i keep colouring us grey

–  you’re the last petal on this daisy.

don’t know the truth hanging on your lip
just keep colouring us grey.

in the bar i punch you
in the bed i hum you

to shake off the guy in my hair
to be a fragile girl sucking her heart like a dummy.

tomorrow you’re reading a book
i’ll not really notice

but see you smoking outside
i’ll die in my own arms

broken bits of stars in my eyes
you’d smile that smile you give

in awe
in pensive mood

just keep colouring us grey.
can’t shade us cerulean over beer sex and feminism

can’t give you violet with fat joints and doorstep kisses
can’t stream emerald on our carcasses

we’re boys night out and your blonde hairs on my fur coat
we’re pool tables and the smell of your apartment on my jeans

your grey
my arch

vomiting rain day by day
your eyes stained of cloud

no i couldn’t cry at all
yes i could burn away tomorrow

–  i’m the last daisy in this field.

and you love me not as i love you
and you love me as i love you not.


crying in the elevator

mike why’d you have to go n do this to me?
15 minutes into my life and i was staring my mother out

but she won.

and it’s not like it’s some kind of competition but
the capacity to make a man’s eyes water
as he holds his hooch from across the bar

is absolutely delicious.

mike i’m crying in the elevator
with a pizza crust sat like a sad smile
in the bottom of my stomach.

mike i told you
humans are the biggest oxymoron in existence
which makes us amazing

but such a pain in the arse.

i don’t like winning anymore
and so men who settle the score with me
i adore,

cos my heart was decapitated from a head of kisses
that many fucks ago an ex gave me
and he told me, he told me,

you’re amazing, lymh

and he calls me baby and hands me cake like dummies
for i am sickly
and cannot quite manage hangovers as i could 3 weeks ago

i drink to remember what it felt like kissing jäger off his dirty t-shirt
and i drink to remember what a lovely curse i’ve been given
that sucking cocks just isn’t fun anymore

and that i hate the sound of my own voice in seminars

15 minutes into my life mike

my ex was holding my hair behind my neck
wet from the rain

marry me, you shit

what kind of a man drinks hooch
and what kind of a man proposes after a 2am argument as i vomit,
howling tears to the moon?

i dunno mike.

but i’m still crying in this elevator cos of you.

fucking waste of time

you think that all the language in the world
will unhinge the fact that you might just be
grade 0, rock bottom,

or maybe just even plain bored of all of us

because in the fields of whys and wherefores
you could never really make definitions
around a shapeless concept like me

and you could never really speak about how
your chest thumps like the sun
when you see her in the streets

and throws up like the moon
when you see me
lying on your pillow.

you think that all the language in the world
will unhinge the fact that when i dropped
you couldn’t pick me up

you held me and made me colder than your grandfather’s last breath
whatever was funny back then
never mattered now

whenever we hung out
you were the syllable that got stuck in my throat
and i just couldn’t cough you out

because you,
you, male, ventriloquist of the kiss
could never see

i was, am, always,
a thousand times worth more
than one beat of your heart.

can u tell me where the train station is

it’s like five streets down,
heart full of worry, full of tomato juice
“it’s not my place to tell you when to fuck me”
and when we could’ve been together
i was on that train
and when we could’ve been together
u was on that white stuff

coked up
fuck up
drench aber in Jäger
drench fal in tequila
i tell em’ i’m on a million
takes a picture of me or somethin
jake’s on the wine like it’s heroin

man said that’s dirty
dad said he’s disappointed in me
i said i’m on a date this thurs
people not in my knickers
confessers, vicars, n dealers

i lived for it
and pal i lived FOR U
somehow made room for u in my tiny ribcage
brain’s makin me pay bedroom tax
for anyone renting out my chest
we ain’t working
this ain’t working

where u goin
takin doggy down roads
manchester’s like my older brother yanno
and syringes like this
they’re leaking piss
and i’m confused as to what i’m doing here
gives into the fear,

you said it’s clear
clear as mud
rehab is a must
what coulda
what shoulda
‘whatever’, says your mother
i told her

it was a waste of time
regardless she said she’d be fine
and she wired her way into the moon’s heart
its beating
take him for a severe kissing
they never knew i was probably on something

shit that’s never been heard before on at mono
tells him where to go and i know
that no one person has seen darkness like i have
to ur attention i grab
listening to this song makes me so sad
to the point of killing yourself on north pier
ur life is too dear

did you remember that mistake u made last summer?
try to remember.
ur face turns white
save it to your hard drive.
it’s like five streets down.
y’know, brain full of love
and the heart’s stuffed.

Lessons Learned #3

maybe someday you’ll be in standing in the zoo in the rain with him,
and the air just doesn’t quite fit inside your lungs,
or even taste right.

                             then you can’t breathe.
                             and you look in the mirror,
                             and his hand is always there, around your neck.
                                                                                                                                 – when you must let go

my life without you would be purposeless – a speech

hello 2 am, come to haunt me? i thought you would.
cheap liquor, no boy to kiss.
tell me what does the black in your hollowed out sky
tell you
to dismiss, all the feelings for a man i should miss?
is it thoughts that should haunt me in this way?
i cry at that idea.
tears slip into my tea. god forbid a boy should ever get to know me.

so i drop the mug to the kitchen floor.
and here i go. manifesto at the ready.
promises to make, like any politician, i’m not saying i’ll keep any.

my life without you would be purposeless,
i am promising you my ill heart, it is feverish.
high temperature, blood pressure a little on the low side.
i’ve always been a little low though, haven’t i
and you have got to squeeze and twist me like a washcloth.
dampen your hot head with me
because i, my lover, can cool you down.
because i, my dreamer, can give you visions better than a trip on acid.

so i drop the manifesto to the bandstand floor.
and here i go. box of tissues at the ready.
watching myself fall out of love like an audrey hepburn movie.

i peer through my sunglasses
say it one more time, that yes my life would be purposeless without you.
i don’t drink wine i just swallow it like a dick.
because there’s a kind of violence about alcohol that complements the very taste of men
and their bones.
they think i’d collapse under the influence,
i just hide though.
there’s a confession, 2 am, that i never told you before.

my life without him was purposeless,
but i love the strange weather in his eyes now.
it’s like looking a stranger. it’s like looking at nothing at all.

Soulmate #3

N.B. told you Trampoline Park would feel stupid someday.

somewhere you’ll be doing your own thing,
and that’s cool. how’s your mama?

I didn’t fuck anybody else, months go by, whose dick do I suck next
my t-shirts are creased, and I’m not speaking to anybody.

how’d we get this way Soulmate #3?
you’re a ghost looking at me in the mirror, stood,

breathing on my neck
and our past feels like centuries and centuries ago.

sometimes I cut myself open and it’s like you were never really there,
not in my vessels, popping with loss.

all the beers you’ve been drinking, leaving me,
Miss Heartbroken at 5 AM with nothing but cereal to cry into,

empty KFC buckets and an unused gym membership,
look at all my money disappearing.

I used to look at your old love letters
and want to use them and your body for wood,

set you both alight.

but then I remember all the things you taught me,
like what it feels like to be loved, what losing does,

and how you may never regret where you place your dick next.
how you may never regret leaving.

sometimes I look at our old photos and I remember
how you were never there, towards the end.

and the irony that we’d switched places,
and that it was me throwing themselves from great heights.

i pulled you back from the edge,
you just kicked me,

and i wondered if it’s okay to drown in the moon’s stare
the paranoia that i felt as i glided from kiss to kiss

from male to male, from no one to everyone all at once
and y’see Soulmate #3 you expected me to go off the rails for you

but i died instead in the name of me,
and i guess Soulmate #3 that it feels weird in my veins

to know somehow you’re still a human and you’re somewhere in this world,
drinking, unidentified, and tired,

and i’m somewhere in this world, better off.

Personal Problems: 11th Account

N.B. i do believe in fairies, i do, i do.

dear lover,
tell me something so innately personal
that it makes you feel like the way you first fell in love with me.
the way God pushed me over that familiar cliff into your heart.
or better,
so personal that it tears you with a meat cleaver
until you are nothing but slices of guilt and regret.

you suppose I write because I hate you,
but no.
you are just not the boy I thought you were.
take heed of when I call you “boy”.
maybe it is the Peter Pan in you that calls for a Wendy like me
in life to be your mother,
to clean your room
and wipe down your sinks
because that is my calling in life.

there is no need to dislike you
at all.
not even after everything.
my fault, your fault, our fault.
it is immaterial. like dust.
we are just two children,
you fight your dad like Captain Hook
and I too thought I should never grow up,
but Peter, I must.

for me, lover
it is the having to fall in love all over again
start from cleaner whiter pages
so clear are the raindrops
in my eyes
i must harvest new tears to shed

over other silly Peter Pans like you
and the thought of it is so exhausting
but exciting.
learning to recognise his smell,
making him cups of tea his way,
or watching him fly to the second star to the right

straight on till morning.
all boys are Peter Pan at heart.
there is a shard in their chest
that wills them never to grow up.
it’s what wills them to wear the t-shirt
with the curry stain down the front to the gym.

or wills them to leave pistachio shells all over the floor.
or wills them to leave tea bags on the surface.
the TV programmes litter you like childhood dreams of being a F1 race car driver.
and sure enough,
they hide it with the bills to pay
and their newborn son in their arms

but there is magic in their lungs still
fairy dust lining their fragile ribs
that tells them to go play with their Lost Boys down the pub. get muddy.
no matter how much it hurts me
i know you meant well jumping into bed with somebody else

right afterwards
because you’re just looking for a Tinkerbell. or Tiger Lily.
a friend to nurse the swords splicing your bones after a broken heart
whereas I took to a cloud
and went on home
where Dad had to hold me.

sure I would fall in love in again.
i would fall in love with a man so hard and so different
that we would make the planet fall away from beneath our feet
and we would go to the university of Neverland
and make it our own
i would risk my heart a thousand times

and wash it out
wring it out to dry with the mermaids all laughing at me
for being so naive that I’ll find a sweet one
but washing out my chest
means I’m a shade closer to new
and you eventually disappear altogether, stain.

no I don’t hate you
no I don’t love you
it’s just always disappointing to stain your new clothes, or organs, in my case.
for now
I’d better be Wendy
and not rely on a Peter to love me.

here is magic
the alcohol is nothing
when you can fly alone
and visit each star like i visit my grandfather.
always sweet.
no, no man for me is ever needed to be happy.

but i might stumble across one by accident to share it with
like cake.
and if you should ever run out of Tinkerbells and jäger
i should hope you find your Wendy in the nick of time
before Neverland runs out of magic
and immaturity.

it’s your turn now.


he hit me right over the head
bled and bled and bled
he sucker punched me to the sky
when i came back down

he kicked and kicked and kicked
the bruises defiled me, disfigured my face
and the blood dried in my hair
fingernails burned away

he dragged his axe
through me

all of this done smiling
and i remember the last strike
blinding me in the eyes
and i was gone.

i dragged my carcass to the hospital
my fingers trembling
i fixed my own drip
filled up bags with the blood of friends

which they’d donated with complimentary kisses
i lay there deader than pluto
when i checked myself in
and people i loved watched me sleep

they watched me breathe weakly
my ribs raise
the anchors of my heart sewing themselves slowly
back into the cavity

none of us expected him to give me a real beating
but who does?
we all lay there and waited for me
and one morning my eyes flew up like the sun.

we stuck some gauze onto my wounds
and sterilising them
the pain meant acknowledging how bad it was

we cleaned my hair
had it smelling of rosehip and jojoba
we threaded our needles and started stitching
we soaked up the blood from the floors of my house

with paper towels
they went and bleached it
he’d done a runner
long gone

we filled in the paperwork
we filled in the holes
filtered blood into my veins
filtered life back into my eyes

he left like a bruise
in some amazing way
the black and blue
become purple and yellow

and the yellow to cream and skin
we watched me breathe harder
and when it was time

i stood up
and made the bed
i let the drip fall to my feet
i removed the gown i’d worn like a disease

i discharged myself of a broken heart
the stitches still dissolving
the scabs swallowed by my own kiss
i opened the door

went home
stared at my kitchen floor
cleaner than a baby’s two eyes
and warmer than a mother’s hands

bleached bare
no pain in the crevices of the tiles
banking the walls

no we all came home to my house
and we all watched the moon pass our faces
we all smiled
the past disbanded as memories often do

then i was whole and free.

Personal Problems: 10th Account



I wear silverback.
I’m sorry to myself.
Dad made me aloof.
I love him.
The clouds over his head,
Ever consuming,
They now sit in his eyes.

This is a letter to a stranger.
Uh, I don’t actually know who this person is.
I did, maybe, I passed them on the street once.
I don’t remember.

Dear Stranger,
Tell me something so innately personal
That it guts you, cuts you up like medieval torture.
Even God could plunge his nails into you.

Who are you?
What are you?
Old friend? Old lover? Older?
Maybe family? You used to call me family.

You don’t want to talk first?
You want me to do the talking?
You’ve got to confess at the end something about you.
You can’t act like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.
You can’t be the future, pointing at the dead horizon.

I’ll go first.
I don’t know if you remember,
But a while back you called me your heart.

Some women get kitchen knives to guard their house.
I prefer .44 Magnums.
Or if I’m feeling Texas on my skin, Remingtons.
You don’t think you’re scared of my Dad.
He’s not so bad. He hugs you like he hugs continents.
Your knees still wobble.

I look at you
Did you do something to your face?
Old friend?
Did you get your plastic surgeon in
To stab your face with his needles
And tell you you’re worthy of beauty?

You are his finished Mona Lisa.
Although I don’t see the charisma.

I see an idiot.

A smile being stretched like its on the rack.
Your face on a Catherine Wheel.
A stake through your stomach.

I see a cold person

Maybe you were warm once.
I don’t know.
I’m still warm from the shower.
We all thought you would open your lips
With some kind of interruption.
Voice your “discomfort”, maybe.

But as strangers go, they’re all cowards, right?
You’ll never talk to me.
Your flesh is chicken. You don’t have the guts.

I barely recognise your soul. Seriously, do I know you?
It had colours.
Pretty ones.
You look regular, like I dunno.
Shrugging my shoulders here.
You look like the kind of person who wears sports labels for couture like everybody else.

My mother owns ellesse tops too.
You look genderless.
There is a spark there, something real red on your tongue.

Like a maraschino cherry.
You’re a little freezing.
You’re a little dark kiss.
You look like shit.
My hands are too pretty to hold yours.

I have been tossed away in bags,
Each arm a diamond,
Each eye a ruby,
Each tooth a peridot.
You disembowel yourself from my life.
Maybe this is why I cannot place you.

You were a friend.
Maybe more at some point.
But then the weather changed
And you got tossed by God’s flick off my shoulder.
Satan gulped you down.
You are that stranger.

That failure.

I confess, I do not remember you.

But it was nice to meet you.

I don’t think there’s any reason for you to confess anything.
I throw bruises at the wind, they are wasted.
I throw spits at the ocean, they are dissolved.

I don’t think you get a turn.
My ears, two seashells, don’t want to listen to your sea.
No I already know you’re sorry for turning up like this in the middle of my happy life.
I have to go. Like, I moved on last week.

I will omit the time I threw into the rabbit hole with you.

I will scrub you away like henna.

It will never be your turn.

Not now, not ever.