Two parties, two men.
I should be ashamed,
I suppose I am.
That religious upbringing,
Instilling it’s ugly ideas
of connecting guilt with
physical pleasure,
Well, my Lord, I am guilty.

The first, he was new,
It was fun, but had
the potential.
He didn’t use me
Like the second insists.
And now?
Now I think
he wants my company.

And the other?
He is not new,
I use to try,
Last time well
that was just for fun.
Fun, physical fun,
but fuck, don’t
I need a wash now.

I am unsure,
I thought of the first man
with the second,
but did not think of anyone first.
The second assumes
he owns me.
Despite his beliefs,
I am his no longer.

Number Five

You’re very skinny, but
some girls go for that.
“I found what you like
little kisses down your neck”.
Kissing on the stairwell,
Kissing on the couch,
Just kissing, kissing, kissing you,
I’m drunk and you’re dressed as a nun.
Your grip gets firmer
My kisses get quicker.
He doesn’t know,
What he kissed,
Some girls go for skinny men.

Fiction (2)

Yes but I’d drop anyone for you.
Other men are very nice but they aren’t you.
And I can’t write.
Can’t write this.
Can’t say it.
But we’ll end up married, my dear.
End up married, miserable
with all those ugly children.
We’ll have those mundane jobs,
and you’ll have your car
that you’ll spend too much time polishing.
And I’ll still have this pen,
and write fiction of us.
Another woman’s reality.

A loss

Pink against blue

Reflected off glass high-risers.

A city carrying on.

The undeterrable city,

Once she built ships,

Only the fragmented Victorian pastiche remains,

Her voice still loud nonetheless,

How they wish they could control her,

Shouting ‘yes’ against the sky,

She wants freedom which extends,

Extends the seas her ships sailed.

Overlooking a sunset from above,

An entire city at the fingertips.

The pink is a kind a of blossom,

A sanctuary in the sky,
Oh, writer, you are idealistic!

This city has lost more than ship,

More than independence,

More than victims,

More than the sun.

Anyone could be watching,

But he’s better than a whole city,

And he’s the real loss. 

The wise ones 

I’ll scream and cry,

Until I’m entirely alone.

In my self-inflicted cage,

I’ll lash at walls,

And scratch at flesh

With all the fierceness and intensity

Of the possessed.

A beast, avoided,

Suffocating itself 

With hate, hate and rage.

My insides red raw, gushing,

Spitting bile and words,

Screaming to be heard,

But no one is there to hear.

They left long before this,

When the outbursts began, they ran.

The wise ones.


Oh my mother figure,

Passionate, assured being, disfigured 

Militant words waged.

Falling on a being stupid, enraged,

And the talking, talking, talking

Landing deaf-earred blocking.

I moved out after 18 years.

Did not need her “facism” then,

Do no need your “socialism” now. 


He walks home. It’s not an interesting story, he’s no different from normal. He’s just walking home. Arcade Fire are playing or something, he’s thinking about how little his flatmate does the dishes, what film will he watch tonight, maybe booking that gig. His year abroad. He’s just walking home, it’s not unusual, he doesn’t do much exciting. But he’s better than a whole city.