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I haven’t been able to eat chocolate for two years.

Such a barren stretch has left me inconsolably bereft and constantly reliving all my ultimate favourites from 38 years on this rock.

And despite my recent health-related restrictions, I’d like to think myself suitably qualified to list them below, possessing a:

  • Nuclear-powered metabolism.
  • Raging sweet tooth,
  • Somehow no diabetes
  • And too many years of graveyard shifts in servos, with no managers around and the whole dazzling array of cocoa and sugar glistening before me like fine jewels atop a dragon’s horde of pilfered treasure.

Thus, straight from the depths of…


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Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

I was never as damn celestial as you.

Yet forever;
As long as stars burned in hollow skies
my mirror saw Galileo;
some wild-eyed acolyte surfing
crests of possibility as flames
danced noetic secrets across my
cavern of bone,

a scion of wonder,
claiming the glory
of God’s dandruff
as long-lost friends when really

I was just the Church,

clenching in fear and conceit,
heart locked inside four gilded walls
that have seen more pain than all the
inquisitions Hell could muster.

Too many nights as ghost food, swallowing small white rockets to float away from this maddened, disensouled thing…


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Photo by Gian Cescon on Unsplash

We hide woven tight
in forests of
twisting arms
from patrolling
inspectres of Time
and scratch
each other’s itches
repeatedly.

We sink into these
magic hours,
stoned under coverlets
of lemon Sunday dreams.

While outside buckets
leaden rain,
no water leaks in
through our seams.

We shed each other’s skins,
coiled in twists of giddy content.

Angels dance from fingers splayed,
in nascent roving currents.

The world outside is dissolute
It wails, booms and spatters.
It sneers in through silvered charcoal panes
Waiting to bleach our magic.

But we are resolute, here in cotton Neverland, in fact we are ebullient…


Life lived with the hilariously unpredictable love of a French Bulldog

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Photo: David Goodwin

From the bustling laps of the lacemakers of Nottingham, to the busy prostitutes of Paris, and all the way to Hollywood’s lush red carpets, one breed reigns undeniably supreme.

Frenchies.

They’re a confounding pastiche. Equal parts goof, charm, and impish rogue. French, but as English as baked beans and HP Sauce.

Just looking at them is a comedic exercise of dueling improbabilities: Flat faces, goggle eyes, mushed-in nose, and upturned ears make them look like a fruit bat spliced with a 1930s biplane pilot, dipped in liberal amounts of Balenciaga.

There are not many creatures on this earth that have…


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Photo by Nghia Le on Unsplash

Worship Yourself, child.

Stop huffing it into balloons you float up to wizened grandpas judging you from on high. You don’t need saving. Gods dance all around you, but they take some seeing.

Tread the earth humming cold under your heels, feel her pulse up endless gifts as auroras hurl javelins of fire through her pines.

Drink their striping rivers, child, yet see their drunken splash, too, through valleys proud with glass and steel, and in their bath of roaring sound, dance humbly with the bums and the broadsheets pirouetting between taxis and beneath crackling stars.

Feel breath gust life…


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Photo by Rosie Arasa on Unsplash

Greeting the skies as
the fires arise,
we contribute our own,
burn them down, to the bone.

As zephyrs are hurled
‘cross the heavens unfurled
we abandon our
persistent friend.

. . .

Enraptured eyes
drink velvet skies
and rockets soar
within,

We paw at the heavens
in sixes and sevens
dragging them down
to engorge us again.

We build our own logic
in towers of toothpicks
and laugh as it crumbles
into clarity.

We scatter its ashes in
serpentine splashes,
cresting drunken peaks as we
shimmer like freaks.

Giddy we run, with palms full of sun, falling to nature’s…

David Goodwin

Writer. Poet. Soul. Entheogens, biohacking, greyhounds, flow, trauma, writing, music, mental health, spirituality, sovereignty of the human mind.

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