Books


Shame you were busy
Sweetie
Though
I went to a masquerade
Ball
Plied my trade
As a medieval whore
Behind the doors
Of a gloomy castle
Received a rose
From a lovable rascal
Lived, breathed, loved
Not a minute was lost
I only wish your lunchtime
Had been as exciting as mine
You were keeping the books
While I dived straight into one
No need to ask
Which one of us missed out

We

Sun in the sea

The sun dips into the sea, making it blaze while the waves, amazed, shyly retreat.

I’m the only witness to this explosive orgy of flames as you’re standing behind me with your arms around my waist and your face buried in my tangled hair.

For that one brief moment, as you inhale deeply with your eyes closed and I attempt to fully grasp this extraordinary spectacle, we are one and the same — fierce, invincible, we are the guardians of the Galaxy.

Fury

image

It is folly to assume
A pure heart humming gentle tunes
Cannot embrace darkness
’tis a mistake to confuse
Kindness with weakness
Should my anger be roused
I will strike terror into the very fibers of your being
Feed ravenously on your tears
Before
Making you feel the full measure of my wrath
My hand shall not tremble
My resolve will not crumble
With the stars in my arsenal
The stormy skies at my disposal
I shall smite
The cowards
With Thor’s mighty hammer
And the strength of my ancestors
Guiding my hand
Deliver
Murderous blows—
Underneath the gaze of statues made of stone—
Set your remains on fire
Watch them burn
Inhale the smoke
Coming off the charred bones
Lips stained scarlet
The taste of blood in my mouth
I’ll spread dread
A plague of despair
Devastation on such a scale
Even vultures will flee
The desolate fields
Visited by my fury
Future generations
Might try
To sow a million seeds
That will die in a ground henceforth sterile
Nothing shall ever grow
Because let it be known
I shall always be victorious
And reign above the ruins of my enemies

La différence


You called me Marie Antoinette
in (pretend) jest
Knowing full well she wasn’t even French
You took aim, sipping Earl Grey
I loaded my pistol with clever quips and intellect
You replied with British wit, threw Maugham in my face
Quoted William Blake
Defied me with Oscar Wilde
Meanwhile
I had Voltaire, Molière and Baudelaire
You decried our catholic habits
I riposted with a line on heretics
It got worse – a sick thirst for the absurd
Propelling some kind of makeshift hearse

Nothing is as sordid as a Republic

I am disgusted by your monarchy

’twas a war between two countries
Like most wars, of course unnecessary

This battle with no soldiers and two generals could not end well

On a morning bathed in silvery light, the frost invaded the forest and a passing stag raised its head, aware of the taste of death in the air

You shot one last time, for real at last
I was hit through the heart
I fell draped in my flag
A tragic Marianne
Blood spreading on my chest
Staining my Coco Chanel
Taking on the shape
Of red poisonous flowers – the stuff of Lovecraft Nightmares

The sky suddenly burst open and it rained champagne
Like it should have on Hugo’s barricades
When Gavroche gave his last breath among other Miserables
With a song on his lips and without complaint
Never let it be said
The French are in any way mundane
We even die with a fanfare
And you, executer and witness
You covered me with your Burberry trench – must have been quite a wrench
Your British anguish
On realising how foolish
You’d been
Was nothing less than extraordinary
Unfortunately it was too late
La différence could no longer be embraced

Things people always say to Writers.

Great piece by my brilliant friend Tom

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

It was recently said I look like a writer, which I tried to pretend wasn’t shorthand for appearing socially inept, malnourished and skint. They then asked me what genre my novel is.

It’s a regular question, and in light of people invariably asking the same things upon hearing that you are a writer, it would be a good idea to have well-prepared answers, which makes my lack of them even more inexplicable.

The most common is, ‘Are you published?” like it’s something that inevitable happens to every writer. Of course you want to grab them by the lapels and scream ‘D’you have any fucking idea how hard it is to get published?’ It’s not something you choose as an option at A-level . If I was published I would be (even more) unbearable, and you’d not be able to enter my house due to piles of unsold copies of the novel…

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Casualties

You are finally mine,

the tip of my tongue traces the fine lines in the corner of your eyes

you grab my face, pulling me closer,

you pulse inside me while white flashes make the room fade in and out

as waves of pleasure roll through me like the sea surging forward,

pausing

holding perfectly still for an exquisite second

and withdrawing

before starting all over again, repeating its infinite journey

Yes, the beast has been released, clawing and biting,

rendered mad by the prolonged waiting –

it won’t be satiated until we fall on the field exhausted –

and then it will be said that lust has claimed its casualties.

Fantasy

Your face is hovering on the edge of my day, steadily driving out all coherent thoughts from my brain.
Night descends and you become a distant galaxy stretched across the sky, pulling me in with the intensity and insanity of a forest fire devouring everything in its path without regard for maps and lines drawn by man.
The dark swallows me whole, no pinpricks of light in the tight fabric of life, just this ferocious lust, the torture of my flesh moving, undulating under your faraway hands, I try but fail to catch my breath as you touch me, and I ignite like dry kindling despite the rivulets running down my legs. I can’t breathe and yet my fingers rake through your hair and my nails engrave deranged poems on your skin, you move inside me, stealthily at first, just as I like it, before gaining strength and speed and I scream into empty space, my throat raw, the primal sounds getting lost in the caves of the Stone Age.
All of this, a wild fantasy we’ve built, one which has coloured too many days not to become reality.
As Spring begins-how fitting- real sex and nothing else, because you and I have the same flames running through our veins and once I’ve tasted every bit of you, and not before then, the world can exercise its privilege to fucking go to hell.

Betrayed


This is the story of a man who took a fancy to a vase made of delicate and fragile porcelain

He was asked not to handle it unless he understood how precious it was, how rare—

this wasn’t a job lot out of a rubbish factory, it had been crafted with love & care

Someone else, the man was told, had been thoughtless, even cruel, and had let the vase fall

It had not shattered but some pieces got broken and scattered all over the floor

It had to be put back together—long and tedious work of many hours

But eventually, it was as beautiful as it had ever been

The man listened to this story

Of past abuse and said he was so sorry to hear it

That he wanted the vase very badly

The man made many promises

The man oozed sincerity,

It seemed he could be trusted

And yet, after just a day, the precious vase he dropped and betrayed

And for the sake of a childish boast, he made public this betrayal

The vase, faced with this further disrespect crumbled a little more

Before it got angry-but resourceful-and called on the spirits of wizards and witches of old

Who fixed the vase in a second and turned the traitor man into a toad

Like all stories, there is a moral here of sorts

Very few men are able to appreciate and take care of precious porcelain

No matter what they fucking claim

It is safer to hide all valuables behind locked doors

*This was written a few hours ago (very quickly and it’s as subtle as Trump’s orange hue, I know) on my way to a date. And yes, I was wearing a kickass leather dress, for those of you who appreciate such details*

La Dolce Vita

I’m in the mood
for a frothy kind of moment,

wading into the Trevi fountain at dawn while early tourists gawp

and the water rolls off my skin sweetened by a feast of Italian pastries

the disbelieving, laughing sparse crowd disappears as it is all for your benefit

For you,
who is unlike anybody I’ve ever met,

and for you

I am a goddess made of pale flesh, a temptress in a black dress

though Fellini is long gone, the cameras stopped rolling at a point in time when the world gave up, the colours bled out and la dolce vita died

except in crooked hearts like mine

La notte—dark as tar, I would be blind if it wasn’t for the light in your eyes,
reflecting my image a hundred times—
a dreaming woman materialising out of film stills, in black and white

Us

“She’s gay and you’re straight, she loves you ‘that way’, you like men, you think you can be friends? Blah blah blah…”

I wonder about those who look, stare intently and yet see nothing. What of them?

Pity and fury require too much energy, disdain demands a little caring.

They think of it as a game of chess, moving pieces on the board,
strategically

I want to jump and dance on the dark squares waving my hands in the air

let the pawns do as they will,
be static,
erratic,
fantastic

I know only one thing, I am not willing
to sacrifice my queen, won’t have her or me reduced to our sexuality. Is it such a wild thing to believe—imagine—we are much more than tits on a stick?

She is passion, and maybe in another dimension I like pussy and we align perfectly—maybe—gotta throw something to the gossip

She is strength, she is the sun rising in the east, the hopeful flower burgeoning too early in the spring

She writes words on small paper boats and sends them down rivers, whether they float or sink without a trace does not fucking matter

in the slightest, because she dares, and cares

She sees with her eyes closed
much further than most, even them with their night vision goggles

There was no need or craving, but so much room for her

when she appeared

and instantly took a place that was hers, as surely as if her name had been carved there before birth

See, us?
It’s our story: she’s gay, I’m straight and we love each other—
talk about it, analyse it, make it sordid, seedy, do whatever but…deal with it, yeah?

Because, you know? We don’t really give a shit what anybody else thinks.

Sisters last longer than lovers, we’re gonna be laughing together forever.