Shelley’s Literary Monster


I am writing a letter because my silence has been grated and i am tiring of the absence. I am a page left curling against the heat of pigeon-winged coal, guided only by typographic strings that bar the way to speaking out. And these pages are no longer strong but weak, like tissue that’s been held for too long in a sweaty palm. I am nervous. Anxious. Brains have become clouds, translucent and vague but ever so easy to cut through with the metal of a jumbo jet blade. Emotionally traumatised, physically unhinged. Where was i? A crumpled ball of paper hurled at yellow talons.

A new, ivory slice presents itself before me. The ink is wet. It wants to touch, to taste, to stain the page. Am i the one to imbue life through these lines? Will i give birth through the scoring of black arteries, hoping to see the words thrum and the punctuation to rise and fall; literate lungs, syntactically stitched. When i colour you in with phonetic prostrations will you murmur and wail like a child, grappling with speech? Will my emotive language punch a heart into the fabric of your being?

But despite all these things i will leave you blind, save for the knowledge of my relations, frustrations. You will learn from the whispered entries of my publicly dialled down thoughts and know only the misfortune of the private appearance, hidden and scarred. Scarred and ignorant. You are the side effect i created by chance.





Stress and rage move hand in hand, they are dancers in a ring of roses, made only out of thorns.


I am a beacon and out flows lines of ebony that crease under the strain of gravity, telling me to lower my volume. When i want to break out i am hushed by the silence of the room closing in, saying shush now child in that patronising tone that gives leave to my authority as speaker. I’m wearing a collar of words, stemming the breath that is trying to escape. I am intoxicated by carbon dioxide dreams lulling me towards goodbye.

What brings on the frustration that manages to filter through the crevices of my mind? Pressing against my temples like piercings along a spine? This is a constraint upon my thought process; i am no longer all seeing but half blinded by confusion and despair. Everything seems awry while weight after weight lays me down to rest in a grove with no willing protection against the fall of raindrops, pressing me to the earth. But i can no longer resist the power of nature, drawing me into her through incantations of an easier path where we no longer need worry about trivialities, about society and constructing identity as if it was the one true meaning of life. To work towards working and working towards more work. Is this the cycle we are doomed to recite in this live, die, repeat-VR game-world-structure? There is no pause, no second chance. So where do we stand when the blankets have suffocated our dreams and the smallest words seem to shatter our nerves?

All that remains is us, an expanse of crops, pulled too early and trembling because we have been abused by the time spent musing over rules of what we have been made to think is important but not what makes us free. To stress is to feel as barren as the ocean when coral reefs have fallen to ashes. It is to feel like water slowly boiling in a pan, knowing that soon, we will burst.

Something New

Touching you is new.

Touching you is like sticking my tongue in a plug socket just to feel the rush of static on my breath.

Touching you is like colliding against the pavement at 3am in the morning, when I’m off my tits on booze but having a bloody great time anyway.

Touching you is like being soaked in baby oil

And our movements are fluid as we ascend the waterfall of our greatest dreams.

Touching you is having my body bleed into the sheets as you push me under

Feeling enveloped as if 20 puppies were suffocating me through their own formidable cuteness.

Touching you is sensual, even when it’s not supposed to be.


Hugging you is new.

Hugging you is like falling into the sand only to emerge with seaweed lining my eyes.

Hugging you is like breathing again after having stood fear stricken waiting until that spider I’ve been staring at for over half an hour has finally waltzed away, back to the depths of hell.


Kissing you is like blowing out birthday candles in July.

Kissing you is like opening a brand new book and inhaling like it’s my own brand of cocaine.

Backtrack, kissing you, kissing me, you’re my personal brand of heroin and we’re making a transfusion of our own DNA.


Loving you is like waiting for that voluptuous baked potato to finish roasting in the oven, lips coveting fragile pleasures to wait.


But when I can’t kiss you, there’s a paper doll masquerading in my way.

When I can’t hug you I am a loose wire touched by wet hands, feeling abused by the angry voices cursing my name.

When I can’t touch you I am sticking my tongue into plug sockets, waiting, but getting struck.


Loving you is like watching my mother’s dog being driven away and never knowing where he spent his last days. It is as hard as my head on the pavement when my drunken thoughts have sent you off and I can smell Subway mixed with sodden dismay.


But loving you is like stepping into a lecture hall naked and laughing because to hell with social norms.

Loving you is caring the way I cry when a seagull has fucked off with my chips.


Loving you is new.


Child of Mine


Don’t upset the child that waits within. She clusters close to the pane that offers hope, but is often obscure, like the breath of a ghost. Her cries are without symphony, they’re mangled and maimed like a deer in the woods with a beat that suffers slower and slower. I write rhythms not rhymes she cries, oh she whines. She is not silent and yet she is, she is a contradiction with no reason to her actions, she just is. She is constant, but ever changing; did I say she was simple?

The girl is the wing man to your night, the stock character hidden from the plot line. She is secondary; she is emotion, so volatile she must be upbraided, snuffed out as a candle dripping on flesh for the sake of a cheap thrill.

I’m scared to let out the child. She is the inner me, the necessary component lighting my nerves so i’m no longer just a robot programmed to act without feeling. And it’s truly terrifying.  I want to bare my feelings like my body, to have it caressed and comforted the way it is stimulated. But i must be blank, empty as an ink cartridge, careful not to print the wrong thing; it’s not what you ordered. If i open up like these parting legs would you enter into this cavern with me? Could you find me along the folds of our sheets to hold my hand close? Because sometimes a smile is not enough to hold it in. And when we embraced my body was open but so was the window to the girl climbing out. Her foot is hooked on a hold i cannot shake and here i’m left ready to show you what i am, beneath this barrier of flesh, just a child needing help and assurance.

But with a cry you turn from my face- this is not what you expected.

Please don’t leave, i didn’t mean to go too deep. Just forget it all, let’s go back to just you and me, the lock and the key, this function so simple how could we be anything but free? Lets be slaves to our bodies, crushing together in a cycle of lust. We can lie like we’re one and pretend it’s fun! Oh the fun. All the fun.

So much fun.


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.