Sunday, 21 September 2014


lovers against haters

hecklers against grownups

kisses against the patriarchy

explosions against the status quo

girls against bus stops

bruises against collar bones

swoons against the handcuffs

hyperbole against restraint

dream sequences against logic

fisting against the dirty dishes

makeouts against the history channel

sunsets against a cantaloupe sky

Tuesday, 16 September 2014


Go read a short story about Caterpillars, by me, at the fucking fabulous Word Riot.

Thursday, 11 September 2014


She is a cartoon. Or, she is a polaroid, fully developed moments after the click. Together, they are hot slick surface. She feels like a shiny black gun on a white sand beach.

He asks, “Do you think you’re deep and meaningful?” She doesn’t answer. She says, “I think I’m easy.” They go to bed, again and again and again.

She is a cartoon. They are a firework. He tells her she smells of rotting oranges. He says, “You are a rank jungle flower that attracts beasts.”

The floor is littered with silk and clothes pegs. She answers, “I’m deep, but there are no layers. I go straight down.” “You are a well,” he says.

They throw gold coins down into her and make wishes. They forget to eat. She measures her hand span on his ribcage: it fits. All of the wishes come true.

He smells like poppers and spray paint and krazy glue. At least, his heart does. His skin smells like her. It is covered in black ink and yellow bruises.

In his arms, she feels like animal fur and voodoo. “That doesn’t count,” says the real world. They aren’t listening. “Take my photograph,” he says.

They take a hundred photographs of each other. A thousand. They look more beautiful than anything they have ever seen.

“I’m so glad you are my friend,” he says. Together, they are fools beyond the scope of language. “It isn’t real,” says the real world.

When they wake up, the first thing he tells her is that he missed her in the night. The second thing is his dreams. The third thing is not made of words.

She is a cartoon. They are a firework. If it were real, they wouldn’t be laughing. Love is a serious business. This is just an explosion and the crook of an arm.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014


I bite his lip, he busts mine.

We don’t mean it: we are, together, too many teeth. Too many sharp kinetic wavelengths. What we are, we shouldn’t be allowed.

He’s on his back. I’m on his front, leaning down for the Hollywood close-up, when he twitches. He twitches like a heart monitor yelping “stat!” at the chest of a dying man. His broken tooth into my soft upper lip.

When the blood swells, both of us open our mouths wide.

He didn’t mean it. We are counting off all the things we didn’t mean. We didn’t mean any of it and we meant everything, all at once. I touch my finger to my lip. The blood mixing with my spit.

Everything is so new, so red and so shiny.

We pretend to be shocked, but we aren’t. Not really. I lick my lip with a wet tongue, because I am a sucker for a dramatic mug shot. “I can’t believe you did that,” I say, because this time around, I’m allowed.

I sit back on my heels. I probe my mouth with my tongue. I ooze.

He is flickering like a zoetrope between horror and giggles. He says, “I’m so sorry.” He is trapped in the moment after flinging the ming vase against the wall. Aghast at shards and spatters.

I bite my lip but it’s too late: I’m already laughing. We’re not surprised a bit; we know what caused the twitching. I meant it.

He catches my giggles and steps forward to join me in a place that is oozing and easy. A place where everything is allowed.

Monday, 1 September 2014


The creatures are nestled and sleepy and coated with bruises. The bruises pattern their pelts with all the certainty of yesterday's clouds.

In this city, it feels like summer is ending. But that's okay. It's okay, because this skin isn't fit to show the world anyhow: so purple and so private. It's okay, because tomorrow there will be a hammock and a balcony and a sunbeam. She will pluck a tomato from the vine; the girl will crush a pepper in her fist just to luxuriate in the squish.

But all this is still in tomorrow. Today, the creatures must drag themselves from the pit and attend to the blunt teeth of the day. There are bags to pack and tickets to print and a dozen messages mewling, and it's tricky. It's so tricky—the pit is right there. What if they fall inside?

Maybe they will. Maybe that's okay. Maybe falling is the simplest thing yet.

The creatures had not prepared themselves for how good the pit would feel and they have failed in all their preparations. They have not stockpiled for winter. What if the supplies run out soon?

The creatures cannot bring themselves to care.

The day mewls and the bellies growl with small, soft claws. "I need to go to work," he says. "I know," she says. They lie and watch the sky change to a grey uncertain pink.

The world is made up of so much skin and she thinks about scrambling but this thing is so simple and so sweet. Outside the pit, the world continues its ministrations. The sky continues to change.

Monday, 11 August 2014


I wake curdled and plot ways to make the day acceptable. All-girl groups, loud and louder. Slow coffees. Scratching an insect bite all the way to the blood.

I drop a glass, my favourite glass, and in the slo-mo instant of falling, I curse myself, my life and gravity. But the glass bounces without a crack and for a moment I let myself feel wonderful.

Too many hours of sleeping and I am bloated and loose like tomatoes watered too many times.

Blown summer weeds are taking over my balcony and I can’t decide who to support. The flowers, the gaudy red geraniums who huddle in my boxes, laughing at the sun? Or these spindly interlopers, who scaled six floors to park themselves in my life, who are—already—taller than the rest?

I am such a sucker for persistence. But there’s another charm altogether in telling myself it’s okay to choose.

My pen springs a leak all over my fingers and I wonder if this should be my next tattoo. To be marred forever by my own future intent—it seems charming.

I need so many reminders to keep doing the things I mean to do.

I take thirty minutes at the start of a day to write this down and it is strange how the words work, how placing language over the muss of life—like marks on tracing paper, like trigonometry—serves to coalesce so many things.

I let my own metaphors take root. I go to the balcony and close my fists around a plant and yank. I let my feet be scattered with soil.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Feedback Loop

The more work she has to do, the more the girl wants to stay in bed and jerk off. The more the girl stays in bed and jerks off, the more the girl is impressed with her own priorities, the more the girl thinks, damn girl, you are making some fine decisions. The more the girl’s priorities align in the direction of smut and shirking, the more attractive a prospect the girl finds herself. The girl in bed becomes hotter. Look at the girl, flicking off responsibilities like so many summer bluebottles. The girl in the bed becomes hotter; the fingers of the girl become wetter; the work does not get done. The less the work gets done, the greater the importance of getting out of bed becomes. The more inappropriate staying in bed and jerking off becomes. The greater the temptation. It is summer and the room reeks of cunt like stagnant lake water. The girl knows she should do something soon but it is summer and it is so damn hot, so she balances on the bank and arches her body and completes a perfect swan dive. The girl takes another deep breath and plunges into green.