Friday, 22 September 2017

Live With It

They look upon his money and despair. The passport to freedom is teasing them from all the way over there. There's the smell of desperation in the air. Tied up teats and equally exaggerated hair. They flaunt their wiles as if they could catch him unaware, but he's too busy boozing on his bamboo colonial chair, his tongue slurring excitedly slapping on about his nightmares: the left has won and coal is dumped and Trump will never get there. He speaks of his works but none of the expats around him care, no one is interested in anything but flesh at this meat market fair.


They say there's nothing more rare in the world than astatine, well the jokes on them, for there's nothing in the world more rare than me. Can't you see as I pose against the bridge truss, perfect leg poised ready for my close up? Can't you see as I lie on the sand, oblivious to the waves with one out stretched hand? Can't you tell from the way that I move and I shift, that I really am truly God's greatest gift?

Thursday, 21 September 2017


I returned to places that used to be mine, the long absence had done nothing to shake their memories from out of my spine, but the feelings were wrong, no longer sublime, I was feeling lost and uneasy as if I were walking somewhere unkind. I tried to shake it, shake her, take it all back. But the pull was now gone, the thread had snapped.

Ding Dong Dell

I get the feeling that one day I'll be listed as one of her known associates. She'll be gone and I'll be the one with whom the police negotiates. She used to be so innocent, so kind and worried for the world, she believed in demons, ghosts and the white-washed Jesus with the golden curls.

Now she's scattered, unkempt and worried about cash. She's worried that the crumbling cliff she's wandered onto might suddenly collapse. She's flaking and discasing, peeling and desquamating, her whole body's disintegrating because she thinks there's nothing left worth saving.

Sheila's Chela

He looks like he could dislocate his jaw, and shove the whole kebab into his maw, using the pincer like grip of one of his claws.

She looks like the tip of a dick, the way her bulbous head sits, the way her hair grows bob-like with the middle split.

She seems to think that he's the shit, she said his Tindr profile was the tits, but that she couldn't meet him earlier as she had the squits.

So in this reasonably priced food court they sit, her a look-alike prick, and him unable to ponder anything but upon the firmness of her shits. 

Separating Love In The Bin, So At Least You Can Say You've Recycled Something

"Fuck this life for a lark," he said, before drowning his sorrows with a bottle in the dark. "If no one wants me anywhere else, then why shouldn't I be here guessing at the strength of my belt? As if I'd ever ask for any body's help, as if anyone ever cared how any sad person actually felt."

He took his bottle and held it up to the moon, Spotify played yet another droning, melancholy tune.

"Do you know the one thing that would make me happy?" he asked. "Neither do I." and from consciousness he passed.

Rone Wasn't Built In A Day

I just want to respect your body, nuzzle into you and cry, have someone love my shattered psyche and appreciate how much I want to die. I want to love you softly, kindly, lay on you and wish and sigh. I want the world to fall away when I look upon your eyes. I want to feel that I am floating, floating on your fattened frame. I want to feel that I'm corroding, peeling off my scales of shame. When I'm with you I won't be anxious. When I'm with you I'll be unchained. When I'm with you I'll be the person who was never made to be mundane.

Monday, 4 September 2017

Put Your Hands On My Manus

I'm there, upon the edge of the cliff, just standing. Wishing there was someone by my side hold handing. Wishing someone was on my side understanding, why I'm here and why I want to be crash landing. The wind against my face leaves me screaming and demanding - "WHY DO I NOT WANT TO BE OUTSTANDING?"

No Better Place

They say she's in a better place. I guess they're saying she's lucky she's escaped. Because what could be worse than feeling like an eleven stone mistake?  Feeling that, from the world around you, you've somehow accidentally been misplaced. Feeling stuck upon a hamster wheel when everyone else is out enjoying the rat race. Well when I found her, I thought I'd finally found my space - like a jigsaw piece finally snapping itself into it's rightful place, where previously it was hovering all alone in the void of space, never quite fitting in, not able to find another to embrace. She was the lifeline to my deep, uncomfortable disgrace. She left a mark upon me now only spirits can erase.