Out on the moors in the middle of the night, we dance with the ghosts of Heathcliff and Catherine, and when the wind blows just right, we hear the victims of Hindley and Brady having risen from their infant graves by the cries of our childish hearts. With their laughter ringing in our ears as… Read more

  We could spend the night drinking those bright blue cocktails that turn our piss a funny colour and we could smoke cigars and instead of savouring the taste just swallow the smoke until it burns our insides like crispy old newspapers left beneath the boiling sun during those long summer months where nothing happened… Read more

  Lactating lovers on the brink of an epiphany and the bliss of sleeping in until midday without trace of a hangover. Kiss me beneath a Ferris wheel- hold me as the bus we’re on careers off the road and plunges into the lake we’ve spent so many hours stood around feeding the ducks no matter… Read more

  Wine and Pixies and the way she spreads herself wider than I could ever imagine and even though we’ve been drinking for twelve hours straight I’m still hard and her body is melting and when my tongue touches her plastic lips it drips drips drips and even though her parents think I’m nice there’s… Read more

  Sleeping, breathing, stuff like that. Sunlight through the blinds. Dried seed on the insides of her thighs and bedsheets that should’ve been washed the week before last. She smells like butter, or maybe Battenberg cake. Her body will one day wrinkle and sag and there will be a time when it will be as if… Read more

  She told me her name was Amelia, and she looked like Medusa, y’know, snakes in her hair that writhed around her body drawing attention to those child-bearing hips of hers. She was lost in the moment, zoning in and out as the music took her some place she’d been trying to claw back to ever… Read more

  She dwells at the bottom of the sea. She is an orchid- a vision behind the mirror that itches my teeth and dances under my tongue. She draws the curtains and touches herself as wild horses storm the sidewalk stamping on those who never believed in her love. Fingers sinking in, she leans her… Read more

  The past is a dirty magazine. Its pages stuck together with dried seed from all the times I’ve leafed through and perved over images I know far too well. Writing to remember, and drinking to forget- I’m not quite sure how it works, either. Fell asleep thinking about Winona Ryder’s breasts with a smile spreading… Read more

  Safe poets who write their lives away never once getting to the source of what it means to be alive. We were made to suffer, and yet they act as if the poetry of our souls were second best to second rate stories involving characters with less flesh on them than some dumb fuck… Read more

  She does a line of coke that snakes its way around a crushed spider on the coffee table. Legs in the air with a belly full of beer, I light the Polaroid and sniff the melting plastic as if it were a newborn baby. Taking the clipper in hand and shaving off the hair that… Read more