By Miles Coombe


Do you hear the wires sing?

Sharpen your teeth on the old stones

The land is a noise of omens

Little sparks in the darkness 


Remnants of an abandoned past

Ancient rusted machines

Animal flesh burnt as offerings

The wires hum in the empty sky


Walk with me through brackish water

Ghost soil under our fingernails

Hunters in the borderland

Offering maps of bark to the Other lands


When the mist eats away at the forest

We draw substance from our shadows

Making masks and lanterns

Hiding in the Bright Places until the dawn comes


Black metal spires in overgrown lanes 

There grow the metal flowers of the night queen

The dark brings such quiet 

And the wires sing in the leftover void


Certainty becomes brittle when the new moon shines

And at the edges of the boneyard

Lonely spirits grow bold

Like unstitched wounds in time


Decaying concrete underpasses

Soaked in urine and spray paint

Old tower blocks standing in the sputtering ether glow

Breathing is hard in the rancid air


Only the most desperate creatures brave the forests of brick and glass

You can feel it trapping them

If only they can make it to the clearing

Unobserved by the lost gods and unattached souls


Can you hear the wires sing?

Follow their static moaning through the empty fields

These are the voltage temples 

Do not tread lightly through their doors


Not all magics of the night are dispersed by dawn

Some linger still

Trapped in the wires


By Miles Coombe


You can’t see my wings from over there

They are lost inside a fever dream

Everything is too loud


Screaming when the blinds are opened

Beware of those who collect feathers

Landfills full of used up thoughts


I burn brighter when you water the flame

Like a peat fire hidden underground

I bet you are made from the most beautiful of stars


You have mistook me all this while

Intoxicated with loneliness

A silent corridor of drifting ash


Your bandages make me turn feral

I change the sheets each day but its leaking out of me

Every night I dream of paradise


There is always the taste of vodka in my mouth

My teeth never feel sharp enough

The homesickness makes my jaw ache


I sit at the back of every old church

In every lost town, in every forgotten world

Blinded by the incense


You can’t see my wings from over there

But they burn on the inside

Maybe one day I will get to go home


When the world is cruel, we seek refuge in others

Delicious moments of terror

A sense of what is buried below

Dappled smears of psychic history


Haunted by all the journeys never made

There are lines drawn on the land

Old TVs and piles of asbestos

Violently weaponised loneliness


The Silence will follow you

Like a nauseous adrenaline chill

An apocalypse of quiet and unploughed fields

The white ash of Solstice bonfires


I had that dream again

The one where all those dead crows come back to life

I’m seeing pathways to God

In the geometry of the skeletal leaves


Don’t confuse vulnerability with weakness

Those are the waiting areas

Drowned in the smell of failed metaphysics

The place where the shadows thicken


Monsters are the patron saints of our imperfections 

The wheel keeps turning

Negative and positive

Underworld and wide open sky

What is the reality of my feelings?

I sleep with bone fragments under my pillow

Searching for the Mist Gates and the liminal borders

A hovering fairyland of soft dreams

How desolate everything is

Your thoughts shift in the hazy light

You must contain the darkness

Absorb it, accept it, and move on

Miles Coombe (he/him) is a queer multidisciplinary artist living in London. He is fascinated by the idea of modern fairy-tales. He often combines the words that he writes with the artworks that he makes. His writings are based on youth / obsession / loss / nostalgia / memory / dreams / mental health / folklore and apocalyptic landscapes. Find him at; and


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