Real life doesn't have a like button.

We live in an era of instant online gratification and fast feedback. We post something, and we expect likes or replies pretty much immediately.

This is how the tech has trained us.

Fast appreciation of our content makes dopamine and incentivises us to post more. This makes them more money.

It's a new year. Last one was hard. Here's a really important thing that I learned, important enough that I think it's worth sharing.

A thread. (Or 🧵, if you prefer.)

The Year Kenny Loggins Ruined Christmas The year I learned that Christmas did not, in fact, originate as a celebration of my amazing ability to temporarily transform into a "good" ...

Have been on a (much needed) social media break, but it is time for my annual festive repost of Allie Brosh's epic tale of The Year Kenny Loghins Ruined Christmas.

(If you don't know who Kenny Loghins is, he did every movie soundtrack ever before Bryan Adams did every movie soundtrack ever.)