Sweet twat

Driving me insane until I don’t remember even my own name,

Until the gods cry a river on our heads

Until I’m drowning in your filthy flower pattern bed

While there is no sad chicken on the wooden table,

only the pickles on the pizza

and the hand in the pocket

and the odd man playing golf in the snow with an orange ball

that you can’t see

as you can’t see the way I’m looking at you

It’s easier to believe that nothing matters

because everything does

from licking the salt lamp to riding on your back

it’s not trust it’s foolishness

You would turn a fruit absolutely nut

despite the shape of your smile

and the sharpness of your eyes

despite the goosebumps on my forearms

and the kiss on my nose

despite the poems you recite

the spoonbait, the gangbang and the catkin

And the dogs, they make you happy the dogs

Until they bite my ankle like you did

not with your teeth but,

with your tongue

with the words coming off your mouth

Misleading me as you would do with a child

like the five one you killed for me to be trapped

Until I break the spell you’ve cast on me

Lettre à x (en anglais)

He was looking around, puzzled, as if asking to himself why on Earth he was in her bedroom. I mean, fair enough, that was a good question, she wasn’t sure neither. None of them had the answer so they pretended it was absolutely normal and she opened the curtains to show him the bomb shelter at the back end of the garden. The snow was covering it, like a dusty white powder, like cocaine. Slightly less exhilarating though. Later on, he told her that he was feeling empty, that nothing would fill the space inside him, not even listening to Molchat Doma, not even eating a garlicky urad dhal or the anchovies from a pizza, not even sitting on a bench in the sunny park, not even her. Firstly she was offended, because of course she was already planning to fly to Moscow and Sligo, to read the books at his mums, to teach him some verlan over a croissant filled with cheddar and raspberry jam and to hear again his voice through her phone when he was drunk in the bathroom. But suddenly he was another stranger in the world, someone she would probably struggle to recognise in a crowded pub, or like a ghost we prefer to avoid.

Various statements (both true and false) about myself (to be pronounced MEself)

_

Hot tough chick riding BMX in Glasgow

is looking for someone

to share taramasalata and vulnerability.

Sweet babe with a harelip and a broken pinkie

is seeking validation

from Irish losers with commitment issues.

Wee lassie with strong foreign accent

wearing tiger printed fleece

is ready to be emotionally detached, standoffish and sober.

Little forlorn fairy

wants to stop pretending

that eating a full bag of honey coated peanuts

is not to fill a gap,

and actually fill the gap.

Half savage half sensitive bird

is willing to talk about stand up comedy and Soviet literature

(Russian speaker is a must, comedian not so much).

« If we happen to be walking along a street at night, and a man, visible already from afar – because the street inclines gently uphill in front of us, and there’s a full moon – comes running towards us, then we will not grab hold of him, even if he’s feeble and ragged, even if someone is running after him, yelling, but rather we will let him run on unmolested.

For it is night, and it is not our fault that the street in front of us in the moonlit night is on an incline and, moreover, it is possible that the two men have devised their chase for their own amusement, perhaps they are both in pursuit of a third man, perhaps the first of them is being unjustly pursued, perhaps the second means to kill him and we would become accessory to his murder, perhaps the two of them don’t know the first thing about one another and each one is just running home to bed on his own account, perhaps they are two somnambulists, perhaps the first of them is carrying a weapon.

And finally, may we not be tired, and have we not had a lot of wine to drink? We are relieved not to see the second man. » 

The men running past, Franz Kafka

Don’t settle for the waiting list

If Christmas has been cancelled

and the tree thrown away,

all the doors remain closed from Manchester

to the Loire Valley but,

the wine keep flowing somehow.

Gamay, wild game and too many games,

this is how we lose track and hit bottom

or a parked car after a boozy night.

You thought you were going first on that ride but,

you ended up on the waiting list somehow.

A night like no other

Lactose free Baileys and sparkling Gamay

A caring French nurse working on Christmas Day

No number to dial when you look at your phone

except 111 and your ex boyfriend’s one 

The only space where you feel safe

are the empty corridors of the hospital

in the middle of the night

Sometimes it feels like the foxes would devour you

if you were lying on the ground,

unconscious

Sniffing your legs and licking the blood on your face

until you wake up 

When life is a disaster, and there is nowhere to go

don’t jump on your bike like a reckless idiot 

or life will teach you a lesson 

There is nowhere to go

except in your own mind 

when you become blind