The death toll from the burnt-out tower in London keeps rising. There are whispers that the number could hit triple figures, and that some of the victims may never be identified. It’s one of life’s many horrors. These atrocities that snuff out so many before their time- there have been many before, and no… Read more

  There were dreams of fields and reservoirs with wet soil beneath my fingers and then I awoke to the news about the tower block in London setting alight. On the tele, they showed it burning like a firework. The flames were orange and angry, and as the news reporters told stories about those who… Read more

  I am my faults and failings, and I wear them like scars. I am my boredom and lack of interest, and there is nothing to be ashamed of because I write from the heart and nothing else matters. There is love sometimes. There is a passion that burns and simmers, but I do my best… Read more

  There are brown eyes and knife fights and lipless kissing on balconies overlooking seas of limbs and hips and throats that just beg to be bitten because this booze does things to us we can’t deny. There are your hands and my hands and my fingers on your chin as the seasons come and… Read more

  Whenever we put pen to paper, it’s a deliberate act of defiance. We know we’ll be defeated, and yet we stick our necks on the block just the same. When we take a step back and search inside ourselves, we know we’ll flinch at what we’ll see, but fuck it, it has to be… Read more

  It’s Monday morning and we don’t have enough money for the taxi into town so we walk it instead. She needs to pee and the more she complains, the more I entertain the idea of her wetting herself, but thankfully for her, she makes it to the toilets of the indoor shopping arcade just… Read more

  First, comes the removal of our clothes, and the shedding of skin as the flame of the candle slowly climbs the bedroom wall. Second, are my hands that grab your wrists while observing your body as it shimmers in the mirror. Mirrors lie, and yet my eyes do not. There’s sweat and the smell of… Read more

  White wine. Straight from the bottle. Huey Lewis. Hip to Be Square. She digs that, and so do I. Cigarettes. Dead cigarettes. Her body as a sunflower seed. Her belly as a playground for my childish needs. Swimming sperms in tissue paper. Bitemarks on stretchmarks and the sweaty scent of sex that clings to… Read more

  Watch Eraserhead and touch yourself. Eat junk food and sniff the palm of your hand while on the phone to someone you often envision in the nude. You don’t tell them because that would take away the magic, as whenever you speak, your body and mind come together and produce a reaction that exists… Read more