Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Stories!

New tales at the esteemable Camroc Press Review!


About hot poets, difficult questions, and bad colds.

Monday, 13 July 2015

Sometimes

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

Summer

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. 

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Wagenplatz

Last night at the Wagenplatz, all elderflower schnapps & neon rainbows,
wide eyes like webs in the dark. Still waiting for the horse-crack of summer

and when I woke, I barely believed in the sunbeam's elbow
forcing the curtain aside. Still playing at kids & astronauts,

you whispered just good friends. You let these words sink into my thighs.
Then, romantic as a slow canal, you draped your limbs round me, weeping

willows tangled in slinked algae, the punchline to the joke
about all the times we didn't kiss. I let go of the bank and let myself float

into teeth & soil & bruises. When I left the river, there were red welts
on my skin. I hiccupped. I tied a blue bandana round my leg. I promised

nothing but I took everything my fists could find. Let's get ice cream today
and lick the drips from each other's pasts. Let's leave ourselves sticky.

Make mine sesame and bubblegum and a grin for all the times we didn't kiss
when I was dancing with cowgirls, picking the reeds from between my toes.

Monday, 22 June 2015

swoon

Got paid for a story. Bought this wig. Winning at life. <3


Sunday, 21 June 2015

DIRT!

The most exciting thing ever!

Not only did the ridiculously cool Make Out Magazine publish my short story, Dirt, but then it got translated into Japanese and made into this awesome book by Girls Rock Japan! It goes along with this album from gummybear, who have the best bandcamp tags of all time.

You can pick up a copy of Make Out Magazine here!





Friday, 19 June 2015

The Boy Princess


FLAPPERHOUSE #6 is out now! With a terrifically romantic fairy story about scabs, three-legged crows, and muscular boy-thighs in lacy garters. By me.

Buy it here!