We are your lovers and sons and we are satellites that orbit the source of what drives us in this continual thirst for the truth. We are your bad machines and wicked children and as you swim through the stars we surf the cosmic waves behind you and cling to the strands of your… Read more

  Our love is a porno. It speeds like white horses and cocaine through the veins of those dying junkies we step over on our way to bars that never seem to close. Y’know, the ones that stink of beer and stale piss and the sweat of bodies aching for release yet of which are… Read more

  Split lip. Blood on my teeth. A forest that spreads like her legs on fresh linen as the animals wave hello from deep within. Smooth skin. Small ankles. Wine and trees and foxes and owls that howl and toot as we merge beneath grasping branches. Brunette. Blond. Tingling toes and eyes that search for… Read more

  Guarding the gates of heaven with one-armed scissors, we make notes in journals that will become nothing more than ashes. Embracing in the maelstrom, we come undone to a soundtrack of slashed throats and grinding teeth as angels pluck feathers from their dirty wings as they fall through the air before crashing through the… Read more

  Memories. Fantasy. Childhood. The denial of the adult world. The in and out that follows a bottle or two of wine that follows a night on the town that follows a trip to the cinema. Striped tights. Blue eyes. Hearts as pupils as black holes as we sink our fingers into popcorn while thinking… Read more

  As she swirls in circles, I eat fried chicken while trying to figure out the pagan alphabet. She wants me to scrawl certain words onto her torso- words of my choosing she’ll one day turn into tattoos. In four billion years, The Milky Way will merge with the Andromeda galaxy. It’ll be a wonderful sight… Read more

  Curled on the floor wearing just my dressing gown, I’m silent and without motion. Somewhere in the heavens above there exists enough planets to match the number of atoms in my body. Black stockings. Black lipstick. Near infinite fields of view with you reclining on a deck chair while nude and whispering my middle name. Ghostbusters… Read more

  Messy rooms. Umbilical cords. Flowers in a vase that symbolise a desire to make love against a tide that just won’t quit. Moths. Underwear. Books as portraits as kisses as fucking. Your favourite worst memory? Your first sexual experience? The first time you drank to block out the tedium of your ever-so-samey life? Identity.… Read more