6 03 2018

‘Babygirl…’ he breaths into the night before his fingers disappear under the hem of your dress. You bend and lean and arch under his touch, melting into the soft outlines of his body, soaking in his perfume, breathing in his breaths. And they come rapid and harsh – you feel them on your skin, traversing those few millimetres of distance between you that still keep the scene relatively tame for the guileless onlooker.

‘Now that’s my girl.’

It’s a statement. More like a whisper, hardly audible, but it still hits you right where it counts, sending you in a tailspin as you feel the proverbial walls close around you. He’s got you right where he wants you and you would not rather be anywhere else.

Unknowingly, he makes time stand still for a moment. Just long enough so that the memory burns into your brain with such vivacity that you know it’ll never leave. That’s how you’ll always remember the boy that held you so many nights, for so many unspoken reasons.




21 02 2018

There’s so much that happened since the dawn of the Urban Nouveau. There were so many words exchanged, secrets whispered into the damp half-light, as sighs and curses and trembling bodies melted into one under the covers of a new age.

I remember his face from back then. I remember little else.

Little else but the urge I felt to kiss him, to press my lips against his as he holds open the taxi door for me, and leave him with a lingering taste of The Botanist in his mouth. The urge to unbutton his shirt and slide it past his shoulders, exposing his porcelain skin that always seemed to glow under the bare moonlight.

I got lost in the birth of a new age, the revolutionary sentiment that carries you forward from one era to the next, offering my affections to the Jean d’Arc of the story – the figurehead of the revolution that shall perish by the end of the movement whatever you do, however much you want him to stay.

For a moment, I felt thirteen again – so full of hopes and dreams, so willing to open my heart, so ready for a great adventure. Suddenly, I’ve had little understanding of what love was or how humans worked. Suddenly I was drunk with the revolutionary spirit, holding its banners above my head and shouting curses into the night. All shall catch fire. All shall be consumed.

I was madly lost in the raging stream, running with the waves as they crashed against the rocky coastline, breaking and foaming and perishing against sharp edges in the night.

Before I knew, my nose bled. I fell asleep midway through a sentence just to dream of past loves and watch the flicker go; then I was dragged back into the stream, trying to finish a sentence that was long past my reach. I was spinning and trapped between two plastic sheets, a nostril clogged and another just a waste of flesh, my chin pointing to the ceiling and blood running quietly in the darkness.

I was sweating out a fever that wasn’t really mine, anyway. It’s one that I contracted along the way to Shangri-La, one that made the road back to Albion almost impossible at times. I lay feverish for what felt like a few lifetimes before I heard the seagulls again.

But like all good stories, this one needs an end, too. One that will come filled with the scent of flowers and vibrant colours of places I haven’t been to before. No more descending into the rabbit-hole or walking through mirrors for now – this time, I promise.

The beginning has ended. It’s time for the Golden Age.


Young Frank

20 02 2018

One look at you and I melt. One look and I… melt away into the great nothing. Uppers turn into downers and I’m spinning in circles until the bottom comes and reaches after me. I’d bite down on my lips but my mouth is full of beads – and I keep chewing, chewing and chewing until my gums bleed and the shards go deep into my flesh.

I submerge into the dark ocean beneath me and it closes around me in a warm embrace. I let it drown out all sound, every little noise. It’s just me in this endless, empty wall of water, pinned up like a butterfly and yet sinking like a stone. Dead and buried under the sediment of time.

Nothing ever grows here. Les fleurs du mal wilted a long time ago. Now it’s just wasteland, a desert island full of silence and long-forgotten echoes of screams. Even pain has left this place. Some things are simply beyond repair…

And there’s a pause.

Then you push the blade so deep into my chest that for a moment I feel it again. The island comes to life and the screams send shivers down my spine. It’s all very real and so intensely painful that I’m certain it’ll kill me. And so it does. Again. And again, again and again, with every breath, with every inch of steel that cuts through my flesh, with every moment that I spend thinking about you.

There’s little more than hurt that springs to mind when I picture your face. Sometimes I think you were nothing but karma.




19 01 2018

It’s like a bad hangover. I’m trying to get you out of my system and you just won’t go… You linger in my bloodstream, making my heart heavy and my breathing shallow as I sink into the covers. Small acts of comfort. Large troubles ahead. And the fingers in my hair that belong to a lovely friend who’s happy to do a fry-up the next morning.

I turn around and he smiles at me. It’s one of those smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes – I see nothing but pure sadness in them. We stay still for a minute, breathing in the cold air as the clock strikes 4 AM.

We kiss – but only in thought, only in some faraway place, and he holds me, just holds me, until I can’t see anything but his ripped shirt and can’t feel anything but the rough fabric against my skin.

Tears are rolling down my face and I don’t even notice. He asks me why but the answer’s something he wouldn’t want to hear. Not really. Not that it matters, anyway.

And we stay frozen, tangled and very, very silent for the rest of the night.




12 01 2018

Italics of motion – tiny playing cards laid out and indented, leaning and flowing into each other in a parade of colour and sounds. Italics of time – moments of stillness melting into motion, zig-zagging their way through matter like it’s nothing.

Transverse section. Vivisection. An autopsy of the soul as much as anything.


Caterpillars turning ashen and cold – nothing blooms this time of the year.

A wall of water holding you under, hugging you with dead arms, pushing you face-first into the sand, until your lungs fill with water and your skin’s sore with a million little pin-pricks. Everything dies with you – all the little fires, all your fleeting fancies – and you die a million deaths just to make sure they are fully gone for once.

Only the dead survive in this weird, empty upside-down.


Welcome to the Urban Nouveau

1 01 2018

It’s a steady glint in the air – a spark of something not-quite-there that gets everyone on edge. You lean in, icy digits press into jawbones and there’s a sweet pause before you notice the chill of his seal ring against your skin.

‘Hey.’ The conversation’s bleak but you keep it up anyway, both playing up the scene that’s not anything special, really, and yet it must look a tad intriguing from a distance as you suddenly feel dozens of eyes on you. You smile into his dark strands, lips curling into an evil little smirk as he mutters on about something trivial in a muffled voice.

Now the crowd’s whispering. What a wonderful scene! You lower your hand ever so slightly, sliding your fingers down his neck and onto his shoulder, letting the light catch on the jewels of your bracelet.

Now he gets it. You know he does as he quietly slides a hand onto your knee and chuckles into the waterfall of blonde strands framing your neck. It’s a game, a game of appearances, a game of spectacle, marvel, a wonderful little jewel of excitement in an otherwise rather dull night.

And then you dance. Slowly, to some old song, swinging back and forth with ease, gleaming and glittering in a room filled with the whispers of the herd.

Celebrity’s a dead art in the Age of Social Fordism.



Stitching us up

14 10 2017

Vivisection of the soul, a forced meeting – of the little girl that perished and the brother who loved her just a little too much.

A blurring of all lines – a flowing together of sorts. Of time and all other boundaries.

Like a shadow, forever one but always wearing two faces. The brother, the lover, and the little girl in between.

A river of silence keeps the scene together – a broken photograph covered in the dust of time.

Love, a decade has passed. So much has changed on the other side of ‘the silence’.

But here we whisper, We wait. Mute, we bathe in air slick with your love-stained kisses