Two poems from L Joyce's Atmospheres Workshop

I wanted to share some new work I created recently. Its rough and unedited, but its what I can manage right now, but they are proof that I am a living-thinking person still. These poems are a product of the ritual work done with brilliant writer and friend, L Joyce, author of Luminol Theory (Punctum Books, 2017) and The Museum of Atheism (Calamari Press, 2024). They are hosting a virtual weekly drop-in writing workshop called Atmospheres. From their website

Atmospheres makes writing feel like a ceremony, a celebration, and a feast. Together, we will drink psychedelic potions – distilled from zodiacal atmospheres. We will create writing as singular, rich, and indelible as fairy tales. 

What will happen during the live rituals?

I will attune us to the seasonal shifts, give tiny practice notes, and offer accountability, guidance and creative sparks. I will send you down rabbit holes to help you to generate new material, and to rewild, revise, and transform work in progress. 

I will hold space for us to be present, soft, and safe. To slow down and be curious together. What happens between sessions might just alter the course of your project. 

Atmospheres is an ongoing project that follows the seasons. You can join on a monthly basis, and leave or rejoin at any time. The cost is £50 per month. If the cost is a barrier, you are welcome to join us for free, as a gift. You will have exactly the same access as the paid subscription. 

LJ's rituals are helping me access my subconscious/process the week, as well as provide some lovely structured writing time with good folks. (You may recognize some mutated quotes from a few different poets). I highly encourage you to check out all of LJ's creations at Ceremony.

Sagittarius I

today, November 30, 2025:

the sky tears open.

a small cave

a rabbit skull, masticated by beetles, devoured by fungus

gross rain.

fungus is nearly animal, almost

people. the gross funk of

musk – not decay, but distinctly fecal,

near ambulatory in its insistence to grow

in a house where i live and watch TV about

cake.

my mother is dying. it is a

backwards spring.

i want to unapple november

like a mushroom. merricat the

sugar bowl, kill snakes.

the shower drain is thick with my own muck,

hair, skin, the fat of soap.

on my window sill is iron against fairies, sugar and

a can of "cut mushrooms, stems and pieces," left from thanksgiving.

it feels the same as the hole in the sky.

open, a circular vacuum

a lance of glory into

what? more glory? the mouth of

the shower drain, clogged thick with

depleted witch cake –

today: phone calls for medical record transfer,

dishes, wet laundry, then

the rent sky.

Sagittarius II

my mother drinks anti-freeze
and spits it out. green sheen of
reformulated goo, no
longer syrupy,
easy to hide in a coke or
sweet tea. she
burps it up like
a baby, cries like one too.
with sick down her chin,
down the front of her shirt.

there are no obscene tulips
for the linens soaking in the bath.
laundry, bedding.
a hospital not
charlie bucket's mother,
no explosions, no
green beads from the moon.
yet borax, then washing
soda, hot water.

there is no
rewilding here in the
hot water. this is
the DMZ, this is
the deformation zone
right after the blast, the pines
go red then
powder white. the water will
soon turn grey, then brown.
the ferns will not grow
on clean tile.