19/09/2017 § Leave a comment

What comes out my mouth
I hear in my parents voice
And my heart aches



07/09/2017 § Leave a comment

A shotgun house is what they call a Creole house which has a corridor the whole way through with the doors along the corridor. The story goes that a man didn’t approve of her daughters choice of boyfriend, turned up at his house one day and tried to shoot him. The bullet missed and went clean through the house without passing through a thing, before killing a chicken in the backyard. These houses allow a breeze to pass through on hot summer days.

Down south in Louisiana territory, they say to make groceries, or to go make groceries.

It takes the Indians of the Mardi Gras a year to sew their costumes, which can often weigh nearly as much as them and which they wear in the baking New Orleans heat in August.

My favourite thing about Treme houses is their bright colours.

There is a bayou near New Orleans in which a man has built himself a white castle surrounded by swamp.

The definition of Brackish is part salt part fresh water. A French word.

In hurricane land they sometimes build their houses on stilts to avoid flooding.

The best way to warm a sailor gone overboard is with a hot bath. Hot, but not too hot. A blanket and a fire is a bad bad choice.

In Amsterdam and other Dutch areas the houses often have very big windows at the front. This is from when men went away to sea, it was to show the women left alone weren’t up to anything they weren’t supposed to.

Pigs are omnivores which means they eat meat and vegetation.

Spanish moss pillows get bedbugs in them if you dry the Spanish moss in the grass. The trick is to dry them elsewhere or dry them on the grass then drown them in the water then hang them out to dry.

If you use the last method you will make horsehair.

England has small man syndrome and we still think we own half the world. We think we can beat anyone in a fight. We can’t.

When I was high I wrote this as a film idea ‘Doctor pill evil send away spread come back to be healed, more get sicker, come back to be healed’. I also wrote ‘Snake cake’ separately. I do not know what this means.

There was a huge shark eaten by something frighteningly large at its lowest depth. We don’t know what the thing is, we haven’t explored deeper than that yet. whatever it was was at its highest point in the unexplored ocean. We know because we were tracking the shark and it just disappeared.

Somewhere in English countryside there is a big ledger which shows the names and stats of all the men who went into a particular prison over a period of years in the 19th century. The book shows they were all low 5fts and most were 4ft something. Many had grey hair and dull eyes in their early 20s. Most went in for petty thieving. Life was hard back then.

Conkers is a game Americans don’t know.

I am homesick.


Hello from the other side

05/09/2017 § Leave a comment

You have to follow your compulsions

The best parts of every city can be seen early in the morning and late at night

Nowhere in San Fran has air con and I sweat and I stick and I love it

San Fran lacks air con and New Orleans lacks wifi and I like them that way. They both have soul

I joked about my escort profile reading ‘I’m like a natural disaster recovery charity, I want your money’

Last week I held a rifle and became an ordained minister, separate incidences, same day

Today I want to walk till midnight, I want to walk alone. And I’ve been walking all morning down sweating streets to catcalls and peace

I saw a 12ft alligator dead at the side of the road, hit by traffic in the unlit dark

I saw a man and woman swimming together alone in a pool one evening. Him clearly rich, her clearly beautiful. Every lap she pretended to be slower than him, sneaking glances to make sure he’d win

When I was stoned in Miami I couldn’t speak, could only watch the rippling water with its white centres. The boy with the blue trunks and the boy with the red trunks and how I wanted to paint them

The alarms in the buildings around us were going off. A voice on a tannoy moved behind and around us and announced a fire in the building and to eveacuate. It was 21.09, I know because I have a compulsion to record. Was the fire next door or us, and in which direction?

Weed is the only drug to not agree with me

The only snake I have ever seen in the wild in England is a grass snake down in Cornwall. I found it as a child with my dad. It had shed its skin

I’m getting better at tarot. I’m getting worse at reading people with my gut

Everywhere I rest my head I call home

I wear flip flops every day for months. My heels are cracked like a desert

Back in spring I saw birds nests in bare trees and an anorexic woman jogging. This feels a long time ago now

Last night I slept for 5 hours then went to workout with the November project, it felt right and was so much fun. I am ready to live healthy for a short while now

I want to do art that makes people feel better

I miss pole and dick, separately

Coffee touchs my body, tea touches my soul
A northern voice offering a brew even better

I always forget how self conscious men are about balding, and when I remember it touches my heart

He lives for the story and has to control the story and be the centre of the story and he’ll marry me if I need it I know and he drinks his vodka and slips his cards and I hope he lives a long happy life

When I Was Young

20/01/2017 § Leave a comment

It was summer. I lay in the moonlight at the warehouse, sad because the boy I was really interested in had left a few minutes before. The other one whispered in my ear ‘I bet you’ve never had anyone hold you like this before, it must be nice to feel so loved’ and I laughed and laughed at such an obvious attempt at manipulation.

It was autumn. We hung upside down off the fifty foot drop looking at the city lights with his arm around me, and couldn’t stop laughing at all there was to be happy about, and what was happening next to us. I thought ‘this, is a very good moment’ and it seared in my mind as permanent memory, made that way through repeated recalls.

It was winter. I was walking back from a friends thinking about the flash of anger I’d felt earlier, remembering how a man had gently pushed his own flaws onto me like a mirror. I thought about how he did not realise what he’d done and felt my flash melt like an icicle. Realising that the stronger you are as a person, the more generous you can afford to be in your opinions of people.

It was spring, and he didn’t wake me when I slept through his alarm. I showered and we had a full English breakfast, no sex that morning. He was the best of the bunch. Years later he told me he tried to wake me, shook me hard by my shoulders, but literally couldn’t manage without causing pain so left it. I’m still amazed at how deep I used to sleep. My mother says she once had to stick her fingers up my nose to check I was alive.

It was winter. We were arguing. As his hand closed over my jaw and the back of my head went unhappily into the wall, I filled with fear and thought simultaneously ‘that’s not a nice way to shut someone up’ and ‘I wish you did that in bed instead’.

It was spring, and I lost a Felix Gonzalez-Torres print given to me as a gift. It’s my biggest regret of that year. Although I worship Felix, this probably says more about my priorities than it does the print.

It was summer and it was dark. The wind and rain blew insanely and the tent was not enough, a house would barely be enough in that weather. The sex was as good as it could be in the circumstances. He was lonely, I was not, it made it awkward the next day.

It was summer and I lay posed for her art project in the prickly grass with a plastic parrot. From anyone else I would have found the parrot irritating and tacky, but from her it was perfect. Everything, hers, was perfect. I thought about how much I loved her.

It was summer and with every selfless morning cup of tea given to me in sleepy kindness I thought ‘that’s a benchmark’ for how to treat a person.

It was autumn, and tripping up the steps I heard my dad echo in my head ‘be caaareful’ in his way which grinds at me with its patronising undertone, but is just another expression of how much I am loved. I felt an inner warmth that’s always there.

If It Makes You Happy

20/01/2017 § Leave a comment

*Written aged 17*

I remember the weather on our first and last meeting. It was sunny, a sticky heat which allowed me to feel comfortable in the clothes he asked me to wear. I would not have agreed to the meet if it were raining, I would not have travelled to the location, I would not have worn the outfit.

He told me he lived on a riverboat, which sounds romantic but isn’t. The way he said it meant it was the truth. He told me what he used to do before retiring but I can’t remember the words, only it was operator of something and the images conjured in my mind are of metal, smoke, grease, steam, pistons.

‘There are two types of people’ he said. ‘Those who stand on street corners and are looking for the next tenner to spend on crack. And those like yourself-’ he gestured towards me ‘-who enjoy the company of men and for who money is just a bonus’. I heard his voice jolt slightly as he mentally changed the word ‘prostitute’ into ‘people’. It was unclear whose benefit this was for. If mine, his impression of my naivety and denial to myself both amused and angered, how dare he presume such ignorance in me. If for himself, how superior, how mansplain-y.

I nodded false agreement. What a stupid thing to say, how presumptuous of him to comment on such a large group of people as if they are all the same, and as if he knows the slightest thing about young female sex-workers.

People assume you will be upset if they use the word prostitute. They dally around the word looking for an alternative. ‘This line of work’, ‘escort’. Sometimes, they don’t want to think of themselves as hiring a prostitute so try to trick themselves, avoiding the word for their own sake.

I couldn’t figure out the motive behind the things he said and did. Was he a danger to me? Should I feel fear? Pity? Anger? Often I find it much easier to analyse females than males, although males are more likely to underestimate my intelligence and fall for the surface of youth and innocence.

After our meet, himself and his family took their boat further downriver and he asked me if I would visit him in *******, but I refused to travel that far. He messaged me stupid things, as only a man could do.

Things I didn’t foresee. Where can I hide all this money? How can I subtly check my phone during a meet? Why can I never get a dick inside me when I’m on top? Why is it so difficult to find a doctor that will give me the implant? Why is it so difficult to find a clinic that will give me a full sti check? (I take precautions but nothing is foolproof). This is supposed to be traumatising, am I going to have a mental breakdown at some point?


28/06/2016 § Leave a comment

The news is full of the fears of Brexit. But we create our own little bubble. We carry it to the bedroom, a caravan, cinema, restaurants. And in it things are safe and warm. We discuss politics regularly, but with the knowledge of how impervious we are. We plan bright futures far away and cosy futures here. We have the ease of the young and healthy. Our only responsibilities are to our jobs. When our boat rocks, we know it won’t capsize.

Things are easy, gentle. My anxiety is as low as it could ever be. I’m filled with trust and warmth. What more could I ask for? Nothing, with any kind of acknowledgement for how lucky I am compared to most human life. I couldn’t ask for a drop more.

May I always be loved like this.
May I always love like this.

Apparent Contradictions That Aren’t Contradictions At All

23/01/2016 § 1 Comment



I am wearing a suit and walking for an hour along a road which leads me back to my lovers. I pee in the corner of a filthy bus stop (it’s daytime and I’m sober, but really needed the toilet and wouldn’t reach one for over an hour) then sit on the pavement, meditating and waiting for the bus. It’s countryside here, well out of the city and rolling hills stretch away from me. My mind thinks ‘it’s a long wait’ because that’s what I’m supposed to think, waiting for an hour. But really it’s massively fucking short compared to the time it takes for things, and stuff, and life. I open my eyes gently and a string of bicycles whoosh past, how perfect are these moments. It’s hard for me not to contrast my suit to peeing in bus stops to listening to rap music to meditating. Don’t we all have such apparent contradictions which aren’t really contradictions at all? Why do I have to write this shit down, why can’t I just feel?

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