I’m a little bit (read: a lotta bit) obsessed with the words and works of other writers right now. (And yep, that’s right. I said ‘other writers’ … totally owning my identity as a fully-fledged word nerd and calling myself a ‘writer’ these days. Don’t hate.) At a bookstore in Bali, on a recent holiday, I came across a beautiful coffee table book of poetry by Tyler Knott Gregson. Firstly, its visual frikkin eyeporn. The book is so stunningly presented, with typewriter print etched onto random pieces of paper and discarded pages, it’s seriously just one of those works of art that even if the words were shit, you would hold only for its sheer aesthetic appeal. But luckily, for us readers, this ain’t the case. Gregson employs the most perfectly curated and emotive language, whipped into a frenzy and spun into epic prose that gets you right in the feels. He writes about all matters and topics and themes and experiences but, because I’m (unapologetically) me, I am all about this guy’s take on intimacy and lust. Oh holy devil. Just … keep reading.

Blessings and a swooning literary boner x