the boy with the red guitar

the boy with the red guitar.

How I wish you’d play me as you play those notes
doting on your red flaming fret.
Start off slow and then progress
till you sing out those metal strings so sharp they cannot burst.
They follow your lead obediently, like little bluebirds stuck fluttering in my heart
thats what she said, I think,
hope is the thing with feathers
as you play your red guitar
strumming for the ladies, strutting your stuff
as you pick her spirits up with a talent only those little birds can know-
a love for a love outside you
a love for a love beyond your heart
a love for a love only the blue bird will know
as it sings through your obedient little metal strings
accompanied by her humming hum hum hum
hum till the hum bleeds out
it will bleed out
for you

but you need not know it
keep strumming your red guitar


if you hold my hand

if you hold my hand

know that my fingers are small precious locks

that cannot be opened once closed


if you take a hold of my hand

Make sure that your hands are dry

there’s no slipping through these golden fingers

precious and unmalleable

your hand will not stand the heat of time

it will melt away


but my fingers are now frozen

now in this position

holding your dripping sweat

i wish i could hold it and freeze your gold

The Candy Man

The Candy Man puts out his hand to dance. That’s all you can see, his white and red stripes fox trottin’ in your bloodstream. Spikes keep spikin’, long as you get your sugar fix at the end of the night, it’s all right.

He don’t mean nothing bad by it, no baby, he don’t mean nothing by it at all.

Hours tick on and he’s got your fish lips hooked up to his sugar drip, suckle away baby at that bait till it dries oh. It ain’t gonna dry if you keep suckling steady baby; supply’s always gonna flow with demand. Flows by like it has for hours at a time, 19 on the first night, then five, six, seven, sixty one days pass by and now its truly something baby but now its time for the Candy man to bounce, his sugars run out baby, it spiked too fast.

The Candy Man’s got you hooked sweet cheeks. You keep on sucklin through your torn skin,  those yellow molars rotting but there aint nothing to suckle so lick your own sugar coated teeth, sweet licks, lick lick lick lick, rotting you can’t taste nothin’ else, his sugars too sweet, sweet cheeks.

No time for the Candy Man to ween his customer off, no he’s bounced to the next ball, stretches out his hand, ‘Wanna dance?’

Her teeth cracked like sugar rock, dribbling now red and brown and yellow liquid particles swirl on that bib like some Francis Bacon canvas, there’s no going back baby, wait for that next supplier, when’s he gonna come?

Sweet cheeks don’t take no more candy from those smiling strangers. She takes it anyway

‘Wanna dance?”


Press Gretta down into her seat

as you read her, thoughts

Put upon accent

somewhat Irish, somewhat not.


Indulge in her gawping eyes, vacuous, as you pour her a whisky on the rocks-

Invite her into your world of untouched pages, touch her mind

with intellectual gibes

that she doesn’t really understand.

You think you want her to, but you don’t really for


her awe is enough


as she sips and stares at

the poet that sits before her

whose presence is grace itself.


How lucky she is

Sir to be educated

By you.


and so

she draws little red hearts on her cheeks

excited for the day ahead

all the hope for sparks and flying liquids

certainly go to her head

let’s swim in the champagne of our souls

before we get too old


and then she cracks it open at  home

all alone

nothings changed

cork on tights

champagne for one tonight

or for none, more like.


She goes to the sink

ready for her drink


to wash off those little red hearts

drown them

scrub at them




layers peel off one by one

under the bubbles thickening

but still a thin layer stays


it won’t fade


go away


please, please go away

you little red fuckin hearts.

please, please go away

you little red fuckin hearts


she’ll wait for the morning to come

she’ll hope for the best that the marks are all gone

scrub away

scrub away

that’s all you can do

scrub away

scrub away

till it evaporates,

scrub away

scrub away

it will eventually

scrub away

scrub away

it all goes


scrub away

scrub away

it all goes

it all does

c’est la vie


Play it Again

Play it Again


Keep Humming,

Those succulent notes inside your head.

Tangled up, rumbling thin, sheep skin pulled on

tight, so it don’t slip-  SCREAM –  so he can hear you.


Silence her with dewy finger tips,

blooming on those rose thorned lips.

Hands wrapped ‘round her vine leaved neck,

that wilts blue from raptured silence.


Humming drummed deep in her throat,

Rise rise rising, don’t let it slip.


Just Hum till the Hum bleeds out,


till the Hum bleeds out

the Hum will bleed out


Play it again.



a drum that will never stop till the sheep’s skin slips off from sweat.

Bleating till its mouth goes dry.


Try to stand as skeleton legs tremble in cold grass and

as sickle blades graze rough pores-

Waiting for her kiss.


Gaze outwards past that blue horizon

And watch as your supernova’s inward collapse falls upon closed eyes

like a star with no constellation.

21st century husband.

So, what if you just swiped left on the potential future love of your life?


Can’t go back, unless I pay £3.39 a month.  Paying to meet my future husband feels so cheap but surely it’s worth it?

What do I tell the kids?…

‘I swiped left on your father at first, because photographic evidence of his face didn’t initially captivate my attention in the two seconds that I had to subconsciously decide whether or not to swipe left or right and spend the rest of my life with him.’

Ah these life situations really do test your reflex skills and determine whether or not you’re more of a fight or flighter- I wonder if Darwin would have ever used Tinder? I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where he got his theory of evolution from. I mean, the men, just grunting for sex, like apes, barely capable of starting conversations unless aided with a mediocre meme or just a simple four lettered ‘Hey’


to seem cool and not too invested but not too dis-attached; not too far a fetch from a bunch of cheeky baboons after all.

Swiping left or right, supposedly, subconsciously, determines whether or not to fall madly in love or to not, but to pass safely on the danger of being

Just another hook up.

Or kidnapped.


Either way, I either dodged a bullet or dodged the love of my life.

But aren’t’ they the same thing really?

And so, I didn’t pay my £ 3.39 a month out of the hopes of meeting my future husband.

I’d rather spend that on a box of ‘Wasabi’ sushi instead, because it will never fail to make my heart skip a beat as I devour its deliciously, delicately wrapped salty and savoury contents, which with a zing of green wasabi sauce sprinkled on the side, sends a wringing sensation of fire through my burning


And, if that wasn’t enough, I know it’ll never be just a

One-night stand.

For there are many ‘Wasabi’s’ open which I can return to at any given time, between 8 am and 9 pm in London: Hammersmith, Chelsea, Oxford circus…

50 shades of seaweed any day over a potentially grey

 future husband who will only end up

cheating on me or, being a

massive, boring cunt.

So sushi for one it is again tonight.

£3.39 wisely spent.


Moonlit reawakening at Midnight

  Midnight stars shone as her body fell backwards into the moonlit waters of her mother’s womb. Floating weightlessly into the vast sea, as waves carry limbs in and out; currents dictating in which direction the milk skinned body travels, a peaceful coffin ready to be sucked in. Dark pools of reflected stars, drown in their own milky way of her pale skin, nakedly free from the ‘civilised’ oppression that is disguised in the name of ‘fabric’. A body re-born, baptised amongst the assembly of fish and lemon grass seaweed, dancing in a waltz beneath her feet to the sound of classical guitar played two feet down the beach, yet refusing to become tangled amongst her flesh. As hazel eyes hover to meditate on the sky, stars naturally become the ceilings décor, natures painting lit amongst God’s smile.

   Meanwhile, an atheist sways back into believing in something simply more. However why should this magnificence of science not be enough?

  All sound deadens, as water crowds into ear drums and droplets of sand particles accompany the melody of her thoughts; a discordant minor, majored by the dribbling bubbles of nemo fish and the distant strums of an Italian 80’s ballad. As little suns flicker in the black vortex above, one becomes magnificently insignificant. But that is all there is, and somehow it is enough.