New Transmission

After breakfast—burnt toast, Weetabix dust—

the neighbours waved like they'd just lost trust,

as if we were off to Narnia's gate,

not a van with a mattress and a heavy fate.

Me, wedged in the back of a Luton van,

on foam that smelled like piss and pan—

Fairy Liquid, maybe gin,

Dog wheezing, sisters pale as sin.

Brother nodded like this was fine,

like gasping for air was by design.

"Leave a gap!" I begged, half choked.

Mams new fella looped the rope, the shutter cloaked.

Two hours in:

Brother puked down his chin,

Dog hacking up like Dot Cottons twin,

and me—head pounding, lungs unsure—

sniffed the air: sweet, thick, impure.

Not exhaust fumes—no, something grander.

Perfume.

Blue smoke curled like a dancer,

and out she came, divine and mean—

Patsy Stone, the deathbed queen.

Cigarette in claw, champagne in hand,

she perched like royalty on mattress land.

"Sweetie," she rasped, with gin-soaked grace,

"What a fabulous way to leave this place."

"Gassed in polyester, child in distress—

its tragic, darling, but chic nonetheless."

I tried to speak, but the fumes got there first,

burning my lungs in Chanel bursts.

Brother wailed like a synth gone wrong,

Dog coughed glitter, weak but strong.

Patsy exhaled, a halo of smoke,

and purred, "Don't fight it, love—its no joke."

"Better than marriage, better than Mondays,

better than Skelmersdale's greys and Sundays."

I laughed—what else could I do?

Death had turned up in shoulder pads, too.

So I lay back, clutching springs and fate,

thinking: if this is it, its looking great.

If were checking out in this smoky fuss—

as least were doing it

Absolutely Fabulous!

What if the things that once saved you—cartoons, pop songs, rebellion—couldn’t anymore? What if you had to find a new language to survive?

I stopped drinking

and the world did not become kinder.

It became exact.

Lights were still loud.

People still lied casually.

Time still demanded things

it had not earned.

What changed

was my willingness

to blur.

I do not soften truths

to keep rooms comfortable.

I do not translate myself

until meaning is lost.

I do not stay

once I see the shape of the exit.

Sobriety gave me edges.

Autism gave them names.

Solitude taught me

not to apologize for either.

I am not lonely.

I am unmasked.

That costs people

who needed me easier.

It saves me

every day.

The Cartoon Didn’t Save Me is a gathering of poems that honour the selves I have been while reaching toward possibility.
When I’m not writing, I’m listening — to intuition, to pattern, to what flickers at the edge of knowing.
I trust that poetry can hold what life cannot always explain.
I write not to be normal, but to be honest. 

For anyone who ever tried to outrun their past—and found themselves instead.