The stink of inactivity turns me on like you wouldn’t believe. My own. Yours. Both at the same time. Everything ignites. Everything trembles. The thought of us spending days on end in bed together like the old people in Willy Wonka– it does more to me than all the porn in the world. Our filthy… Read more

The bus stop blues. The leaves on the trees that end up in my pocket. Will use them as bookmarks. Should’ve worn a scarf because the chill wind keeps creeping under my collar and freezing me. It grabs my balls and turns them into tiny marbles, or those stones you get on false beaches that… Read more

In the bottle, there’s God. In your belly, God also. Everything else is dust. Everything else just pales in comparison to the mystery of your kiss and the bliss of falling asleep beneath the stars not fearful of tomorrow. I’ve mentioned before how Bukowski said that drinking is like a suicide attempt you wake up… Read more

By the sea. Some place by the sea. A lighthouse and a cigarette and the memory of a kiss that tastes of liquorice. Fields and more fields. Another cigarette. Toothache and then a store that sells aspirin but not the good kind so the cheap stuff it is, washed down with a cheap can of… Read more

Those bus journeys to towns and villages as quaint and typically English as the music of Nick Drake. Time stands still in such places. The world stops, and the cities you read about in the papers are as distant and unreal as your dreams. Much of my childhood was spent travelling to and from these… Read more

As I enter the indoor market, there’s a stall that once sold an abundance of socks. Just socks. In all shapes and sizes. The old couple who used to run it are now dead and buried in a cemetery on the outskirts of town. Never knew their names, just their wrinkly faces. The stall doesn’t… Read more

The acne on your back and the scars on your knees and the butter on toast you eat while sat on the porch looking out at the sea wishing for something more. The little hairs on your arms and the even littler hairs on your upper lip that stir so invisibly as your heart beats… Read more

Something about a stairwell. Frosted glass. The shops at the top of the road. The old people’s home and the porno mags we once found in the bushes that surrounded it. One day they were filled with earwigs, and the image of a naked woman hasn’t been the same for me ever since. All of… Read more

Lock your fingers in mine, and sniff me. Sniff me the way you sniff the pages of an old book. Desire my warped mind and seek me out even though there’s nothing much to it save for dust and the remnants of dead stars and the memories of old TV shows I used to watch… Read more

Gore videos and alcohol and all the loveless lovers that cling to ghosts while looking up at the sky wishing for something when there’s nothing. Cigarettes and coffee and books on childhood trauma as some fat man gets his arms hacked off with a dull machete that prolongs the agony just fine. With his chubby… Read more