Wednesday, 30 October 2013


The boy with the anarchist tattoo says “You do decadence well” and I agree, the other boy agrees; we draw up a deed poll for our senate proclaiming “Jane wins at life.”

We three are lying on my penthouse floor in a fugue of red light, smoke, champagne spills and drying sweat, and I can barely remember how to breathe.

There is so much skin covering the corners of my body and these patchwork bruises are waved surrender flags giving up on ownership, saying hey goddamit take whatever it is you please.

We toast everything: this evening, this view, this birthday. We mainly toast ourselves.

I try to recline like Botticelli but my face is plastered with the renaissance of this grin and instead I start giggling.

It is way too late for cool. I am way too fun for dignity. Everything is way too much or exactly the right amount. I have no idea which way to turn.

Monday, 28 October 2013

What they said

They say I want doesn’t get because they are idiots who never knew how to say please to the universe. I am learning so many contrary lessons. I am living in Berlin listening to the Cabaret soundtrack, requesting all the things I would like brought to my boudoir. I am full of want and I deserve everything I get.

Ah these months, these broken champagne flutes—did I mention it is almost my birthday? Did I mention I can’t swipe this stupid fucking grin off my face?

Think for a moment of the things you are most terrified to put into words, because just maybe if you did you would discover that yours is not an eternal corridor petalled with roses. Just maybe the bastards in charge would say no.

Now open your fucking lungs, mein Herr, meine Dame. Stop hiding beneath your patchwork quilts, all worked over with purple thread. Stop believing in cracks.

There is nothing wrong with being a freak and a fruit with small scrabbled hands. There is nothing wrong with you. You need to stand on those perched heels and open your mouth. You need to let them stuff the entire universe inside.

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Character sketches

The boy with no hair has the sharpest of teeth. We roll in sugar dust & popcorn husks, trying to pull each others’ pigtails. I am left with a fistful of grins.

The boy with the gelatine vowels tells me I am so goddamn sweet when he smacks my face on the hardwood floor. My bruises are strings of unbinary code; they carry letters and laughter through my skin.

The girl with the candied orange peel voice rustles, badger-like in the undergrowth. I shout “I love you” and push her in the waterfall (there is tinfoil glinting in her hair).

The boy with the tiger stripes is going out and smooshing his softness against dark city corners. The night is a giggling beast with a velvet tongue, and I want to gallop in pony hooves by his side.

The girl with the magical fists has promised me a date. She is tea and whisky and blanket forts—we are cosy—and November is a month with jaws.

The boy with the Irish filth mouth is crackled stubble behind a candelit fire. We slide down giant metal slides into pits of sand (we slide down silk) and everything is gritty for days.

The boy with the cartoon fingers makes me egg burritos for breakfast, makes grapefruit salsa, hands me a vanity mirror pasted with vintage smut and says look at all the things you have done.

The girl who reeks of smoke and bath salts is so far away and sporadic. I want to bring her rope ladders and books with folded corners (I want to tell her it is all going to be fine).

We are sitting in the anarchist bar puddling beer on the tabletop and I am laughing, because we three are new stories, we are poetry, we are longform novels telling the secrets of the universe. A message from the tiger boy says “it’s utterly astounding” and I know it. I have to agree. I want to explain to the others that being left alone is nothing like you thought it would be, that the air up here is so thin and so sharp—it makes me giddy. I want to explain how you can feel it all the way down your throat, how you will taste sherbet and flying saucers, the way your teeth will vibrate. I want, I want. I want everything and it all.

Saturday, 19 October 2013

Queer 4!

I'm super-honoured to be in PANK's Queer Issue, burbling about girls with tails.

Also, read Kima Jones's Editor's Note, she has smart things to say.

"Part of queering literature is queering the lens with which we look at words."


Tuesday, 15 October 2013


So distracted of late. So many things to do. I feel the tug of writing about to start again this week, but in the meantime enjoy this: the National Anthem of Balconia.

Saturday, 5 October 2013


For my birthday this year we will be mainly playing Tischtennis.

Tuesday, 1 October 2013


by Oh Comely magazine, in case you were wondering about all the things that go on in my head.

So what else do you want?

We are sitting in the bar and she asks me, "So what else do you want?" and I laugh, because it has been a long time since anyone said that, a long time since someone asked as if things were easy spread gems across the runways of life's video games, as if we could choose our path to pick them. I laugh because in six months everything has changed so much I barely recognise my grin in the mirror.

What else do you want?

I just want his hands to stop shaking, for a moment, to breathe.
I just want to get through the next five hours until sleep comes like bird wings and we are sunk under feathers.
I just want to drink this.
A moment to wail and gnash my teeth for all my things that are broken; just a moment to mourn my life instead of supergluing the shards of his
I want you to feed me gin the way you always do and sing me juniper-soaked lullabies about the highest shelf
I want to believe I can pay my way, I need money to fall on me like stop-gap animations of snow
I need to get laid oh holy shit I need to get laid
I need a holiday in a country where the sun never sets and the lakes are vanity mirrors for the smugness of the sky
I need friends who will drop everything when I panic in the bathtub to bring me cedarwood and blutorange and smudge the corners all with sage
And, oh,
I want
I want to flail 5.a.m to drag queens and rock&roll filth
I want to rip my clothes off and smudge these purple glitter-vaseline eyes, leap into that swimming pool, and bob
I want you to slap me holy-ow-shit hard
I want two-feet-take-offs in skates, landing on my feet or my face
Hairpulls and highhats and headstands
Fables in the kitchens, cigarettes
Stories in magazines
Cellos on stages
Teeth in skin
A moment to sit and inhale between the torrents of life and take stock of what just happened
What just happened?

It is the last day of September and we are sitting in the bar and she asks me, "So what else do you want?"' and I look at the week ahead of me and laugh because I am fucking ready for October, I am ready for feral undergrowth, I am ready to be a grownup, I am already there.

I once watched a projection on old rat-a-clack film of a typewriter being slowly, infinitesimally, covered in falling snow. Crouched by the gallery wall, we were so close to the typewriter; the keys were huge. I luxuriated in the curves of g. I watched the bars pile up with sharp white walls. The typewriter was smooth black plastic with the first feathers of snow on its bulk. The typewriter keys were cutouts and tutorials in space. The snow fell and built up tiny-huge typewriter drifts. The black disappeared. The angles disappeared. The holes between the keys became soft, sweet slalom runs, winking in the sunshine. It happened so smoothly. It was impossible to say when this thing became something else, something smothered; I could not have pointed to a moment and told the typewriter to run.

It is the first day of October and all the muscles in my body are screaming curses in Mexican because I never learned how to let them get warm--I either sit and do nothing or I leap and I run. It is the first frosts and time for thinking about saunas, a swaddle of green glass warmth round my body, pricked shards of the cold of the snow. I felt bad for a while because I tried to make everything different, I tried to stop time, I tried to clear the falling snow with my hands. Everything happened so slowly that I did not know how to stop it. Everything fell so quickly that when I tried to fix it, I was just flinging dominoes at a racecourse track, begging them to stand.