Monday, 26 July 2010

Your Eyes

I thought I knew the weight of a glance:

The gentle glimmer of the wind’s dance;

The meadow’s dew-clad morning scent;

The sun celebrating the cloud’s relent;

The soft tongues of dusk’s dark skin;

The warmest touch of the night within.

Until, one moment, meeting by chance,

You showed me what lies beyond the glance.

Thursday, 22 July 2010

Star #4

His pink and blood flecked face stares out,

From the scarred asphalt paving slabs.

A thousand footsteps press about,

Hammering his eternal scabs.

Flashes pelt his gold-embossed name,

A famous body never seen,

Broken and crushed, looking the same,

A Hollywood grave for James Dean.

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

Girl in LA

First Night Jitters

Could she smell her own blood as she stepped down,

The rubber-clad steps of the Greyhound bus?

Did she taste the flavour of corruption,

The street’s glowing slime and contagious pus?

‘Make sure when you arrive there, you call us.’

Her mother’s gentle, caring reminder.

Now rocking warm and alone, a foetus

With an entire lifetime left behind her.

The hungry boulevard has no grandeur,

Her stilettos beat out her innocence.

The wolves emerge from their red-lit shelter,

Keen snouts pricking the air for precious scents.

One night down so many more to be lived.

To what end if the first is not survived?

Second Week Realisation

The morning coffee smells like a rare gift,

Undeserved, yet so desperately grateful.

She stares vacantly into the black rift,

Tiled with sunshine, her corpse sips and feels full.

Her fake Gucci bag by her blistered feet,

Across the path, she spies its reflection.

Its white, lambskin handles kiss the hot street,

Whilst its owner basks in blank pretention.

Such women are made of her childhood dreams,

Mannequins littering her childhood home.

She slams down her half-drunk coffee and screams,

The dummies stare from their faces of stone.

She goes clattering off down the sidewalk,

Out of earshot, the women do not talk.

Third Month Numb

Skin-like scales of torn paper make their bed,

On the tessellated floor of her home,

Once important lines marked over with red,

Now hollow and torn, their meanings unknown.

Scraps of language littering her sweet head,

So many tongues and names, yet she’s alone.

The woman she was in her dreams is dead

Her own voice a blank, cadaverous tone.

Her life lies in piles, just size two algae,

Her eyes have bled out, her pelvis aching,

She so yearned to be an anomaly,

But ended up the same as everything.

A body sold on a sun-baked story,

And then sold again for next to nothing.

Thursday, 15 July 2010


Sitting in front of a marble coffee table,
Snort a line,
Wait for cab to West End,
Friend in from LA,
Have to make sure delivery comes before I leave.
Look at phone.
Doesn't ring.
Ah... tastes good.
No alcohol to mask its flavour.
Look at TV - switched off already.
Check playlist on Spotify.
Sit back.
Sigh deeply.
Phone rings.

Monday, 12 July 2010

Thru Till Morning - For Garth

The evening’s ghost clings fast to your bowed head,

The morning sunlight trickling through the night,

You leave the dark souls to play with their dead,

Turning your eyes to dawn’s soft crimson light.

The music of midnight fades out of sight,

Animated dolls collapse where they stand,

Sleeping kids exit their worlds full of fright,

Whispering back to the warm, living land.

And Morpheus slowly lets go your hand,

Taking your waking dreams far, far away,

Leaving you so still, staring where you stand

Though you silently beg for him to stay.

And the faintest talons of night’s brisk cold,

Vanish as black becomes glittering gold.

Tuesday, 6 July 2010


I kill myself slowly,
saw till veins sever.
The demons, they know me,
And embrace me forever.


What do you do
when your whole life ends,


You realise
You're still breathing?

Monday, 5 July 2010

End Game

Unsure as I am on how to proceed

I bow to your summons, defer to your need.

For I see in your eyes

The plea to despise,

And I, like a pill, succumb to your greed.

What will you do when I break from my cell,

Not heeding your call, ignoring your yell?

Will you wither and die,

Or scream, scold and lie,

As I drag your soul down to foul hell?

Saturday, 3 July 2010


Today I tattooed myself with the letter 'Z'.

I carved the lines into the webbing between the index and middle fingers of my left hand, then rubbed vermilion ink into the open wound.

The letter stands for Zigeuner - the German word for 'gypsy' - and preceded the tattooed numbers used for prisoner identification in Auschwitz.

My family is of Romany descent.

And now I have a permanent, homemade reminder that no matter how bad shit gets

it's never as bad as that.

Friday, 2 July 2010


Dear Grace Coddington,
I think you're THE SHIT.
You should be long gone,
You're too good for it.

Thursday, 1 July 2010


Their points tiptoe across

The surface of his skin,

Poking holes therein,

Leaving his body in distress.

Their burning stab still slays,

When he tightens his eyes,

Their bite draws weak cries,

It's forever like that. Always.

He accepts their poisoned sting,

The needles dig deeper,

Reminding him of her,

That, in truth, she is everything.