I'm a physics graduate who has written poetry and fiction for basically as long as I can remember. My blog is Ultraphrenia.com:
"I Am Still Here"
It’s not as if a three-armed scarlet switch
is thrown at night, and all the stars explode
or flash like angry light-bugs in the pitch
to telegraph reversed electric code.
You set your letters carefully in type,
but, to my eyes, the signs fall out of place.
Euphoria turns slowly overripe.
I am still here, but not inside my space.
The walls do not grow ears, or eyes, or speak.
They grow no ears to eyes. I feel them hear.
I do not hear a voice. I know they shriek.
I know they have no eyes. I feel them leer.
I never hear a voice that does not speak.
My heel offends the gods; the floorboards creak.
I think my fiction is even better than my poetry, but space constraints here don't really permit a self-contained sample. I tend to spend my nights scribbling physics equations and poetry on the backs of envelopes while listening to loud rock, folk, and electronic music and drinking overly-hopped, high ABV beer. I haven't been a believer in magickal traditions for years, but I'm still sympathetic to them and conversant in them, in part due to my short fiction. I'm vegan, motivated firstly by ecological sustainability.
Ask me about my quantum theory of gravity.
