VJ Harvey’s Brain Sounds

‘I write passionately in high emotional states. I love when writing allows me to channel, I would love for my words to relay spirit, for the process of writing to open me to becoming a conduit of the divine into the physical. That is my definition of artistic practice. Writing these three poems was a challenge, as it required me to work in a lower emotion state than I usually do, soften and slow my mind. In doing so I deepen my relationship with myself, and it was a wholly fulfilling experience.’ – Dominica Finch



Phone fell in the toilet (pissed on it) (public toilet) walking in the park (cool breeze) warm coffee (diuretic)  new meds (pea bladder) brisk walking (arms swinging) phone in my pocket (skinny jeans) women’s pockets (no depth) walking to the toilet (walking with purpose) inconspicuous (deep breaths) unbuttoning jeans (crushing bladder) descending (over the toilet) phone (in my pocket) jeans discarded phone (not) in my pocket (ahhh) sweet relief (clank) (phone on toilet bowl) pissing (so hard) that was my phone (can’t stop) staring (at my piss phone) and all I feel is relief



The children are in prison cus

big daddy likes to start em young.

They’re watching you back, their time will come.


Welcome home, the young aren’t free.

Our daddy keeps the peace;   rapists play in the street while

the children are in prison.


Schools out cus they’ll just go back in.

Small bodies big house            boundless plains to share.

They’re watching you back, their time will come.


Nation built on incarceration.  He protects our

great land         good scam; rebrand     kids to inmates… bodies to cram.

Your children are in prison now but

they’re watching you back     their time         will      come.



My first goddess.

Silver spirit of the forest, thundering strength of femininity.

She was the divine, the faith was the self.

Sacred embodiment, quiet but unafraid.

On her back I flew.


Time endures, silver fades to white, and I grieve.


Devotion to her required me to honour myself.

I fear that I am grieving a loss of faith.


I have met the love of a goddess but I have met the hate of man.

In my self I find disquiet and fear.


She taught me not to fear rest, to fall back into our mother.

I practice dying.

I lie down on the green grass and it covers me, bones resting in the soil, roots spreading through my flesh, easing apart tense muscles, opening me to complete, orgasmic surrender.


I remember the redemption she once gave me – we galloped through the rich boy school, tearing up the green grass of institutionalised misogyny, little me sticking it to the little men.


I dream of a bible in a placenta.


In love there is deliverance from evil.

My faith is my self.