Inspiration rarely arrives in a neat, polished package. It’s jagged, unexpected, and often found in the most unyielding of places. For me, it looms tall and unapologetic in the form of brutalist architecture. These structures don’t care if you like them. They don’t flatter or soften. They simply are—raw, functional, and unrelenting.
Take Preston Bus Station, for example. To most, it’s just a concrete slab of utility—a sprawling mass of brutal geometry designed to serve a single purpose. But to me, it’s a raw symbol of resilience and permanence, of stark honesty that doesn’t waste time pretending to be anything it’s not. One of the Broken Spine’s longest-standing members played a key role in saving this structure from demolition—a battle to preserve not just a building but a philosophy. That ethos runs through everything we do at the Broken Spine, and it informs my own writing to its very core.
Brutalism’s lessons are everywhere in my work, shaping how I approach both poetry and prose. My poems are precise, cut to the bone. They rarely have lines that gently carry the reader from one moment to the next. Instead, they punch, collapse space, and demand attention. Like brutalist architecture, my poems show the scaffolding of their making—they’re stripped of excess, pared down to necessity. I work with the belief that words must earn their place. Poetry, to me, is about saying more with less, compressing raw emotion and ideas into the sharpest possible form.
'I live too near the
slaughterhouse
and am ill
with thriving.'
- Charles Bukowski
That line sticks with me. Its rawness and brevity hold a power most poems never achieve. There’s no room for softness in words like those—they grip you, unapologetically direct. My own writing aspires to this: every word a hammer, every line the exposed rebar of an idea.
Short pieces are my medium, often so brief they might seem like they’ll collapse under their own weight. But I love the tension of that—how the sparseness can leave a poem teetering, vulnerable yet defiant. Brutalism’s lessons on structure and strength speak directly to this process. A brutalist building doesn’t pretend to be pretty; it focuses on standing up, on enduring. My poems aim to do the same, holding themselves together with a raw, unpolished power.
I find inspiration everywhere—from the massive geometry of Preston Bus Station to the abandoned brutalist structures documented on Instagram, particularly those from behind the Iron Curtain. These decaying monoliths, overtaken by moss and rust, tell stories of power, neglect, and survival. They are impermanence cloaked in permanence, monuments to ambition slowly consumed by time. They don’t just influence me; they drive me. Their unapologetic rawness seeps into my poetry, layering it with the grit of exposed materials and the weight of flawed systems.
This ethos also drives High-Rise, our upcoming project at the Broken Spine. It’s was not just a submission call—it was a provocation. I asked writers to take brutalism’s core principles and strip their work to the bone: to find poetry in the shadow of tower blocks, in the silence of desolate plazas, and in the cracks and flaws of modern existence. These aren’t sprawling narratives—they’re tight, jagged, unvarnished truths. High-Rise encapsulates everything the Broken Spine represents: impact, punch, and a refusal to smooth over discomfort.
What brutalism teaches us—and what I carry into every piece of writing I create—is that beauty isn’t about polish or charm. It’s about integrity. It’s about standing firm in your unflinching honesty, refusing to apologise for the rawness of your message. Great poetry punches above its weight. It leaves you winded with its precision and power. Brutalism has taught me how to wield that kind of force in my writing.
For writers, editors, and creatives of all kinds, brutalism offers a powerful lesson in clarity and purpose. It challenges us to stop hiding behind flourish, to abandon false promises, and to confront the raw, unadorned truths of our work. This isn’t about being sleek; it’s about being honest. It’s about creating work that doesn’t just exist—it endures.
Brutalism is a philosophy of simplicity with depth. Defined by exposed concrete and unapologetic lines, it strips architecture to its essentials. But it’s more than an aesthetic—it’s a challenge. It asks: what remains when you strip everything unnecessary away? For me, this question is the driving force behind every poem I write, every project I shape, and every piece the Broken Spine publishes.
Like the buildings that inspire it, brutalist writing doesn’t charm. It challenges. It stands raw and unyielding, leaving the reader no choice but to confront its truths. This is where I thrive—between the unyielding concrete and the creeping vines reclaiming it. So I encourage you: stop hiding behind ornamentation. Start building with purpose. Let your work be raw, unfiltered, and unapologetically honest. Let it endure.
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The Broken Spine is a poetry and arts collective proudly published on the coastal edge of North-West England. Founded in 2019 by Alan Parry and Paul Robert Mullen – two school friends reunited after twenty years through a mutual love of poetry.
