Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Depth Perception

Hey cuties, it's time for your annual public service announcement that Hollywood was wrong! Slamming doors and yelling things on drizzly street corners and slapping your lover in the face and being furious and miserable and dramatic is not a sign that your love is foretold in the stars, even though pressing a hand to your forehead is superfun. This year, you are allowed to be nice to each other and make each other happy and, if you are not making each other happy, you are allowed to leave.

Also this year: read more female authors, take more bubble baths, and always use more lube.

And on that note, here is a flash fiction about love & fireworks & the myth of deep-and-meaningful, DEPTH PERCEPTION, published today in the ever-awesome Wigleaf.


Sunday, 28 December 2014


the furniture seems to be a lot more on fire since I started thinking of you

maybe not

maybe it’s just heartburn

I sit with my stomach and the blue tits chirping

in the smoldering penthouse, drinking rob roys again.

remember when cookie set the attic on fire?

remember the pony girl, remember last year?

since I started thinking of you, everything seems to be a lot more glowy

cosmic deliverance & flamingo treasures

I walk from room to room with a bucket of sand

but I can’t

I tell the cosmic fire your embers are too damn cute

she winks at me and draws back a blaze

like a courtesan I step inside

(via Russel Swensen.)

Saturday, 27 December 2014


The internet isn’t helping.

The internet—like a cat—has no eyelids. That is, it can’t be blinked away. The internet is sticky.

When you wake up on a cold morning and removing your flesh from the duvet is impossible, the internet is a hot pocket of air you curl your toes inside.

The internet will be better this year. Other things that will be better this year include:

headwear / appetiser selections / the weather in fall / your allergies / the traffic on the way to most major appointments / rap music / motivation / the muscles in your lower back / sex

It’s been three days in a row I’ve promised to paint my toenails and

I’ve forgotten, I’ve forgotten, I’ve forgotten

My feet are boring. The days contract. It’s winter and

I’ve barely emerged when it’s already dark, when the sun submerges.

When the hot pocket of duvet beckons.

The internet isn’t to blame, but

I can’t help but wonder what a winter would look like all stretched out

Without a single web-peg to ground me.

You eat the chilli because you’re bored. I can’t blame you.

Your mouth becomes swollen. Your drool is thin and slick.

Maybe I’ll kiss you.

Maybe I’ll let myself become unmoored; I have no need of tethers.

The internet suggests cableties as a cure for everything:

lost keys / loneliness / shelving brackets

But the internet doesn’t know shit.

Bored of Saturdays, I roll a dice and pack a wet sack and blink three times.

When you wake up on a cold morning and escape outside.

Friday, 19 December 2014


He is telling everyone. He is at a funeral, and he tells them. He is at the gallery. He is at the video shop; they are watching the 2004 remake of the Stepford wives, and it’s terrible.

“I’m leaving,” he says.

They ask him all of the questions that are right to ask, and he answers honestly.

“I don’t know.” “I have no idea.” “It’ll work out.”

When he tells her this later, when they are curled respectively in differently-lit bedrooms, pawing at the screen that separates them, she laughs.

“It’s going to be easy,” she says.

What she means is: “I am going to be easy.”

The girl can barely believe it. The girl has spent years being the girl who never asks for anything. The one with shiny boots of pride lined up in her hall.

What she means is: “Do it. Oh do it. Drop everything for me.”

The girl has been reading Grimms’ fairy tales and trying to work out the morals.

She has been keeping a list of the things that people ask for: a golden bird, a little cottage, the wonderful stone, some honey, a piece of meat, the thousand pearls belonging to the king’s daughter, the king’s daughter, to be king. For the head of her slaughtered horse to be hung on the gates of the city. For a mantle of a thousand different kinds of fur put together, to which every beast in the kingdom must give a part of his skin.

Next to them, the girl isn’t asking for much. Sometimes, she cannot tell if she is asking for anything at all.

The last time the girl led a boy to this city, things did not end well. The last boy was swallowed up by the dark winters and thick vowels, and what will the girl do if this happens again? She does not want to be swaddled in sorrow. She will not be lapped by the ox tongue of guilt once more.

So the girl refuses to ask too hard. She is still polishing those boots, she still refuses to say prove it where by it, if she said it, she would mean: your love.

She says, “Do what you want.”

(“Do it, do it, do it.”)

And yet, he is telling everyone.

They have never lived in the same city before and he has no idea what he is going to do and she is still afraid to ask for anything.

Still, she says, “It’s going to be easy.” She believes it.

Kiss me.
Bite the back of my shoulder.
Bring me coffee and morning notebooks.
Leave me alone, I’m writing.
How much?
Tell me how much.
Prove it. 
Be in the front row.
Hook my wrist to this bedpost.
Draw me.
Film me.
Tell me again.
Drop everything for me.

Saturday, 13 December 2014


Last night I dreamed of a girl with a pixie haircut, an Olympic-sized pool, and the chair-oh-plane. I dreamed no one would notice. I dreamed of you, touching the back of my neck, while those seats on chains flew around & around & around.

I was the only one in the swimming pool. And later, at the party, I could still smell the chlorine. I rubbed the skin behind my ears and pressed my palm to my lips. My fingertips against my nose. And every time I smelled it, I remembered that feeling of being sublimely alone.

It’s strange: I never thought that smells could slip through the gap between waking and dreaming. I wouldn’t have believed it. I think, perhaps, it was being surrounded by so many people. My subconscious wrapped a thick hand around my neck and whispered sniff.

But here I am explaining about the pool and the chairs, when I haven’t even mentioned Angie yet. She of the so-sweet and so-fearless. Of the nose piercing and stomach tattoos. She who always smells like throat lozenges, whose fingernails are always so dirty.

I’m sure it’s from operating the winch shaft on the chair-oh-plane. Or it’s from foraging for morels in the woods. Or it’s from all the places where her hands go when they’re not in mine.

Last night I dreamed that no one would notice. I dreamed of girls who don’t exist. I dreamed of the fair that comes once a year. I woke up terrified that these things would be forgotten. That no one would notice. I sat cross-legged by the radiator, in his cardigan, and wrote this down.