Ask for my story.

I’ll hand it in a casket

and you’ll take it to the grave;

Or even a pawn shop,

where you’ll make a living

out of my porcelain words.

But first, let me wrap it up in a

carmine cast of my withered

brain, forget

the bow, I’ll lace it with vervain.

I’m caustic to the bone,

a wind up doll

ready to explode.

Baby you’re a quick

fuck but I’m a bucking bronco,

and I’ll bang you back home.

You’re lamenting on the endings,

but here we are again,

waiting for that final bong to

blow me out a tick tock tune like-

will you light my final spliff, friend?

I’m the sucker punch to the gut,

the crack in the nuts,

and best of all I can never be snuffed.

So when I can be assed to

break with a laugh

(hahaha oh how i’ll laugh)

remember this: I’m part of history

in a wonderland world of ignominy

and regret, but i’m sure to beset

the minds of the millions in years to come

and then who will have won, when my memory

remains and the disdain is sustained?



*Well done 2016*






Piss Off. Period.

My head is a pile of rotten trimmings, waiting to be defiled by dog’s piss.


I am a being of feeling, with unwanted thoughts that entice my body to communicate, to hum to the rhythm of a beat I don’t, can’t, won’t follow. Can’t I scream? Dance this out, wriggle from my suit so I’m just a wrinkled mess skulking into my home alone? Alas! It finds me. That fair thing that is so wanton to many, it maims me. I cannot rip it from me, it has caught me when I am most frail. This is no mortal wound; it is a hook scratching at my ribs for entry. I daren’t let it puncture me, I daren’t leave it space to see me. But it is so hard, the mind dressing up ideas making the skin quiver and the blood pulse with the vivacity of being caught on a high. I am all blushes, shrinking, falling. Now I am at the threshold, barely able to turn the knob. A lick at the lips, a shuddering breath, a tickle forward and-

The door opens; I am no longer the person I was. I drift in, arms shackled in rope. One is sanguine, the colour of passion, the other blue: woeful, bleak. This is it. A part in euphoria: Oh grand thoughts, satisfy my fancy. It is real! It is true! It must be so- this imagination ardent with love! Oh what a glorious feeling to feel! But oh how the change dispels the image- you are blind. You are a child. Remember this is your weakness! Don’t be duped by your own senselessness. Be the better woman!

Conjectures, denials, appraisals… it’s all a cluster. The shell, the one we lost, it returns little by little, but not before we deliver the final blow; deep within the hook remains, gnawing at the flesh. It is bile, bitter but caustic.

Feel me, it cries. Feed me, it squeals. Satisfy me, it wails.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

So piss off.


Peer into my dividing lines

I am a division.


Sometimes it feels as if i’m straddling several worlds. My mind is a conflict of interests, a battle for an identity I have no power to control, not in a world where societal constructs fashion who I am. Who am I? I’m white. I’m a woman. I’m small. I’m a red head, ginger…or blonde…or neither depending on whose speaking (it’s been a matter of debate my whole life actually). Asides from this, I am a human with passions that define my values and beliefs. 8 years I’ve worked with horses; 6, supporting bands, traversing London and Birmingham meeting new people for the sake of seeing music artists; another 2 planning a career in music journalism only to say, no this isn’t for me; years spent being told I should be an artist, not a writer. Where am I now? Left to define myself in the concepts of fantasy and the macabre because these are what give me inspiration to go on. I drip into fantasy as it cascades over the earth, bringing zeal to its audiences. Yet I also turn into the shadows, waiting to be drowned by the murky  abyss that no one is prepared to enter, so I must go alone and alone I shall be consumed. One is more universally favoured than the other. To admire fantasy is to enter adventure; to follow the macabre is to bare your organs and let your fears fondle your spine.

Am I a traveller for sharing in both worlds? Because I am ready to deal my cards against death? Because I am tasting the temptation of evil but staying rooted to the moral code? Or is it just because I am confronting human nature that I’m beginning to realise we are all travellers? It seems it’s a matter of being. We are all divided by the mind’s fancies. We all make that journey in pursuit of our identity. We are all cogs whirring forward in life, pushing evermore for an understanding of the human condition.