Voice Box

Rip it out with sickness

Let that sucker keep on croaking

‘How’s the weather?’

‘Croak, croak, croak’

‘How’s your life?’

‘Croak, croak, croak’

‘Well, that’s good’

And without a voice box it’s easy to see

That you never had anything much to say anyway.

And you will also say ‘Fine, I didn’t care much for it’

In your head. Of course. Of course.

Croak Croak Croak



The scary thing about

when feet feel

when knees knock

when hands hold

when lips lock

is the fact that it happens all the time

it happens more than you think

it happens with more than just you

To think it means much

Just think how much

And then realisation will take hold

of your feet

of your knees

of your hands

and your lips



Bloody Thumbs

Thumbs bleeding and scarred

Feel those bumps

Wipe away that gunk

Then watch them bleed some more

For those coffee shop girls

For the ex who might as well be sitting over there

For a chance to eat bass and say it’s alright

So keep using those thumbs

Swipe left

Swipe right

And with those beaten thumbs just think

Of the stories you’ll tell your kids

Of those short-lived moments that are just that

Swipe left

Swipe right

Let your thumbs work raw

For do plasters have touch recognition?


I needed to sound impressive
So I made a lie.
I threw up on the street as it crawled out my mouth.
This version of me was really impressive,

I needed to show I was interested
So I made a lie
I sneezed and watched it sprawl out, wiggle, and twitch to its feet
Dripping but free, it was so completely interested, believe me

I needed to cover these stories
So I made lies to cover those other lies
I picked wax from my ears and so they were born
The two from each ear covered holes with their feet Continue reading


There is a stool stretching out on the floor

There are broken guitars and accordions on the walls

There are stickers with false hopes on windows and doors

There are posters of people I don’t know

There spits a man pretending to play the saxophone

There are no zoos in this underground

There isĀ  walking, talking meat sliding down the stairs

There are gates which open only for those with nice handwriting

There is no writing on the walls to compare, only numbers which mean everything to anyone who cares

And the welcome mat on the ceiling greets only those who look down

It’s home