Le beurre fondu

Heart pouncing

Fingertips tingling

Legs freezing

Chest tightening

Eyes watering

Fear rising

Shell expanding

Thoughts spreading

Words vomiting

Nails sharpening

Self loathing

Words stabbing

Spider crawling

Lips biting

Tongue loosing

Pillow taking

Pillow screaming

Doors slamming

Shame insinuating

Shame triumphing

Shame shaming


Ashton Kutcher

J’ai toujours aimé les papillons, 

La transparence de leurs ailes

La poudre qui me collait aux doigts

Lorsque je les enfermait dans mes paluches

Les sentant effleurer mes paumes

Ne sachant pas encore que je les tuais

lentement et doucement

là, dans le jardin

c’était le premier effet papillon

Cette caresse dans le creux des mains

Loath Letter

If I could I would

I would pinch your bacony cheeks and slice them up

to indulge in a crispy breakfast

I would carve your head like a pumpkin at

Halloween –

and let your eyeballs float in a spicy ragù

I would carefully hang you by your hair

their curls gently wrapped

around your neck

I would prohibit any chocolate

to wear your pinguid name

for no supermarket to ever be hell again

I would look at you gaggin’ in your own saliva

It’s still better than on my boyfriend’s stamina

I would chase you in your most jolly dreams

like a jaundiced Freddy


Clipped nails and crunchy pie

À cause du chien you’re very high

French manicure and white mules

Mass shooting in the schools

Saline tears and glutamate

Mute children and meerkat

Guilt tattooed on your neck –

no wonder you got wrecked

Indistinguishable pain and Love Island

Here is the second name for Ireland

A bunch of flowers

A bunch of flowers

Took me by surprise

Petals rising

Enveloping me

Like a hive for its bees

I surrender

Pistil erect


flavours for the nose

right in the middle of

the night

Let me remind you of

the hangers

They would make a beautiful

bunch of flowers

Baby mustard

Baby mustard is crawling in the playground

Where the storks buried their eggs

And two little girls are making broth

From sage, chocolate and cinnamon

When really it’s a pile of mud and a bunch of grass

A stick to stir the pot

Closer to a chopped trunk

than a pot – 


Feeding baby mustard water

it will swim in puddles

and change socks

Feeding baby mustard cookie

and it will climb into the sky,

becomes a pro xylophone player

or an olympic runner

Don’t let it burn your nose

from the power of its limbs

Collection : Argument with myself

What I did and didn’t (or you can’t forget)

I quit my job

I left my discount on hold

I left my account unattended

I didn’t call back

I went through the mountain on my own

I torn the curtains

I destroyed the television

I killed the mouse

I bumped into my past

I bumped into my last

in the street in the tube in the pub

I drank all the Ayran

I vomited the sour beers

I vomited the apple tart

from McDonalds

I broke up

I demolished my ambitions

I only do private tuition

I wore my Crocs

I worn out my Crocs

I cut my lips in two

This is what I’m capable of

I blew up my own parliament 

I didn’t get caught

No one set me on fire

I said I wouldn’t see him again

until one of us die

You’ll miss my funerals

I’ll miss your first baby

and the second

Perhaps a glimpse of the third

under the red lights

one night of April

I fissured the mirror

I printed an issue of myself

Several issues

The first one is called The Crisis –

An Hymn to the Autistic Child

I walked under the bridge

on top of the rats and the rusty metal

I nearly slashed my feet

this is what you do when you’re sixteen

I slammed the doors very –

not that very 


I choked on the mackerel’s bone

I’m doing a side job

I’m doing an easy job

I’m not doing a real job

I’m doing a leftover job

I’m doing a scrap job

I’m doing a crap job

I’m doing a crumbly job

I’m doing a job you don’t tell anyone

I received a text from my therapist saying 

I’m magic

I’m not forgiving 

especially myself

I am a failure

I don’t count

I am on silence

I ran out of battery

I’m unreachable

I’m taking the bus

I’m forgetting who 

I’m forgetting what 

I’m forgetting how

You might as well be in Australia

From what I know you’re not here

with me 

You might as well be fighting a spider

or a kangaroo

You might as well write me a letter

You might as well cry me a river

You might as well come back

and it’s too late

I grew out of my misery

You might as well be a cop on duty

You might as well be in Kosovo

You might as well send me floppy disks

You might as well come back

and I’m a damaged little soul

You might as well left me unanswered

You might as well called me a maniac 

You might as well called me a nymph

You might as well think I’m unworthy

You might as well come back

and this is the least I care about

Oï oï said –

never mind

The beer make your mind sharper

The cold make you body shiver

I’ve been sneezed on

I’ve been cried to

I’ve been cuddled by

I’ve been looked down

I’ve been talked through

I’ve been everywhere

and everything

I can’t be angry

I’m infuriated instead

I hear the bells


You can’t bang your head

You can’t punch the pillow

You can’t scream 

You can’t say you hate yourself

You can’t throw the scissors on the floor

You can’t be mad

You can’t be sad

otherwise you gonna end up in the


so close 

mental hospital

If you try to forget

forget your thoughts no –

that’s the only thing you can do

You can’t forget

The cheapest kettle on Argos

A terrific piece of pitch black plastic

adjusting to its new life

in an unfurnished flat

The limescale will be running

Like a disease

there is no vaccine for that

You’ve turned 30 a year ago

It’s tragic

The magic is dead

That’s the less expensive item

on the website and so

Black plastic 

Tickle me 

You twat

You what?

You clicked too many times

on the requested treasure

Just to make tea

oh you fool

You were simply thinking of 

an un discriminative pleasure

Black plastic

You spaz


Like the meat in tin


Actually, the cheapest was out of stock