David Ralph Lewis

The heat finally broke with rolling thunderstorms at the end of the month.

Whenever you watch a video on YouTube now, you will likely get an advert for a scammy product.

It remains too hot.

knows she is dying as colour drains from her sty - rusted bolts bleed ruby, grass and feed shudder like memory - as if this present moment has already evaporated.

June was too hot.

April was a strange month.

Stacey Solomon gestures in a theatrical manner at a pile of notebooks.

With March being so busy, I missed the anniversary of this website and blog.

Spring is here, finally.

February is a transition month, where we leave behind the long winter and the days start to get longer.

Neurons reduced to raw copper wires lie in a river bed network, now cracked next to hedgerows picked skeletal.

Some daft bastard decided to chew on the poison, another threw debris and loam over the mounds, so now here he is, daylight starved, guarding full cases of this barbarian root, each box holding petioles in rows like pink pencils.

I follow a lot of blogs by RSS and enjoy reading other people's week notes on their lives and the things they've read.

2025 was a difficult year in many respects.

Elm trunk picked out in mustard.

The blog has taken a slight pause because I moved house.

Erasure poem taken from Crack Magazine

LLMs and generative AI may be easy, but the hard stuff is the point because the friction of art is where the magic is.

Violent patches, forgotten space where green is crushed, where green shudders to mud, where green becomes tarmac for fear of possible roots for fear of small rebellions of cracks and fear of life bursting uncontrolled spiralling towards the distant sky.

Erasure poem taken from The New Yorker Huw Lemmy said in best in my opinion: ...

Recently, I've been enjoying making zines.

becoming more than simple root by breathing in sweet loam rolling a body into a pebble churning under the surface while dreaming deep in fever of the power to divide endlessly, divide endlessly while never blinking while above in the wor…

I've been the forest groaning as the winds pick up, a lizard panicking from rock to cool rock as drops fall like meteors onto the cracked earth.

One IKEA bag full of ill judged clothes - baggy shirts, faded bootcut jeans.

I've added a slug to the bottom of my website, saying 'Handmade without AI.'

Erasure poem taken from Crack Magazine

Warped by the pressure of so many centuries, barnacled statues crawl out of the surf to converge on me, alone on this winter shore.

I was speaking with a friend about exercise.

Once stream, now angry river consumes this plot, leaving saturated ground squelching.

Erasure poem taken from The New York Times

Another oil spill smile, another distrusted now forgotten coastline, another melody sung from one server to another, another ice cap turned legend, another eyeball turned to glass.

I set myself a secret goal over the last three months - to make at least three videos out of my poems.

Wind whispers insults down the chimney - all your failures as a husband, friend, human You pull on Gore-Tex.

Instead of setting new year's resolutions, I'm a big fan of setting a theme for the year.

Towards the end of last year, Kier Starmer attacked civil servants, saying they were 'comfortable in the tepid bath of managed decline.'

One advantage of living in the countryside is commuting into the office.

It's been a good year for books.

In this Christmas film, Tiny Tim is wrapped in yellowed sheets, fever embracing him tight.

This is my five hundredth post on this website.

All these whirring, vibrant blurs, this rare and joyous music, the sensation of breeze over bare skin as I twirl in the summer sun dizzy, exhilarated, smiling- All of that was a fantasy.

I have stumbled into the season of crows.

CW: Death, grief and politics Earlier this year, I attended the funeral of a friend who died too young of cancer.

Erasure poem taken from Crack magazine

those placeholders for unspoken sorrow, please send instead the first sunny morning in spring when mist evaporates like breath as buildings and smiles are preserved in amber.

I hadn't been to a poetry event in a little while, so when I saw Milk Poetry were doing a special horror themed slam I signed up immediately.

Around July of this year, my site threw a strange error while deploying.

A few years ago, I stumbled on an article about the idea of panpsychicism where consciousness is a part of everything.

vast vague humanoid machines plunge deep into gloom and glide; each elbow engine oil encased; each articulated camera swivelling, scanning sea beds for patterns.

if they drag you from your car aim blows at your skull try to burn down your hotel you do not have to concede they have a point or think their anger is legitimate or interview their leader for balance or ask what about the other side or say you don't agree

Dark of course, but dancing shades that lap and swirl and churn and roil.