The World

I said I’d show you the world
You said you’d show me the door
And as I walked out I looked at the world I was keeping in my hands
Just about the size of a snow globe.


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


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


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