Ideal Man

Here he is, the ideal man. Continue reading


I’m Only Dancing

We’re dancing in time, we’re dancing tonight. She holds onto my hands, I hold onto her sight. The room is small, the drunks are tall, and we’re in the middle of it all. Fairy Lights paint the mood, and the jazz is smooth, and if this is jazz, I like it, someone says.

I run to the bar and ask for a small coke. The bar girl is lost in thought, thinking about how people called Barbara were once young. She snaps out of it after I say small coke for the fifth time, for the final rhyme. Excuse me? she asks. A small what? She wonders aloud. Continue reading


Mmm, I love those vibrations.

Oh yes, I let them run all over my body.

It’s such a buzz to feel it on my throat.

I get high from down below.

You can even add a sound, it creates double the fun they say.

These good vibrations come from different places, different times, and different faces.

It’s not the content, but the sensation.

It’s not the context, but the gratification.

And when I see her there, those vibrations aren’t there.

So I just want to go home, to look forward to feeling more.

But they are no longer there.





Lying on the Living Room Rug

Lying on the living room rug is a wonderful past time.

The soft surface lets you sink right on in.

You can sprawl across it like the corpse in a murder mystery party.

And if the blinds are up, people can only wonder just how much fun you’re having

Even with your coat still on. Your shoes still on. Your bag still on.

Yes, I’ve been lying on this rug for quite some time.


The words I speak are coming out of my mouth as a physical entity. Every sentence is slapping down onto the floor like alphabet spaghetti, tomato juice and all. She doesn’t seem to alarmed by all this, she’s simply nodding her head as I talk about love, as I talk about life, and as I talk about the latest television show, the one with all the blood and gore. She nods as I let it all out, with no intention of stopping me. And when I’m done, and the spaghetti is starting to stink, she cleans it all up and throws the crunched up tissue of words into a nearby bin. I see some leftover words scattered across the floor. Passion and John Goodman. When did they connect?

I ask someone later about it all, and he just shrugs as the words continue to spill.

‘It’s all just spam, man.’

And I look to the floor at my words once more. I tried to piece them all together, but he was right.

It’s all just spam, man.

Small, Far Away

I’ll draw it on the back of this receipt to show you what I mean. On the left is me, and on the right is you. We’re pretty close together, right?

Right, we are, if we had hands they’d probably be tangled.

Now above my head is my mind. It’s right there, that scribble.

Right there.

Now your scribble, your mind… it’s all the way over there.

Over there?

Yes, your body might be here, but your thoughts are far away.

They are right here, inside here, right now.

But they aren’t. They really aren’t.

I don’t know what to say.

And now you know why.