The Imaginal Interval - Poetry, Art, Journeys

How much can a woman weep, (do they wonder?) The first martyr was God, then I followed. The final stages of limerance— liquid grief harvested in the fire. The wound of the world is... a woman. In the horse of your heart I dug my broken ring fingers. I mourn the unworn liquid veil when I married the night, as a child. I mourn not knowing sisterhood, …

The Mourner

6 months ago · 50 likes · 17 comments · Luciana Moroianu

I fell so I could see How angels raise you high For you are poor in spirit So you must be blessed Your soul descended from the spheres A spark forgotten in its vestment Your pact with the young god Is no covenant at all Fix, oh father, your eyes over the mind While your angel dwells in dreaming Capture all that i…

Dweller ש

2 months ago · 23 likes · 2 comments · Luciana Moroianu

Pyramidal soul with ghostly tenderized hands Songs of past lives through hair strands Pray tell, what color is my thought? Count the longing in the eyes 1,2,3... The fixing sky puppeteer Broken sparks as tools Redraw the cartoonish contours better…

The Ray

7 months ago · 18 likes · 5 comments · Luciana Moroianu

I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about it.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 38 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have a few more gifted writers lined up for my next review newsletter.

P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!

You can also claim your FREE book of Poetry and art Hypnos Hermes - an epic poem presented as a medieval manuscript. A fantastical story written in verse enriched by many colourful and vibrant artworks.

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

The Shattering Shimmer

Graeme McAllister — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 23:00:18 GMT

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The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

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The Shattering Shimmer
Heavy clouds, laden, longing,
Tense and silent bells. 
Myths and monsters thronging  
At the gated citadel. 

Summer eyes youthful, idle 
Pull on phantom fragments. 
A worldly life that stumbles 
Along imaginary battlements. 

Days of sky, soft spirals
Blue dreams, wispy reason. 
Grey clouds, constraint, denial
A brooding heart plots treason.

Clouds crack, wet throes. 
Passion weight of water. 
Throwing ghosts and heroes 
From their heavened shelter. 

Wet pins strike my skin 
Pinch, sting and tingle.
Pricking pores, sinking in, 
Blood within me rumbles. 

I ache for my escapist home. 
I run, I hide, then falter 
Underneath the stinging dome, 
Passion's burning waters.

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If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/photographic-print/The-Shattering-Shimmer-by-Graeme-McA/182930233/zltf?asc=u

Happy Tomes Tuesday
Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

Subscribe to Claim your FREE book of Poetry and art Hypnos Hermes - an epic poem presented as a medieval manuscript. A fantastical story written in verse enriched by many colourful and vibrant artworks. Subscribing also gives you the chance to have YOUR WORK featured in my “McAllister’s Mates” review section.

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

Judgement, the lie of society.

McAllister's Mates Thirty Eight

Graeme McAllister — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 19:31:09 GMT

Hi all

Another McAllister’s Mates where I tell you about one of the many great writers on Substack that I have stumbled upon and become enthralled by. I’ve featured before… but here’s the thing - I’ve been lying. Oh I gave the usual story about following a link to another link and stumbling upon his profile, but the truth of our first meeting is much darker and stranger than that, perhaps now dear reader you are ready for that truth…

The carnival was in full swing, jubilant cries mingling with wails of “My money! My money!”, the rich scents of candy and cheap liquor interspersed with the reek of stale vomit. A perfect drama of choice and consequence, cause and effect. The huge silver and diamanté sign above the entryway read JOY. A slight notch in the O created the impression of an Ouroboros-the serpent eating its own tail, a symbol of power and passivity in eternal conflict and, conversely, balance. An irony no doubt lost on most of the revellers present, but highly relevant to my business there.

A small hut lay just outside the bustle of the main attractions, the silence cold yet soothing after the sensory assault of the carnival. A dim neon sign read DEALER READS. As I approached, most of the letters blew out in a blaze of electric sparks, leaving only a few still lit. The sign now read DREAD-hardly reassuring. I entered the hut, where a simple wooden table flanked by two hard little upright chairs took up the centre of the room. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with much more exotic fare-cybernetic limbs, impossibly complex circuit boards, and specimen jars with still-functioning organs floating in glowing, effervescent liquid: beating hearts, rising and falling lungs, and dilating eyeballs. The immediate impression was of a cutting-edge laboratory with tech hidden from the general public, yet the layers of dust and grime coating the artefacts could only have been built up over many long decades. It was said The Dealer lived outside conventional space and time.

I sat down on the small chair nearest the entrance. A small, previously unnoticed sculpture on the table caught my eye-a beautiful model of a silver angel, severely cut and angled in a cubist style, tapering to a point. At first glance, it resembled a small silver dagger. Instinctively, I reached out to touch it. I pulled my hand back in pain, blood blossoming from my fingertips-the figure was indeed razor sharp!

Maniacal laughter rose from the back of the room: “Angels, angels-dance and play, joke and laugh, CUT AND BURN! I know angels, boy.” The Dealer stood before me; if the artefacts hinted this being moved outside of time, then his appearance proved it beyond doubt. His costume shimmered in the room’s dim light, the materials flowing and morphing before my eyes. A plum linen tunic melted into a neon plastic shirt, a silver torc bracelet collapsed and reformed as an advanced medical monitor, and a gypsy earring crumbled to rebuild itself as a communications headset. His face was no less fascinating and bizarre-the blue eyes sparkling with ferocious intelligence and good humour while staring with an almost threatening intensity. His beard flickered between a thick golden bush and a few dots of electric particles hovering over his top lip. He settled into the other chair and rifled through a deck of strange, translucent blue-backed cards, each stamped with an angel motif just like the angel figurine my hand was still bleeding from contact with. The cards seemed more like electrical holograms than physical objects.

Every fibre of my being screamed a warning, yet I found myself unable to move. The hissing of the sliding cards rose to the roar of a storm-tossed ocean; a million voices mingled in the din-declarations of love, oaths of vengeance, and the sound of a thousand warriors roaring into battle. The voices blended to pronounce a single strange word: “Bellageist”. The blur of the moving cards became an all-consuming void, filled with planets where cities stretched and grew before my eyes, only to burn in the blazing fires of war. The vision faded and I was back in the room. The Dealer tossed a single card before me and turned it face up.

The Card of Judgement, the lie of society. “Look at it.” My head drooped of its own accord; I screwed my eyes shut, but invisible fingers plied them open. My vision swam again-a celebration, parades, banners, fear, betrayal, and a sickening chemical smell. The blurred vision unfolded into a singular story of the sweeping grandeur of Orwellian government complexes and the sheer visceral desperation of Dickens’ Victorian alleyways-Emancipation Day.

The Dealer’s small hut drifted back into vision. “Sharp, no?” he asked through a shark’s grin. Shaking and sweating, I tried to stand up but found I couldn’t rise from the chair. He threw down another card-The Magician, the lie of the ego. I rolled my head back. “LOOK!” His eyes blazed, his beard now a tangle of white-hot barbed wire. Again, the room blurred out of existence. Arrogance, regret, a prophecy, betrayal, the cold hands of a scientist, the hot muzzles of a thousand guns. The blurred vision unfolded into a singular story of a lost soul sacrificing his humanity on the whim of a quantum oracle. The folly and arrogance of imagined destiny, and the deadly compromises made to morality in the face of self-importance-By Angels Born.

The Magician, the lie of the ego

The Dealer waved the final card’s blue and silver angel motif in front of my eyes, then tossed it into the air; it landed face up. The Two of Blades, the lie of the self. A look of incredulity crossed his face. “That is a card even I fear to read.” I dropped my gaze deep into the card, too exhausted to resist. All the lives in all the worlds, the nowhere worlds of Sheol and the Bardo made real-a nothingness of everything! The blurred vision unfolded into a singular story. She was strength beyond a planet’s core, but trials and lies, trials and lies-what God, angel, or demon could endure? But somehow, there was love-Chains of a Demigod.

The Two of Blades, the lie of the self

I collapsed out of the chair onto the floor. The Dealer stepped over my body, grinning, and held yet another card-the translucent blue and silver angel perhaps a little paler than the others. “NO!” I screamed. Laughing, he turned it over. It was blank. “That one is yours to fill, boy. What stories shall you run or crawl back to me with? Go!”

I staggered out of the hut into the main carnival. The revellers drew back from me in fear, whispering and hurrying away. Considering that most were inebriated, my lack of coordination could hardly have been the cause of their alarm; clearly, there was something else. A dull itching started between my shoulders, growing to a steady ache, then to unbearable agony. I tore and scratched my skin. I looked at my hands; they were covered in tiny, silver, metallic hairs. No, not hairs-feathers…

Bellageist

Bellageist: Emancipation Day

Set in the wider Bellageist universe, this horror short is a tale of one world’s occupation under the iron-fisted rule of the Ascendant - a new race of posthuman machines…

10 months ago · 23 likes · 11 comments · Derek James Kritzberg

Bellageist

Bellageist: By Angels Born

By Angels BornI know not how the work bears its fruit, bittersweet, I know not whether these means be justifiable, or their ends righteous, I know not what fate has in store for me beyond the damnation of my eternal soul, But should it take ten years, a hundred, or a thousand, I strive to carry out the work, For I have glimpsed the future: immutable, dreadful, and glorious, And mine, Jann Sorenson’s, is the hand that sees it done…

2 years ago · 12 likes · 8 comments · Derek James Kritzberg

Bellageist

Bellageist: Chained Demigod Part 1/15

🚨ATTENTION!🚨…

2 years ago · 34 likes · 23 comments · Derek James Kritzberg

I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about it.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have a few more gifted writers lined up for my next review newsletter.

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

1:4 The Calcified Firmament

Graeme McAllister — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 22:38:20 GMT

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The fourth piece from my in-progress Book "Cerebral Citadel". I suppose it’s something of a next chapter in my ongoing obsession with the imagination as an independent from of experience with its own very real treasures and dangers.

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The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published


4: The Calcified Firmament
I calcify the firmament 
Shattering its story.
Exertion and excitement
Of the solar territory.

Birdsong to coin clatter 
Infinity to indulgence.
Mind under matter
Choked by circumstance.

Ledgers, paper serpents,
Nymphs slip on the coils.
My fingers rip the firmament
Eyes blink, water, boil.

Waking stumbles, limbs waver.
Floating fingers closing in.
My muscles shift like paper
Blown by the distant wind.

Read the previous part here:

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If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/poster/The-Calcified-Firmament-by-Graeme-McA/182568922/flk2?asc=u

Happy Tomes Tuesday
Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

Poetry on Tape: Graeme McAllister

Souls, Love, and AudioTape

Graeme McAllister — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 19:17:08 GMT

bitpunk.fm

Listen now

a month ago · 27 likes · Josh Datko

Once again, we’re in the throes of another AI debate with Substack’s newest bright idea: an AI-powered feature to (often mistakenly) judge authors on whether or not they wrote their own pieces. As I settle down to write a piece about a recent beautiful and uplifting experience on Substack, my eyes are also assaulted by several instant guarantees of 500-plus subscribers for a small course fee… How tempting to be cynical and despairing, but there are humble yet extraordinarily powerful forces for good in the Substack world, too.

is one of those forces, and I’d like to tell you all about the delightful and rejuvenating experience of being featured on his podcast. is a joyful presence—everything he does is brimming with an almost childlike excitement and delight; however, beneath the exuberance is an underlying layer of calm wisdom and deep thought. We’ve been friends and mutual admirers for a while now on Substack, but after this wonderful podcast, I feel truly understood and seen. I also feel that I’ve uncovered a little more of his bright wit, rich kindness, and deep strength of character.

He read selected pieces from my book Chantry Circuitry—one which I admit I had misgivings about. It was written at a time when various external AND internal forces seemed to be working against me on mental and physical levels (at least that’s how it felt at the time). I’d come to view the book as perhaps too obvious, too desperate, and the “call” format as twee.

Josh’s beautiful readings of the poems—rich, slow, and with utter reverence to the forces they invoke—restored my faith in them. His work is more than a simple recital; as a musician, his understanding of rhythm, harmony, and timing brings forth layers of hidden meaning in poetry. I’ve always believed that metered poetry reaches behind the construction of its words into subtle realms of pure sound and emotion. Through Josh’s unique and masterful voice, the Call To Passion rumbles like magma preparing to burst forth into the world, while the Call To Silence sharpens every syllable like delicate but infinitely strong trapeze wires. I must be clear, though: while I admit to a certain pride in finding those words, it is Josh’s wonderful delivery that has unlocked their greater potential. Much like Frank Herbert’s “power of the voice,” two people can say the words, but one finds THE vibration—and this is where excels.

As we wandered into the realm of vibrations and the esoteric, took the thought and care to relate these poems back to his Quaker faith; he wove the thread of the calls into a tapestry of faith and connection. His story of the beautiful ceremonies of silent intergenerational meditations not only grounded some of my airy-fairy ideas—it also amplified them greatly beyond my original sketched-out concept. Regardless of anyone’s particular religious beliefs, we all share the need for connection and something bigger than ourselves—whether you frame that as Hecate, The Christ, or Quantum Theory… We are all part of that something bigger. When we reach out, someone or something will reach back. Josh is living proof of this; I’m far from the only writer to feel his generosity of spirit and mammoth commitment to supporting artists.

Perhaps the greatest revelation in the podcast was Josh’s own experience with PTSD—a hugely important and courageous subject to address. For something of that import to be discussed alongside my work is uplifting, humbling, and carries a weight of responsibility. Again, Josh’s speaking is rich with that sense of deep, solemn joy. It’s been a few months since I completed Chantry Circuitry, and while I felt a sense of satisfaction with the work and shifted my perspective on language, spirit, and the power of mantras, it is only now that I feel the work has come full circle and I consciously understand what I was aiming to do. Even I needed Josh’s excellent interpretation skills.

There is an abundance of love here: call it a community, a movement, maybe a society. It’s tangible and real. My own review section, McAllister’s Mates, is really only me getting caught up in a glorious flood. In the midst of a tribute that was already moving me to the point of tears, found time to honor my little review section as well. Even when it seems like the system behind the platform is working to divide, the people come out stronger!

I moan and groan about Substack—the silly notes that seem to get insane hits, the clunky interface, the layout that makes it impossible to read fiction (a moan I’ll reserve for later, as it’s just not fair to my fiction author friends)—but this whole experience has been purely delightful. My deepest gratitude goes to , as well as to the listeners for their kind comments during the podcast. Love to you all.

Best wishes and my dear friend THANK YOU

Graeme

bitpunk.fm

Poetry on Tape: Graeme McAllister

Listen now

a month ago · 27 likes · Josh Datko

Conscious Coils

Graeme McAllister — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 07:05:31 GMT

The second piece of my new Triptych collection. I think that Substack can push writers into a grind of publish, publish , publish - always on to the next thing. Now I’m all for discipline and accountability, and creators must always evolve and develop their work. However this creates the problem of a portfolio being treated as pieces rather than a whole, and our older works are forgotten. With this series I am taking three of my older pieces and reweaving them into a singular train of thought.

The Embattled Self

Since the relatively recent work of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, we've finally discovered (or perhaps rediscovered) - our multi-layered and multi-faceted selves. While I'm grateful to be living in an age that at least acknowledges something much greater than the moment to moment conscious monologue that holds most of our daily attention, our framing of the deeper, greater mind leaves much to be desired. One particular irk of mine is the term “subconscious”. I've no doubt the term originated with the appropriately grand and romantic “subterranean”, the great marble caves with lakes of ice and magma beneath our feet. A place where great stone stalactites and stalagmites form endless halls with long flowing shadows. Subconscious, however, soon became chained to words like subpar, suboptimal, substitute. A lesser thing to be tamed, corrected, and brought to heel with the chattering of the momentary consciousness. And when our deeper minds contradict those momentary (often transitory) wants then the self becomes a battleground, as we treat our thoughts as undesirables to be exiled from the world within.

Sharp edges, bloated joints,
My psyche’s odd organisms
Prowl dreams and memories,
Needling their blurred divisions.

So much flotsam in my soul
Nimbly stitched by spiders.
Tapestries of foreign thought
That confound the thinker.

(From Soul’s Flotsam - taken from my book: Hypnos Hermes)

Meeting Mind

What happens when we humble our immediate, chattering mind and honour our greater being? Those frightening internal snakes and spiders become a cast of wise (if flamboyant or imposing) counsellors. The stormy vistas that haunt our nightly (or maybe importantly daytime) dreams become a landscape to navigate with buried treasures or secret tomes. Of course not all of these competing elements are correct all of the time, but if we take our time and listen without prejudice we can pan those streams of consciousness for gleams of golden understanding. We lose no sovereignty of ourselves when we accept our wandering thoughts as advisors to be respected, rather than rebels to be subjugated. As we listen, ponder and carefully select from the coloured swirls of our thoughts - the riotous kaleidoscope becomes a single crystal lens.

Looping, twisting ribbon,
Elusive Möbius slide.
I rose and slid unbidden,
Consciousness must ride.

Logos on the concrete,
Logic within the dream.
Steadfast and the secret
Dance between the seams.

(From Call To The Spiral - taken from my book: Chantry Circuitry)

Soul Oasis

The ease and grace of a state of singular, unified being is a paradise, a lush oasis. Yet just like the oasis it is a place to be visited, enjoyed and departed from. The wild desert lands call again with their buried temples and whispering sand dunes.Many thinkers such as Nietzsche and Maslow speak of self unification or integration of aspects as a singular goal. And yes - this is a worthy endeavour to pursue, but this is not a linear journey. As we explore our contradictory natures and weave their strands of fire into silken guiding ropes, already they buckle and diverge. The external world is a maelstrom of conflicting forces and energies and a beautiful summer’s day is but a moment. Why should our internal worlds be any different? As we muster the horses of our ambitions and longings - they speed towards our outcomes, but the horses grow bored and restless and pull towards exotic scents and strange sights. Innocence is a state rediscovered as we smooth the jagged edges of our fractured experience, but just as the child we become restless to explore the world and throw ourselves in a thousand directions at once. For innocence and integration, experience and contradiction are not fixed points on a journey but curves on an eternal spiral.

Pulling lines, petty desire,
Tangled trails fail, surrender.
Blazing pearl, softest fire,
An oddment path to order.

Silken spiral, climbing coil,
Jagged gemstone brilliance.
Blazing pavement, burning foil
Climbing back to innocence.

(From Silken Spiral - taken from my book: Chaos Charms)

I greatly enjoyed this exercise and its been interesting to see how I’m attracted to the same themes again and again yet with different perspectives, and how they can weave together into a singular panoramic view. I fully intend to keep going with these, and I implore other writers to find their own ways of re-presenting their older pieces, nothing is obsolete on life’s unfolding journey.

Happy Tomes Tuesday
Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

McAllister's Mates Thirty Seven

Graeme McAllister — Wed, 15 Jul 2026 15:42:36 GMT

Hi all

This week a creator profile of the fascinating Science Fiction and Fantasy author .

These reviews are part of Reviewstack run by the great writer and pillar of the Substack Community :

McAllister’s Mates - An ongoing series of reviews of some of the wonderful articles, poems, and stories I’ve discovered on Substack (and other places) and more importantly the beautiful souls behind the works.

P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!

Please take a few moments to read the works of these authors, artists, and creators and if you find their work as life-affirming and life changing as I do, then please let them know. We need to support and cherish these voices.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

a year ago · 13 likes · 6 comments · James Kenwood

I’m starting the new format McAllister’s mates with James Kenwood, a fascinating science fiction/fantasy author and a good friend. The best place to start is with the science fiction/fantasy moniker. It’s a modern habit to fuse these genres together but their definitions are important and run much deeper than their inherent tropes and symbols (lasers, spacecraft, dragons and wizards). Ursula LeGuin defined science fiction as stories of the imagination made real - i.e. the dreams of intergalactic or time travel realised for better or worse, and fantasy as stories that use fantastical creatures and locations as internal explorations of the psyche. The dragon as symbol of fear and the unknown, the wizard as symbol of solitude and esoteric knowledge. From this perspective James’ work forms a bridge between the visions of science and the creatures haunting our souls. He is primarily a futurologist, envisioning the dawning horizons of intergalactic travel and sentient, oracle-like computer systems. However, his stories also delve into the spiritual and archetypal worlds. As his characters visit extraordinary worlds and construct technological marvels, they meet, even make the Godforms and primordial terrors that eternally haunt our souls.

My first encounter with James’ work was one of his Egyptian themed sci-fi short stories Worthy. The work is thrilling, visually wild and uses the beautiful and daunting imagery of ancient Egypt to magnificent effect. As I was reading, I found myself reflecting on the enduring appeal of Ancient Egypt’s aesthetics and mythos. Those stories and images continue to whisper to us. Do they hold a physical truth that we’ll discover somewhere in the cosmos or (perhaps more inspiring and terrifying) are they so ingrained into our psyches that we are driven to make those Gods and monsters real? James engages deeply with this idea and its many fascinating implications over a vast body of work. These spiritual entities are presented as both a guiding, maybe domineering force, and also as distant echoes or Ancestral memories of physical beings waiting somewhere out there. These dynamics confront the stories’ characters, and we the readers with vital but uncomfortable questions. We see astronauts and scientists wilfully pushing into the great unknown only to be confronted by their disastrous lack of wisdom. James renders his fantastical beings with terrifying power and wonderful beauty, and yes these encounters give us thrilling setpieces and moments of horror and dread. However, the writing always ponders the deeper questions raised by these forces. As we race towards a future of technological marvels we are utterly failing to integrate the wisdom of the past. We dismiss crass superstitions or perhaps pay lip service to their aesthetics, but we fail to integrate their esoteric lessons. Danger stalks every sentence of James’ work. The chief danger is not so much the technology slipping out of our control, or the advanced races we might offend, it is our failure to mine our own psyches for the temperance and vision to rise to our extraordinary new worlds.

Grim Acres

Worthy

James may be engaging with metaphysics, futurology, and spirituality but his is a world of raw human experience. Many of his stories take place in the military sphere, of course military orders with their complex ranking systems, oaths, and symbolism dovetail elegantly with the mythological elements of his stories. However, while he certainly brings his mastery of evocative imagery and spectacle to battle scenes and tense command conferences, there is another deeper investigation taking place. The duality of military honour, love, courage and brotherhood contrasted with contempt for the “enemy”, obedience eclipsing morality, and the disposability of soldiers is woven through Impact Nominal. In one story a beleaguered almost fatherly commander wrestles with the prospect of informing his charges of the loss of their family in an attack several weeks ago. Meanwhile said charges revel in the havoc of a killing spree on the planet below. This shows the sort of layered, twisting moral dilemmas that weave through James’ work. Are the monsters really monsters when they’ve been hurt and deceived? Is the commander himself a brave man fighting to reach his natural empathy and affection though a labyrinth of cold, hard discipline and training, or a coward hiding behind duty to escape from painful confrontations? This is a refreshing approach in the world of science fiction where military characters and paraphernalia are used to add superficial flair or to mechanically progress action scenes. James has clearly thought deeply about the daily realities of military life, the politics and machinations of the institution, and how these forces can shape the human soul. The veterans of his stories are by turns petty and heroic, vengeful and compassionate. Always fascinating, never shallow in the face of complex events that raise uncomfortable questions about how we might react in extraordinary circumstances with our own internal contradictions.

As a reader I have a tendency to project my own philosophical dilemmas and imaginings onto books (and I contend that a good book should enable that sort of introspection). That said I feel that James is exploring even more than the themes of societal and military order or the eternal, gravitational pull of the archetypes. We are heading towards a world we can scarcely imagine with a reinvigorated interest in space exploration, rapid advances in information technology and our own planet’s dramatically shifting ecosphere. There is no denying that our current institutions have brought us to this point (for better or worse, and certainly with much staggering and disasters). But how will our social and spiritual frameworks serve or sabotage us in these new eras? These stories are much more than sci-fi yarns, they explore the traditional themes of alien worlds and incredible technology but with a focus on how the castles and temples of the human soul will weather the storm. Our traditions, beliefs, and fantasies can be both a ladder to escape our most base tendencies, or a cage pinning our empathy and higher selves. This is speculative science fiction that goes beyond the questions of how advanced will technology become or when will we meet other intelligent species. James’ work paints a myriad of flawed and beautiful characters thrust into fantastical scenarios and asks how will our guiding and constraining institutions fare in the face of the unimaginable? What will we do when the legends we cling to are proven irrefutably false, or maybe more frightening, inescapably real?

Grim Acres

Worthy

a year ago · 13 likes · 6 comments · James Kenwood

I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about them.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have a few more gifted writers lined up for my next review newsletter.

P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!
You can also claim your FREE book of Poetry and art Hypnos Hermes - an epic poem presented as a medieval manuscript. A fantastical story written in verse enriched by many colourful and vibrant artworks.

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/photographic-print/Soul-s-Flotsam-by-Graeme-McA/182146080/zltf

Soul's Flotsam

Graeme McAllister — Sat, 11 Jul 2026 14:04:44 GMT

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From the Hypnos Hermes Collection

The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Soul's Flotsam
The easing darkness pierced,
Strange sounds, odd eyes.
Invert and mock the comfort
Of warm stars in winter skies.

Sharp edges, bloated joints,
My psyche's odd organisms
Prowl dreams and memories,
Needling their blurred divisions.

So much flotsam in my soul
Nimbly stitched by spiders.
Tapestries of foreign thought
That confound the thinker.

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

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PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

The Moon’s Vermilion Blooms

Graeme McAllister — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 06:34:04 GMT

Something new for this week’s Tomes Tuesday. I think that Substack can push writers into a grind of publish, publish , publish - always on to the next thing. Now I’m all for discipline and accountability, and creators must always evolve and develop their work. However this creates the problem of a portfolio being treated as pieces rather than a whole, and our older works forgotten. With this series I am taking three of my older pieces and reweaving them into a singular train of thought.

Twilight Discipline

Taking a moment to stop and truly witness sunset giving way to nightfall can be a powerful experience. The beauty of the sun’s most powerful moment is undeniable, the sky turning scarlet: the colour of blood, discipline, and warning. Yet even as the sun triumphantly casts off its rival calming blues, dark streaks and “black tendrils” cross the sky with promises or threats of mystery and solitude, eating the colour and certainty of the daylit world. In modern life especially, it seems we are trapped in an eternal twilight, with pervasive technology, media and control systems that cast their burning glare upon every facet of our public and private actions, and yet we can almost taste an imminent collapse of those systems into a dark void. The coming night offers terror and excitement. The hours of sleep and dreaming or dancing or romance. The sun’s “chaperone eye closing” as reliable and perhaps confining structures and routines dissolve into a void.

Gleaming sun, an egg’s interior.
A safety craving the collapse.
Black tendrils touch vermilion
In thievery’s closing grasp.

Solar circle sinking, crumbling.
A chaperone’s eye closing,
Revealing seductive spaces
In the day’s slow ruin.

(From Solar Circles - taken from my book: Hypnos Hermes)

The Void’s Charm

Early night snuffs the sun’s last fire. The world becomes molasses, a shifting quagmire of shadows and dim shapes, menacing and yet carrying a sweet excitement for those who lean into its doubts and strange whisperings. Form is lost, or perhaps discarded and mind unrolls its empire.Possibility is freed from the shackles of probability and we are charmed or haunted with the visions of childhood. We project meaning and motive on the shifting shadows around us. There is much to learn in this moment of meditation as self becomes all and we confront our dreams and fears in their most powerful and raw form. While these nightly visions may never fully manifest in daily reality, they certainly have a power over how we navigate the daily world. As we stare down and reconcile with these sinister yet wise spectres, the moon’s tip climbs a distant hill and the world shifts again.

Eyes absorb the ceaseless shapes
That slip, that spill in oily pools.
Patterned waters pile their waves,
Ceaseless shapes that burst, that bloom.

Signals run the coiling corridors
To stroke, to steer the reaching threads.
Tapestries of crawling colours
Stretch across the granite bends.

(From Vision Tunnel - taken from my book: Filigree and Fire)

Lunar Perception

With the rising moon the world becomes an oasis of malleable opportunities. Neither day’s rigid unyielding forms, nor the opening night’s abstract stage. The light subtly changes and the aspects of the room can once again be perceived, however, the shadows lie oddly, the colours are muted and flowing. We’re back in the world but we can play with the soft edges, fill the gaps with our imagination. The painting on the wall lies dim, yes we see an ocean but the central shape is out of focus with unclear boundaries. A distant island? Approaching ship? Or a watchful leviathan? This moonlit world has the day’s supporting order, but here it cradles rather than confines. The void’s exciting yet threatening possibilities are tempered by that order. The dream world can brush and shade the physical without usurping it, or stealing it away from us. If we can escape the most pernicious forces ordering our lives, and face our inner worlds without losing ourselves then perhaps life itself can become a moonlight garden, anchored in the physical yet flowing in the breeze of our perceptions.

My ancient burdened legends
Revealed in Mist and vapour.
Binding histories rearranged
Ink melts upon the paper.

Billowing, beguiling moon,
Shimmer through all I’ve seen.
As you shine, as you swoon,
I reshape all that I have been.

(From Call To The Moon - taken from my book: Chantry Circuitry)

Happy Tomes Tuesday
Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

Redefining the Path

Graeme McAllister — Mon, 06 Jul 2026 19:41:40 GMT

Distraction and Direction

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been a little missing in action for the past few weeks. While this has mostly been down to wading through “real world” distractions and issues, I’ve also been rethinking my approach to this publication and my writing in general.

So, here I am, jotting down my thoughts and forming a plan. While this is primarily an exercise in reshaping my own path, I hope it is of interest to you. I want to summarize the three main pillars of my work, and more importantly, redirect and redefine them.

1. McAllister’s Mates

McAllister’s Mates was and is the cornerstone of my Substack world. What started as a small review section on my poetry blog has blossomed—perhaps even evolved. It has helped me recognize and understand high-quality writing. More importantly, though, it has sharpened my own philosophical and spiritual lens as I dig into others’ works, finding hidden aspects of the self there, while forging real friendships with incredible authors and artists.

Until now, the format has been weekly round-ups of two to three stories I enjoyed, accompanied by my thoughts on each one. I believe this has value, and I’ve received some incredibly generous and positive feedback. However, the best issues of these reviews are always the ones where I return to a second or third piece by a previously reviewed author.

Why? Because you have to truly dig into a good author’s work to understand the psychological questions they are grappling with. It is entirely possible to enjoy a single story or poem, getting drawn into the plot or the imagery. But when you take the time to experience a writer’s catalogue, you come to know them and their work intimately. You begin to catch the subtleties hovering at the edges of their consciousness.

When I go deep into an author’s work, my reviews become less about smooth cadences or memorable characters (always important, of course). Instead, I find myself writing about how their entire portfolio has shifted my consciousness, challenged my deepest beliefs, or enriched my worldview. These reviews are always more exciting and intimate—the author’s words shifting my own understanding. Two minds meeting, ropes stretching across the ether.

Going forward, I will be doing deep dives into an author’s work rather than reviewing solitary pieces. McAllister’s Mates may become a little less frequent, but it will be significantly deeper. I intend to start these profile-style reviews with two beautiful authors and very dear friends and .

2. Collaborations

Now, I haven’t been spending all my time away from writing up to my eyes in spreadsheets and SQL queries. I’ve actually been working with my literary brother, Derek, on a project we’re both very excited about. As I mentioned, true immersion in another author’s work can open up new horizons; this effect is increased tenfold within an artistic collaboration.

We’ve just finished a joint piece, which is currently unpublished while we investigate release options. What I can tell you is that working within the Bellageist universe has pushed my writing in directions I couldn’t have foreseen a few years ago. While we certainly have a lot in common—especially an interest in conceptual science fiction and metaphysical psychology—we have very different approaches to the craft.

Where I tend to concentrate on symbolism, lyrical cadence, and mood, Derek constructs entire histories: the rise and fall of civilizations, and the consequences of those shifts across millennia. Working with his stories has brought balance and “grounding” to my usual flights of metaphysical fancy.

To be clear, grounding doesn’t mean a loss of esoteric ideas; it means channeling and heightening them through physicality and drama. I’m delighted to say he liked the results, and we’re already planning more work together.

I’m greatly looking forward to sharing this piece with all of you. If there’s an author you admire out there and you’re feeling shy about approaching them for a collaboration—just go for it. Working with an author who has a complementary approach will enhance your writing tenfold. It will strengthen your weak spots, curb your indulgences, and provide immense enjoyment. Go on—send the email.

3. Poetry and Art Books

Of course, I started my journey as a poet and artist, and I am deeply committed to this path. I’ve published four books https://www.graememcallister.com/p/books and I am currently working on two more. However, even in this process, I feel the need to step back, reframe my work, and cast a new light upon it.

As my writing has developed, I have come to understand my own drives and seekings more clearly. Unfolding philosophical and psychological clues across a portfolio of years is an internal process, too. I have come to recognize an ongoing exploration of the imagination—not so much as a game of creating ever more weird and wonderful fantasy places or creatures, but as an alternative method of moving through life’s experiences and being in the world.

My books and poems have been moving through a cycle of imaginative experience: from wonder at the mind’s creations, to meeting the challenges of archetypal gatekeepers, tempering imagination through the will, integrating it into daily life, and finally returning to a state of naive wonderment.

While an email newsletter system is an amazing tool for authors, the cohesive sense of a “body of work” can easily get lost in linear, chronological postings. Individual poems can lose the context of the larger collection, let alone the messages revealed in their connections across my entire portfolio.

To combat this, I plan to create miniature triptychs from my works. I will select poems from different collections that touch on the same themes but from different perspectives—joyful exuberance, mature rationalism, esoteric reverence, and so on. My hope is that weaving previous works into new essays, stories, and contemplations will reveal new meanings to both my readers and myself.

Closing Thoughts

In writing this all down, I now feel somewhat vindicated—and a lot less guilty about my recent lack of activity.

I know that many of you reading this are authors and artists too, and I encourage you to take some time and space to collect yourself and just think about your process. In the current age, we are compelled to always be visible and active. But sometimes, the most powerful action you can take is to just stop for a moment.

I hope you enjoyed reading these thoughts as much as I did recording them. I’m looking forward to sharing this new direction with you, and, of course, continuing to read your work.

Best wishes,

Graeme

1:3 Sun Sinks, River Rolls

Graeme McAllister — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 22:57:43 GMT

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The second piece from my in-progress Book "Cerebral Citadel". I suppose it’s something of a next chapter in my ongoing obsession with the imagination as an independent from of experience with its own very real treasures and dangers.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published


3: Sun Sinks, River Rolls
Sun sinks yet lingers
Dim glowering unsated
Pulling at my fingers.
The grey night, tainted.

Bed whispers comfort,
Bed hisses question.
Limbs collapse, contort
Veil upon my tension.

Pillows flow, rolling river.
Cloud currents, silk splashes. 
Scene twitches, shudders,
The vapour river collapses.

That silk turns to stone,
A jagged diamond edge.
Circle squeezed to one,
The river, now a ledge.

Read the previous part here:

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If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-print/Sun-Sinks-River-Rolls-by-Graeme-McA/181840990/wqnt?asc=u

Happy Tomes Tuesday
Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/photographic-print/Solstice-Surrender-by-Graeme-McA/181681353/zltf

Solstice Surrender

Graeme McAllister — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 15:57:33 GMT

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The Summer Solstice is here and the sun is officially dying 😀
The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

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Solstice Surrender
Light thrown, warmth sown.
A transitory brilliance 
Sol seizes solstice crown
Her chorus circles silence.

Golden net, wide and thick
Strained and thinning fire.
Smooth air, perfumed silk
Taut fabric, tightening wire.

Focused flames waxing full,
Dreams ripple through the rays.
Idle dances in sun blushed dells
Deny approaching colder days.

Sol bursts, shimmer, burn 
One moment of splendour.
At the apex of the turn
Forcing night into a corner.

Sol accepts her slow decline
With practiced poise and grace.
Watching children fritter time
Whom spring shall soon replace.

Till the soil, gather, labour
The luxury of thickest light,
Fleeting in its favour
Holds older debts to night.

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/photographic-print/Sol-s-Escort-by-Graeme-McA/181345556/zltf

Sol Escort

Graeme McAllister — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 19:16:10 GMT

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A short break from my ongoing series "Cerebral Citadel" for this Tomes Tuesday. A greeting to the start of  summer (such as we have in Ireland!)
The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Sol Escort
Breezes balk, rain stills.
Sky clean of dusty clouds.
Sun chases shades from hills
Sets a space for waiting crowds.

Heat stoked, shining lime.
Blooms smoothing petal dress.
Perfection pinnacle sets the time,
Diva wings accept no less.

Sol’s escort in sharp formation
Cerulean chevron, chevron silver,
Flowing faster, arrow ambitions.
Celestial bow empting quiver.

Turn, swerve, glide, dive,
Angled spirals, oddment shapes,
Weave Sol's heraldic device
Joining form her flowing cape.

Swallow tails crown summer,
Signal butterfly shapeshifters
Flowering fields, wilder, warmer.
Honey drones lift and stir.

Whistling flutes sound the fanfare,
Sol's court called to order.
Nesting swallows make their lairs
Basking crowds gaze, adore.

Happy Tomes Tuesday

Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

McAllister's Mates Thirty Six

Graeme McAllister — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 22:23:06 GMT

Hi all

Two very different contemplations on the powerful, and frightening spiritual forces of the natural world one from my old friend and a new one .

These reviews are part of Reviewstack run by the great writer and pillar of the Substack Community :

P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!

Please take a few moments to read the works of these authors, artists, and creators and if you find their work as life-affirming and life changing as I do, then please let them know. We need to support and cherish these voices.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

Between Two Lampposts | Poetry

There is a rich vein of tradition and legend in Celtic history regarding the unknowable sea, one that I would argue rivals that of classical Greek myth. While both are rich in magic, wonder, and heroism, the Irish stories are perhaps a shade darker and more tragic.

The tradition of a menacing, ambivalent presence hiding beneath the waves runs strongly through CJ’s latest poem. If these forces are Gods, then they are vastly different creatures from the decadent, philandering, jovial spirits of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hermes. Where the Greek gods demand worship and strike against sleights to their vanity, CJ’s celtic spirits are contemptuous and resentful of mortal usurpers.

Ragged, visceral imagery of listening stones shift into the raw and battered ears of our ancestors, or perhaps the true “inner ears” of our souls. This provides a vivid contrast to the “swollen, sleazy handshakes” of humanity’s prosaic rituals, usurping the deference to the sea gods. Perhaps these deities are enraged by our less heroic times, perhaps it’s the “big business deals” and the associated destruction of the oceans through pollution and climate change that so enrage the faerie folk of the waters. This juxtaposition of humanity’s dull and breezy affairs proceeding blissfully unaware of the raging supernatural forces surrounding them has a Lynchian feel. CJ’s scene of the howling sea raising an orchestra of ancient damned warriors while humanity cheerfully prepares their supper puts me very much in mind of Evil Bob lurking in Twin Peak’s haunted pine forests. Like the great David Lynch CJ grounds both his monsters and his folk in their time and place, rejecting generic tropes and lazy, universal symbols - Twin Peaks was the lurking horrors of small town Americania, this poem is the lurking horrors of an Irish coastal village.

An ingenious double entendre of the English and Irish languages seals this poetic incantation (no I’m not spoiling it). It’s the usual meticulously detailed yet subtly understated touch I’ve come to expect from this man’s work. There are some interesting anchors and touchpoints to his back catalogue, the sharp imagery, the exact yet following rhythms, and the use of domestic objects as layered emotional symbols. As a stand alone piece it’s wonderful, however when read alongside CJ’s other works it is fed by, and feeds into an ambitious body of work from a powerful and ever more refined author.

Fear of the Sea

3 months ago · 26 likes · 18 comments · C J O'Hare

I encountered this one through a post around pareidolia (the imagination projecting images like creatures and faces that had floated onto my feed. This piece takes the concept a step (perhaps a leap) further and explores the idea of active physical empathy with the natural world. If that sounds a bit airy fairy, rest assured Jonathan’s work here is raw and gritty.

The story opens with a scene that would feel right at home in a German fairytale, and while the story evokes their original mystery and sense of foreboding (unlike their more modern saccharine interpretations), it explores more complex and adult emotions.

The scene opens with an old man sitting beside a hollowed oak - the prose paints both ambiguously and hints at a spiritual link between the two. Is the man a projection of the tree’s consciousness, the green man of the woods, or a shared dream between all who venture here..? The villagers scoff or perhaps fear his promise to mend broken hearts, all except one girl with enough faith or courage to seek his help.

What follows is a fascinating story about reclaiming our sovereignty and indeed humility as a part of the natural world. We are indeed children of the earth and this story reminds us that we must embrace its gentle care and call for hard discipline. What follows is a mesmerising and eerie sequence where the tree does not just resemble her circumstances or raise an abstract memory - the tree’s bulk and knotted structure and the voice of the breeze become her body and she becomes the tree. The shifting,creaking wood softens into flesh and her skin and spine strengthen with the unconquerable might of an ancient storm tested Oak. This is much more than an abstract thought experiment or a meditative exercise, this is a true metaphysical transformation only made possible through this soul meeting this tree at this time. This is a raw, earthbound spirituality that eschews the imagery and trappings of religious systems for a deep, perhaps frightening communion with life itself.

A short and powerful story that holds even more ideas than I have covered here including an intriguing debate between responsibility, courage, and forgetting - but you will have to uncover that one for yourself.

ReidItWrite

'The Tree Keeper' - Flash Fiction

Hi there…

5 months ago · 8 likes · 6 comments · Johnathan Reid

I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about it.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have a few more gifted writers lined up for my next review newsletter.

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

1:2 An Unfocused Allegory - The Cerebral Citadel

Graeme McAllister — Wed, 27 May 2026 15:04:00 GMT

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The second piece from my in-progress Book "Cerebral Citadel". I suppose it’s something of a next chapter in my ongoing obsession with the imagination as an independent from of experience with its own very real treasures and dangers.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published


2: An Unfocused Allegory
Night's persistent boil
Taints fruit, I bite into fog.
Valerian soaks the soil,
My sight, a muddied bog.

The hours fuse and weaken,
Diminishing the whole.
Communion does not strengthen,
Deepening the hole.

Day demands attention,
I dismiss drowsiness.
I ride the rising tension 
Of rest's pervasiveness.

Chores blur, my hands fly
A Vishnu vision in action.
An unfocused allegory
Of my scattered attention.

Read the first part here:

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If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/poster/An-Unfocused-Allegory-by-Graeme-McA/181047613/flk2?asc=u

Happy Tomes Tuesday
Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

McAllister's Mates Thirty Five

Graeme McAllister — Sat, 23 May 2026 10:46:11 GMT

Hi all

A beautifully poignant poem from and a strange neo noir tale from .

These reviews are part of Reviewstack run by the great writer and pillar of the Substack Community :

P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!

Please take a few moments to read the works of these authors, artists, and creators and if you find their work as life-affirming and life changing as I do, then please let them know. We need to support and cherish these voices.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

Short Sweet Life: The Little Girls Are Angels Now

Before I begin I have to give something of a warning - this poem and my review of it deal with child bereavement, the poem - vividly and eloquently. If this is a subject that you find to be overly difficult or upsetting I will understand (as I’m sure Kay Castenda will too) if you pass this one over.

This is a poem about a terribly tragic event in Texas, a flash flood in Texas that killed two hundred people. It hit a girl’s summer camp with twenty seven victims under ten. A truly awful event.

The poem has a double structure with literal (yet still poetic) paragraphs intersected with fantastical, spiritual tercets. This is a powerful technique that has not been done for effect - it truly gives the feeling of being on the border of two worlds, and the paper thin line that separates them. This brings a balance to the poem that saves it from both mawkishness and empty despair. The main paragraphs are filled with intimate, sorrowful details yet expressed tenderly and with loving care. The tercets are more ethereal, and take on the voices of the children, innocent and perhaps transcendent, they are touching and perhaps as near to hopeful as one can be under the circumstances.

Art, and spirituality are perhaps at their most truly useful when they lend a voice to the most traumatic periods of our lives. Sometimes they help us to make sense of those harrowing times, often there is no sense to be made and all they can offer us is an outlet for tremendous grief. This is where this poem succeeds, the child-like nature of the opening lyrics which move through to the stony realism at the end gently guide the reader through a similar thought process to the nature of grief. An almost fantastical rendering of what happened gradually becomes grounded in the terrible reality. Yet the religious and spiritual framing of the events is still respected, treated as a dual reality that is not dismissed by confronting the physical. This is a wise, respectful and tender piece of writing, one that I believe could offer some comfort to anyone who is grieving.

The Writer Warrior

Short Sweet Life…

a year ago · 1 like · Kay Castaneda

This story opens with a moody noir monologue as our hero meditates on his drabby, rundown surroundings. Now while this may sound like a Sam Spade homage (or even imitation) it’s actually a piece of delicious irony and immediately sets the scene for a wickedly clever story. You see, our hero is not Sam Spade, Rick Deckard, or even Hercules Poirot. He’s an out of work actor and the noir monologue serves as a perfect illustration of his delusions of grandeur and desperate need to dramatise every detail of his existence.

Conversely though, Tim Cape (the story’s hero) has a tragedy and vulnerability behind his equally funny and ghastly arrogance. As we follow him through the events, his character fills out and deepens, becoming layered and sympathetic. The people around him treat him either with disdain or celebrity worshipping fawning - none interested in treating him as a real person. You can almost viscerally sense his hunger to be loved, maybe even hated for his soul, not his circumstances. We also see his arrogance for what it is, a desperate attempt to cling to the success that has faded. He has fallen on very hard times indeed, tangled in the memories of his past success like the proverbial choking feathers of the albatross. The story raises the pertinent question of whether it’s more painful to achieve our wildest dreams and lose them, or never realise them at all.

While the tale never loses sight of its quirky humour, genuinely dark and sinister movements steadily overtake Tim’s imagined drama. It’s a tension that slips in behind the celebrity satire that was making you smile, and it hits all the harder when it finally overtakes you. It’s a masterful touch from an author who realises that danger is felt much more deeply when it slowly, imperceptibly wraps itself around you than when it openly hits at the beginning. The world of the story is just as dark, surreal, and layered with fascinating contradictions as Tim’s twisting thoughts.

And there I think I shall leave you to explore Tim’s world of garish neon and dark crumbling alleys for yourself. This is just the start of an ongoing comic, thrilling, neo-noir saga and I’m very much looking forward to exploring this world. Tim himself is perhaps my favourite part of this mystery and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about him, but he fascinates me. I find him amusing, awful, and sympathetic by turns. I will definitely be keeping tabs on this one.

Gas Station Carnivals

An Actors Illness

Act I…

5 months ago · 18 likes · 9 comments · Oliver Losinski

I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about them.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have a few more gifted writers lined up for my next review newsletter.

P.S Subscribe for your chance to get your work reviewed here!
You can also claim your FREE book of Poetry and art Hypnos Hermes - an epic poem presented as a medieval manuscript. A fantastical story written in verse enriched by many colourful and vibrant artworks.

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

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1:1 Slitting Seams - The Cerebral Citadel

Graeme McAllister — Wed, 13 May 2026 16:01:39 GMT

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The First piece from my in-progress Book "Cerebral Citadel". I suppose it’s something of a next chapter in my ongoing obsession with the imagination as an independent from of experience with its own very real treasures and dangers.

The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published


Slitting Seams 1
Sun's thousand shapes. 
Moon's hundred mansions.
Prickle at my nape,
A press of false liaisons.

Dull, drowsy waking,
Twitching, standing sleep.
Borders slack and shaking
A seam I cannot keep.

Temples and Tendons
Overlap and disconnect.
My internal mediations
Stiffen from neglect.

The dawn is darkened,
Ghosts cling to the corners.
Rising red is patterned
With evening's interlopers.

Happy Tomes Tuesday (a new and exciting project is waiting in the wings for next Tuesday - watch this space).

Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

https://www.redbubble.com/i/poster/Summer-Strings-by-Graeme-McA/180491108/flk2

Summer Strings

Graeme McAllister — Mon, 04 May 2026 09:58:08 GMT

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A belated May Day Poem  - Sinister callings of the sun..

The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

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Summer Strings
Colours curl and ribbons writhe
Their spirals close then open.
Maypole strings bend and breathe
Tendons tense and stiffen.

Ribbons reach guiding fingers,
Shaping sky, blood, and apples.
Heaven's hand strokes and steers
Prosecuting primal rules.

Servants dance, directed joy,
Eyes bright and voices shrill.
Abandon social plans and ploys
But remaining servants still.

Dancers twist off their tracks,
Engaging and enraging heat.
Between claps, around the clicks,
A greater heart begins to beat.

Heat needles swollen buds,
Conquering itch, flowers open.
Disturbing cycles of our blood,
Lighting an internal rising sun.

Leading dancers from behind,
Eyes blacken, opening holes.
Blood runs wild, red ropes tied,
Frenzied orbit round the Maypole.

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

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Saturn Cycles

Graeme McAllister — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 19:39:05 GMT

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I did promise to start serialising my new book - but a bit delayed, here is a piece from a previous work - Filigree and Fire.
The Audio features a reading by me - as opposed to an automated voiceover.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published


Saturn Cycles
Saturn’s cycle reaches its peak
Stirs complacency, shakes inertia
Machines throw thoughts across the sea
Cortisol codes ride binary blinks.

Saturn’s cycle reaches its start,
A quiet voice echo’s its question,
To split reality from suggestion.
Is absolution found in art?

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com.

Happy Tomes Tuesday (a new and exciting project is waiting in the wings for next Tuesday I promise!- watch this space).

Other serial writers here on Substack are listed below. Take a look and see what stories are being weaved by these teller of tales:

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

PS If you enjoyed this, and want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering) - consider clicking the button below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

McAllister's Mates Thirty Four

Graeme McAllister — Sun, 26 Apr 2026 22:42:32 GMT

Hi all

This week I return to my first love poetry with two finely detailed and beguiling poems from Misty Violet and Luciana Moroianu.

These reviews are part of Reviewstack run by the great writer and pillar of the Substack Community :

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Please take a few moments to read the works of these authors, artists, and creators and if you find their work as life-affirming and life changing as I do, then please let them know. We need to support and cherish these voices.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.

This is a fascinating exercise in combining ethereal, delirious surrealism with rich, sensuous physicality. The Poem’s structure heightens this duality and tension by using a double form. Luxurious meandering tercets are intersected by punchy singular statements. This approach highlights the strengths of poetry as a medium where writers are freed from the restraints of conventional sentence structure and paragraphing. Luciana capitalises on this opportunity with gusto, the single statements and the tercets wrestle and dance, perhaps in struggle for dominance, perhaps reaching to embrace each other. The formatting, much like the imagery of the lyrics explores and challenges our psychological split of emotions from intellect, and imagination from momentary experience.

The imagery is thoughtful, layered, and highly ambitious. A vast library of punchy, visceral physical metaphors shares the stage with dreamy ethereal whisperings. Both of which are inventive using traditional symbols in inventive ways while also creating a new library of idioms with subjective meanings for the reader to unlock. I think what impresses me most about the piece is how all these complexities of form and symbol are guided into a flowing whole. The tangents of thought reach like branches from a tree, sharp and diverse but natural outgrowths of a living movement. As I mentioned earlier, the effect is very much like a dance where limbs might strike out or flash in rapid movement, but always in adherence to the song’s guiding melody.

While I firmly believe there are many and layered interpretations of a piece like this - my personal takeaway is that we must navigate our relationship to self with all the nuance, tools, and curiosity that we bring to our dealings with others. Perhaps our internal relationships are even more labyrinthine, maybe we love, fear, and rage against ourselves more than anyone else in the world. Some might say most of our dealings with the world are theatrical projections of our inner wrestles with the simians and seraphims that guide and grapple our minds. I take Luciana’s beautiful poetry to be gentle yet cunning with our contrary natures, to accept no lies from within yet understand why we weave false narratives and find the truth within them. Pray tell what colours are our thoughts? All of them.

7 months ago · 16 likes · 6 comments · Luciana Moroianu

The Ray

There are many poems channelling various cultural mythologies and symbols to varying degrees of success and originality. This one does something different. Misty Violet seeks to get behind that process, not sure much a discussion on how specific historical events gave rise to legends, but a movement into the liminal space between the landscape and our imaginations.

There are so many dry and reductionist texts about myths and legends, where these ancient stories are dismissed as political narratives of a conquering army, or an externalisation of their author’s neurosis. This poem achieves a more sensitive, human, and holistic meditation on the process of myth making in a much smaller space.

The opening speaks of a guiding hand through a wintry landscape of harsh stones and glittering snow. I’m not entirely sure that we’re seeing a conversation between two people, at least not in the usual literal sense. What is clear, however, is the recurring theme of attention as an act of creation.

The verses speak of a strength (maybe even a consciousness?) shared by the sky, the stones, and the snow “Should you stop yourself there at the mercy of air”. So these deities seem to lie within the natural world, waiting on the spark of human imagination. But we must be fully present: body, mind, and soul at the wilder places of both the physical and metaphysical worlds. Then the giants become known to us, created or unveiled by an act of creative attention.

As to these giants, do they command, grant wishes, or tell secrets? No. They have their own task sculpting those physical and metaphysical worlds. Even if these beings are birthed from our imaginations, are we so arrogant as to think this talking self pushes and pulls the wells of deep memory, emotions and unspoken desires where the imagination lives? We see the giants and they see us, a gaze meeting gaze. Eternity staring into boundlessness. The giants see who we are, past what the world wishes us to be, past what conditioning tells us to be, past even what we imagine ourselves to be. They see the self that surprises even you on those days when you shake yourself from the daydream - awed or shaken by what you saw in your deepest recesses. Follow Misty Violet’s giants - unfix your gaze from “the whistling grave”.

The Violet Grove

On The Trail of Giants

I could give you my hand and you could come with me — all the way up if we’re lucky but the strength in the stones and in glittering snow is the same that you see in clouds drifting. Should you stop yourself there at the mercy of air, (at the touch of the wind — how they soften…

2 years ago · 54 likes · 14 comments · Misty Violet

I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about it.

You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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You can also claim your FREE book of Poetry and art Hypnos Hermes - an epic poem presented as a medieval manuscript. A fantastical story written in verse enriched by many colourful and vibrant artworks.

If you want to keep me in caffeine (and keep the ghostly voices whispering for the poetry side of things) - consider clicking below. For any who do so, you have my deepest gratitude.