Words and grease and spit. And nude photographs of the elephant man’s mother. And underwear stolen from the washing line of an ex-lover. You know, the one with those lips I spoke about, the ones that invade my dreams and glisten like the shiny surface of an apple covered in a sweet toffee glaze. When I open my eyes and search the sky, there are curls of hair and whispered words regarding the meaning of what it is to write about love and how it fucks you up. There are pages upon pages of thoughts and desires about women and the absence of women and the women that bring on the absence of women and of the feelings within my tiny glass heart that feel so alien to me even after so long. It’s a messy affair, but one that shouldn’t be ignored. I’m told by some to be more coherent, and while I agree that a certain structure is needed when it comes to channelling these inner desires, you can fuck off if you think I’m gonna turn into a good machine. Yeah there’s poetry and yeah there’s a need to touch the hearts of others, but to see her with her legs spread wide by candlelight is what forces my hand more than you’d ever believe. There are stars that eat stars. There are car crashes where bodies burn with blackened arms raised to the big empty. There are atrocities perpetrated by the living dead on those whose only wish it is to exist without living in fear. But no matter what, we shall rise, just the same as she will always smile despite the horrors that are thrown her way. These hands of mine have known much perversity, and yet they have been graced by beauty, and it’s beauty that drives me to keep going. It’s the wonder of what she is behind her skin that makes this tiny heart of mine sing a different tune.