B.K. Poetry

Hey there! I'm Kenny.

I believe every voice deserves to be heard—especially the ones that have been overlooked. As the founder of Write Club, I work with emerging writers to find their truth and power through storytelling.

Working on something and need a writing buddy?

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Just a quick hello.

Hey there. My name is Brennan (he/they) I’m a Queer 30-year-old Métis poet and author and this is my dedicated writing blog.

  • ✏️ Fic Writers: I run a transformative works archive called Fanfiction.lol, designed to be for fun, silly, low-stakes fandom. Sign-ups are open!
  • ⛰️ Looking for a clean, writer-focused Tumblr theme? Check out Foothills! A minimal, accessible theme I built specifically for poets and writers. It’s free and open-source.
  • 📚 I have published 8 books independently, including poetry collections, creative non-fiction, and academic work, available on Amazon and as digital downloads on Gumroad (ePubs & PDFs).
  • 🍓 I’m co-founder and lead developer at Berry House, a values-driven web studio building fast, accessible JAMstack websites and thoughtful content for independent creators and mission-led organizations.
  • If you’d like to donate, click here.

If you’re a writer, like this post or send me a message and I’ll be sure to follow you! And if you wanna get to know a little more about me, feel free to keep reading after the cut. 💖

Keep reading

Casu Martzu

Slice crown from the wheel,
prop the shutter one hand wide.
The lanolin dark. Slate sweating brine.
A fly’s wire-hum goes down into the white.

Heavy & warm. Everything gives,
wall, floor, the tallowed ceiling.
I eat the room I’m born in;
& each swallow widens space.

A clean pen in Brussels wrote this out of food.
At the ferry, a dog works the bags for powder.
Mine ticks in its tin, ringing like church bells,
damp hail on the lid.

Ammonia everywhere, a struck pan ringing.
I hook tail to mouth and let go,
the whole dark turns over
& lands me in more, more.

Door bolted. Carasau snapped, Cannonau poured.
My brother cups a palm above the plate
against the leapers.
Pepper, a coal that rises late. Small bursts.

Light. The floor lifts,
cold steel, a dry plain of bread, grape-breath,
then the warmest, wettest dark yet, ridged, closing.
Everything gives.