Friday, 9 October 2015


My poem, Leonard, is in the latest issue of Synaesthesia magazine, Atlas, alongside some beauuutiful pictures.

Look here!

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

Boy Princess

FLAPPERHOUSE have featured my story online as the "grand finale" of their summer issue.

You can read it here!

A few people have asked me what indeed this is all about. This story was born of three things:

1. The Richard Brautigan quote, "The man who owned the bookstore was not magic. He was not a three-legged crow on the dandelion side of the mountain"

2. Watching a boy dress up for Gay Pride in tiny lace and stupid tattoos, and feeling my heart go kabooom

3. An abiding obsession with picking scabs

Wednesday, 26 August 2015

Crab Fat

Weird little story about language and love for y'all at Crab Fat Magazine.

Last week, on the balcony while we drank strawberry daiquiris, gleeful and pink in the sun, my lover told me stories of the birds. The point where the acid kicked in and they watched the swallows plucking insects right out of the skyhow, as they itched and scratched their swollen bites, they seemed like talismen, saviours even.
Even now, they said, whenever they see swallows its like everythings going to be alright.

Download Issue 5 here!

Thursday, 13 August 2015


I'm the poetry editor for a new online litmag, Leopardskin & Limes.

Check it out!

And send us things please.

Wednesday, 29 July 2015


New tales at the esteemable Camroc Press Review!

About hot poets, difficult questions, and bad colds.

Monday, 13 July 2015


Sometimes I’m the simplest creature of all time. Sometimes I’m standing drenched in sweat in the kitchen eating all the tomato sauce straight from the pan, long before the pasta is done, and yowling. Sometimes it’s the smell of seven cloves of garlic. Sometimes it’s the cheapest supermarket olives and the drool, just because. Sometimes, somehow, it tastes so good. Sometimes I am distracted by googling buttsex and googling my own name and using the internet as a portal to try and alchemise time. Sometimes I want to invite everyone round to wallow in my own stench, when my stench is rotting mangoes and barbecue and shocking even to my nose. Sometimes I decide against this. Sometimes I’m delirious by the prospect of solitude, masturbation, and my own record collection. Sometimes the bpm of all the songs I’m listening to are better than the bpm of all the songs you’re listening to. Sometimes a storm hits. Sometimes the streets reek of plantations and of swampland and of heady, cunty summer. Sometimes I stand on my balcony naked, alone, and cackling. Sometimes I stand on my balcony, my tongue in your ear. Sometimes you’re embarrassed about swooning in front of the boys, though you can never help that expressive face. Sometimes I’m a ravenous gulping beast who devours everything in her path. Sometimes I stop worrying about the emails left unanswered and the tasks left unticked—sometimes I smother myself in gin, lube and neon. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what I say, what’s important is that I let an evening seep into my bones and enjoy it. Sometimes I repeat myself. Sometimes things grind to a halt and there is just me, left there, grinning on the couch, as simple as a hammer without any nails.

Thursday, 2 July 2015


The mad space needle is plotting a take-over of everything north of the river. It has drunk it all in. All of it, already. The warm street liquor; the spermy reek of July parks, the iridescent, interplanetary, lit-ends of cigarettes. The mad space needle has drank all this and more. We are awake, still, past the small hours and back to the swollen ones. We are sat by the canal as twilight oozes into fierce morning toothlight. Take an unripe tomato in the fat of your hand and fling it at the swans, and hold your breath past the sound of the plop. The fierce morning teeth of the sun are worrying into our slack morning eyes, but still, the moon is full. The moon is silver. The moon is an  old ghost waiting to give up on the sky. It has haunted these corridors long enough, its sisters all forgotten. Soon, there will be breakfast. Soon, we will plot plans for the day. You tell me you do not trust the mad space needle, its dreams of communism, those neon red globules shooting ever-up into space. I take your hand against my mouth, like a small soothed animal, and say hush. I catch myself and say no, be as loud and wanton as your heart desires. We start to scream—at the mad space needle, at the suicidal swans, at the rippling currents of the water. All of them, at once, take flight, slashing their wings on the ripe shards of day. We are left sitting alone in the dregs of the city: loose morning dust and crusts in the corners our vision. You turn to me, dazed, as I put your finger between my lips. The inside of my mouth is wet and warm, and the sun beats down.