Pale horse approaches “Ride on” Death departs Pulmonic Revival Wake again Green grown Concrete yields A breath Withheld Two years New now What was What be Disparate spheres Twisted inside
Swamp thing, land squid, herald of the hard rubbish, piss pourer or piss poor poet? No. It was rat boy all along. Flynn Howard can be found pouring cocktails most nights or scavenging in the skip outside your house. If you see him and ask nicely, he may make you a Negroni (or lychee martini; he doesn’t judge) in exchange for that broken lamp you’ve been meaning to get rid of for years. Don’t ask what it’s for. Flynn is committed to experimentation in linguistics, sound poetry, and history; primarily focusing on the sonic and the strange. Much of his work is themed around impressions of work, nature, death, and the spiritual, elementalised in mundane life.