Alex “Syd” Addams writes poetry and opinion pieces about the absurdist theatre of life, from sex and gender to religion, philosophy and the quiet politics of who gets to want what, and why that should be anybody’s business.
He’s a romantic misanthrope with a knack for hearing what people pretend not to mean, and a queer sensibility that treats identity as an ongoing art project rather than a fixed label.
He is not an expert so much as a repeat offender in matters of desire, self-invention and everyday heresy, which is arguably more useful; if his opinions are worth considering, it’s because he’s lived inside most of the extremes he writes about, found them inadequate as dogma, and prefers jagged questions to polished answers.
He tests his arguments on his own skin first, returning with field notes instead of sermons.
These might resonate if you’ve ever doubted the current edition of civilisation; if you suspect the rules governing your body, pleasure or sense of self were written by someone who’s never met you; and if you agree that breaking them, deliberately and with style, is both an ethical act and a wink to the cosmos.
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