Thursday, 31 December 2009

new year's resolutions 2010

1. smoke only roll-ups

2. taste blood and guts in everything

3. get more sleep at more appropriate times

4. 20,000 words

5. read only one book at a time and start only one book at a time: for example, i shall finish "beyond black" before opening "the death of the heart," no matter how tempting the synopsis seems

6. keep rockin' the quiff

7. save (some) money

8. read up on greek myths, and casually slip intelligent-sounding references to them into conversation/writing

9. keep dancing like a shaman/drunk in public without fear or vomit

10. live strong always

11. regret/accept/continue

12. buy that marilyn monroe boxset i saw in hmv last week if it's still there as it was a really good deal

13. read more biographies

14. work on a new smile because my genuine smile leaves me looking like an unfortunate blind person also blighted by down's syndrome. however do not be afraid to genuinely smile (and thus look like a spastic) if having THAT wild a time

15. self-respect is more fun and more cool than loss of dignity at the expense of vodka/men/enemies

16. write stupid shit like this either more or less often, i'm not sure.

Thursday, 17 December 2009

something written slightly drunk at 2a.m. last nite

And the tree say,
And the wind rushing
      thru them, repeats it.
And the stray cats
      they howl,
      buh-bye, buh-bye, buh-bye,
As they fuck and break my sleep.

You in my ear,
      "Goodbye," your voice
      slick with previous tears,
      slick like oil.

Your hand upon my shoulder,
      brief as fireworks,
      did not linger.
Your fingers trace
      no patterns down my neck.

Your eyes whisper it,
      and the traffic outside
      bellows it:

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

For this is the end,
      the final crack in the mirror.
I look forward to
      seven years of bad luck.
This is our final resting place,
      is it?
This, a sad cafe
      of chattering families
      of red and white linoleum
      in a building I do not

Why did you bring me here?

If you were to have said
      your piece, your bullet,
      before, or an hour later,

I would not
have ordered a starter.

Monday, 14 December 2009

above all else, xmas in salisbury 09

Very brief entry: something I wrote rapidly earlier and really liked the sound of. God knows -

"A lover, a playmate, the pioneer of our dark sciences that I, ever bashful, fell head-first into. I crash like airplanes and RW is all of these things. The pieces of July slot together and I see his face again. I linger, I remain, sweating and sleepless through another night. A different city, a different town, and always the same. He was a prince and a dog, and I a feral child. Oh RW, beatified by the rain on his face and my hallucinations of romance and trembling hands."

Monday, 30 November 2009

oh marilyn/you and the moon

few new poems i wrote about 10 minutes ago. i feel like i should keep updating this blog because at least then i'm doing something other than dancing around my bedroom and looking at other people's lives on the internet:


oh marilyn, i saw you
in a city i do not know,
vivid and genuine,
thighs, hips and
shoulder blades.
oh marilyn, i saw you
dancing in and out
of hotel rooms,
his bruises
on your neck.
oh marilyn, i saw you
repeating your lines,
and tearing out
your hair;
a timebomb.

and oh marilyn, i saw you
beneath the streetlight,

and i saw your
ugly dreams,
your devil's lisp,
babyfaced and
gagging for it,
the big men with
their big cigars,
thirty minutes
for a bit part,
thirty minutes
for the whole wide world,
starting with beverley hills.


we roasted under
a hundred sunsets

an indifferent
sky woke us

and i remain
and i remain

wherever i go
the moon follows

Thursday, 19 November 2009


house of masks, godless eyes and ursula, MEATY,

i have loads of ideas in my head at the moment and it's really difficult translating it into some preposterous masterpiece that i've been hiding in my head for 18 years. lol.

"...not saying Ruby's music was so powerful it evoked this tremendous emotion/nostalgia; just that I was sixteen years old and far too aware of my own awkward limbs and acne, and I was at a rich boy's house drinking one of Lee's makeshift cocktails ("It has three spirits in it. No I'm not telling you what ones! OK, one begins with G...") and wearing a mask and tight jeans and a baggy vest and a sequined silver jacket, and one of my best friends was singing in public and wasn't awful, and everyone else in the room was hopefully a few years older than me; my collective paranoias (both Oedipal and post-modern) had me swollen in gratitude to whatever God had sat me down in that sweaty chamber that night and - in short - I was David K Barely, embarrassingly impressionable and absolutely alive."

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

Indian Summers, Songs, and Various Dead Things

i didn't appreciate your various tantrums/dilemmas/panic attacks any more than you may not have appreciated my constant self-righteousness or my insistence on wearing something fluorescent every other day of the week. it's only been a little over two months, but i've realised i can't stop singing. i sing in my bedroom, i sing as i cook, i sing in the bath, i sing getting dressed and getting undressed and i sing in empty car parks walking home alone very late at night. this perhaps means i'm absolutely over you, but when i saw you the other day, i could barely roll my cigarette my hands were shaking so much.

it's 2 a.m. and there's a dead cat lying in the road.

i'm thinking about glasgow and the indian summer last septemeber where half my friends dyed their hair strange colours and we all listened exclusively to riot grrrl. i know it's been almost a year since i first met you, because last night i stepped out into the garden and the cold bit me in exactly the same way it bit us both last october. it must have been exactly the same temperature or something, because now i can't stop thinking about you or dreaming about you. i'm still singing though.

Thursday, 1 October 2009

poemz autumn 09

here's some unfinished poems i've been writing this week/some from summer, you can probably tell i've been reading far too much allen ginsberg:


They are embarrassing
photos, clunky words,
shuddering escalators
are those first poems,
graceless reminders of
wet summers. Pricktease,
an elephant in high
heels are my 2007
of strange
strange love for poor
naive you.

OK Jingo,
who's dotted each
semicolon since, they
are cheap prayers
without a God, smoke
signals from the great I
Am, aged fifteen and
they are

what the cinema promised
me what the teen angst
books promised me what
Sylvia said would happen
, do you see?
you see,
I was prophesised
by Drew Barrymore the
thirsty wear-and-tear
of YOU, Jingo of
gesticulation and
wolves, Jingo of
bus rides
and Southampton, oh
wild wild Jingo the
artfag liontamer of
all my easy aches,

yes now that I too know
that I dreamed you up
almost entirely,

you have a friend in me,
I guess.


Try not to believe in repent
or glorify repent; you cannot
mourn for songs you never sang
for boys you never held (or
most likely for the boys who
never held you, afterwards)

and I am a train wreck tonight,
desperate to shed this Catholic guilt
that's come from
that maybe I was bad bad bad
all along - or give me science
give me coffee
give me mathematics -
not regrets or melodrama,
BUT rises like a shriek cos
maybe I owe you one ugly belated
and unwanted apology
one big fat IOU from Duckels Loans Inc.

I could give you
hours of forgiveness.
For I have tasted other boys since you
and now I gargle it
and spit in the shiny white sink
the plain truth

that you were only truly cruel
when it was absolutely necessary,

and so I apologise,


It would be nice if you missed me,
sent a sweet text occasionally (nothing
grand, just an enquiry as to how I
am, considering the last time we spoke
I smashed a plate and threatened to
kill myself) but as it is I happen
to be content imagining different
ways for you to die. Sometimes I am
your saviour, bandaging you up as you
gaze at me adoringly, as never happened
in the reality of Us;
but most
of the time it is I who holds
the knife above your head,
or starts the fire, or smothers you
with your favourite pillow.
this does not soften the blunt
truth that you fell out of love with me
into someone else's bed, told me I
was neurotic (although I probably am)
and spent a week overcompensating via
drinking too much and blatant sycophantism
whenever we spoke. But my point is,
darling, that today we passed each
other in the street and no grim
conversation leaving me shaking
followed. Instead, you gave me the
sort of vague smile I remember you
giving your mother and old
work colleagues, and walked ahead.
I would like to say this gave me a
sense of closure and halted my
homocidal daydreams, but truthfully,
all it's done is spurred me to discover
more painful ways to kill you.



From the pit of my stomach I shriek mad love
for car parks and chainstores,
for late nights and heartaches,
for brawls and for vodka,
for smashed windows, crashed cars,
dirty sheets, rooftops at dawn,
and a pack of cigarettes.

For those who alight the 24 hour supermarket
drunk and taking photographs;
for those who tried cutting and drowning
and then dying, but didn't;
for those who run thru the woods wild-eyed;
for those who dance and dance and dance;
for those who sing out of tune across parks
on hot August days the sun melting ice creams;
for those who drink gin and tonics and wear black;
for those who smash bottles against walls when angry;
for those who kill spiders,
for those who don't kill spiders;
for those who I fell against,
and those who pushed me.

This is for the faceless boy who drove me home
the night I threw up two dozen times across Kempshott,
and this is for the anonymous girl who
told me all her secrets that I can't remember.

This is for those who karaoke,
this is for those who dance,
this is for those who rise late,
this is for those who laugh,
this is for those who hate their hair.
This is for those who cut their own hair,
and regret it.
This is for those who break bottles
and hurt and get hurt, those who roll in the mud
on that rainy night at the bowling green,
those who bleed or have bled but
above all
this is a love song
for the night it snowed
and I was still awake but
no one else was and it made me
almost believe in God, yes,
this is for the walks home alone
and the vomit, the constant meat market,
and the underage girls who always fell in love,
and spilled free verse of bad men into my ears, often,
and the decks of cards swollen in the rain
on street corners somewhere,
the sleeping homeless we disturbed,
and Jenny who always cries,
and Lux who kept giant snails,
and David who I loved constantly thru
school and one day I saw him
playing football in the pouring rain his
white school shirt soaking wet his
nipples probably hard underneath his bare skin
probably soft and damp and cold,
and the rain came down on my shoulders too
and his blue blue eyes looked at me
standing in the rain looking at him,

yes this is for that moment too.

For the dogs and the do-gooders,
for CJ who cracked his knuckles all the time,
for the afternoons of stealing pointless objects
from overpriced high street shops,
for the kebab vans and the blackberries,
for the ocean and the train rides,
for Jingo and the angles of his face
and the creases beneath his nose when he grins,
for Groucho and Atwood and the mess we all made,
this is a love song for my eighteenth year
and all the ones previous;
this is a love song for the messes I would make
again, again, again.

Saturday, 23 May 2009

i think twitter is going to kill me, i cant stop @replying @everything #twitter etc
just in case

listening to a lot of mirah at the moment... her new(ish) album (a)spera is wickedwickedwicked. exams are coming up: probably drowning, but i'm not noticing, am foccussing not on revision but on fucking twitter and endless pints of sainsburys basic cider. life is for the beautiful and i'm young as a housefly considering how ancient the universe is.

Monday, 20 April 2009

my boyfriend has helped me rediscover tatu: as in, the teenage faux-lesbian russian duo singing catchy songs made with awful synths and awful lyrics. listen to "malchik gay", "cosmos" and "fly on the wall". unfortunately the girls (lena and yulia, thanks) have recently put the band on hiatus. there's something incredibly bizarre and brilliant about tatu - their image, management and characters beautifully un-western. it's also interesting that when you google image 'lena and yulia' all that comes up is old pictures of them exploiting lesbian sex and unrelated softcore porn.

Saturday, 11 April 2009


pink is probably very uncool to love and adore, but i cannot help but love and adore her. this song makes me feel so POWERFUL!

Tuesday, 17 March 2009

18 Wheeler by P!NK is possibly the best uplifting pop song i've heard this year so far. in other news, i'm bored of most of my clothes and desperately poor. making a nu zine again. black and white, courier new. something to do with anger and protest, because i'm angry as well as lazy and feel like protesting. i often worry i am too naive and uninformed to have my own voice; but then i look at a substantial chunk of my peer group and it seems few people my age care. this is the sort of writing i will look back on in twenty years and laugh at.

in other news, i've rediscovered josef fritzl what with his court case and all. absolutely bizarre. there is precious little more exciting in the news than a man locking his daughter up for 25 years in a secret flat underneath his house and raping her every day. also very intrigued by the various works of art produced in austria that this case has inspired:

Thursday, 26 February 2009


fucking amazing video. this makes me realise how mundane everything i do is. i want to be a john waters movie.

Monday, 23 February 2009

probably my favourite thing that i've ever written

those tiny bits of hair
and skin wilt to

dust on the mattress,
dust on the walls;

tonight the ceiling is a fool,
drunk arms everywhere,

it keeps me from the sky.
windows and hearts are open and

you're hanging out of both of them;
legs and curves and

midnight shapes are shadows on the wall
when he's dancing on top of me,

my legs should not be open like this,
tonight his body is not mine.

spider fingers in my hair,
hot thighs and cold palms

all over me. wide eyes like a wild dog
when he stares and pants, teeth gritted,

tobacco breath in my ear.
sharp shock, eyes shut - he doesn't

say anything or stop, just keeps digging
like a lion at its prey, like death, but

i want it.

lurch of regret when i finish,

he's gone.

body heaving and legs shaking,

hands over my eyes,

screaming at

empty hallways -

the clean up. dust still everywhere.

in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds

--before leaving my room
i turn, and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.

by ee cummings.

besides that, this singer has been the biggest inspiration in my life for five years now:

Monday, 16 February 2009

whats this whole thing about Twitter? i've been aware of it for a while but now the Guardian's harping on it about i'm worried i'm (yet again) behind the online social networking trend, which would needless to say be an utter tragedy.

i'm in salisbury at my father's. i went to this swish new shop that probably wouldn't be that amazing if you were in some cool area of a big city but was pretty startling for salisbury:

a few nice vintage clothes and lots of cute antiques (including these SPECTACULAR slippers, and all pretty well priced.

i've had a very nice quiet monday. i woke up, walked around salisbury and talked to some bizarre old lady in mencap, managed to get served for tobacco (you'd be surprised how many newsagents believe you when you offer a forged railcard as a valid form of ID), came home, drove to tesco with dad and got over excited hunting for non-frozen burgers, ate dinner, had a hot bath and read my book (Praxis by fay weldon), then opened a bottle of wine with my father and watched the finale of Thirty Rock. and now i'm typing up the best i have to offer my creative writing teacher so she can put it into some anthology she's making, and contemplating either sleep or something active.

i really wish they didn't shut the cathedral green gates at 23:00, cos it'd be lovely lovely lovely to go for a walk there now, even with potential rapists, etc.

stay monkey by julie ruin, except performed by kathleen hanna's later oufit, le tigre. kathleen hanna's voice is fucking INCREDIBLE.

Saturday, 14 February 2009


wtf. basically westboro baptist church (ie. "god hates fags" remember them? c4 made some doc about them) are flying all the way from kansas to picket a play in the mediocre town of basingstoke, my wonderful hometown and where i am typing this right now. crazy days. i should probably be furious and ready to wave my rainbow flag in gay union but more than anything i just find it really bizarre.

Thursday, 12 February 2009

i don't know what the relevance of this is, or how relevant anything i say is. i think i scared bronwen last night by drunkenly putting on all her clothes and shouting a lot. i seem to be doing a good job of fucking things up at the moment, and putting on women's clothes and sneering at a camera is an easier way of being a shock than actual attainment and success.

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

mixtape love letter to myself, valentines 09:

01. joanna newsom - peach, plum, pear
02. joni mitchell - a case of you
03. the capricorns - sunset over malibu
04. the magnetic fields - the way you say goodnight
05. yazoo - only you
06. the magnetic fields - 100,000 fireflies
07. goldfrapp - number 1
08. mirah - dreamboat
09. rilo kiley - give a little love

"why do we keep shrieking/when we mean soft things/we should be whispering all the time"

idea stolen from kittykiller, apologies.

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

amanda palmer, good senses of humour, and (more) snow

something i fundamentally believe in is that it's absolutely vital to laugh. if you get beaten up, raped, orphaned, whatever, fair enough feel upset, scream; but in my opinion an intrinsic aspect of closure and getting over difficulties is the ability to make jokes, have a sense of humour - because laughing is healthy, and it's easier to communicate thoughts thru laughing than it is thru shouting.

with this in mind i was really excited when i stumbled upon amanda palmer's latest blog. i don't know if anyone's heard of the dresden dolls, but they get a lot of bad press from the Cool Squad, when they really shouldn't - they're a piano/drum angsty outfit from boston. amanda palmer's the lead singer, now branching off onto a solo project. her latest song, Oasis, has been banned by lots of music channels in the UK - the song's about date rape and abortion, but sung about in a humourous way, with a brash, OTT video. i won't say anything else about the backlash to the song because amanda palmer sums it all up in her blog, 'On Abortion, Rape, Art and Humor', and i'll post the video below. it's worth a watch, controversy besides it's still a really good song.

i guess it's similar to the Bikini Kill song 'Carnival' - a really happy, bouncy song about wanting to go to a carnival. however when you listen to the lyrics you realise it's really about drugs, teenage girls giving carnival workers' head to get free rides, etc. but it's not any less of a powerful song for choosing to tackle a heavy subject with a deliberately up-beat music style. i don't know. i just sincerely from my very bones believe in laughter. i'm not saying go and stand around at a funeral telling the victim's mother to cheer the fuck up, i'm just saying that when you can't laugh about something, you're letting the doom and gloom beat you.

in other news, college has been closed the last two days due to the snow, rain, ice, sleet, sludge, in that order. i've stayed up far too late tonight, but i've had an awful day and for some reason this is cheering me up.

a few pictures of the snow and stuff:

i'm not looking forward to college in six hours :/

Monday, 2 February 2009

ABBA - The Winner Takes It All

i might be flogging a dead horse here, but ABBA are still possibly the greatest band since - i don't know - since a long time. ABBA Gold was the first album i ever bought, back in year 3 or something. i always feel slightly sorry for Anni-Frid because she's a bit of a over-permed dog compared to Agnetha, who is absolutely amazing in her performance of this song. i can't really wait until they are all dead, because i'm hungry for an ABBA biopic and i have a feeling the only reason there hasn't yet been one is because stupid old bjorn is holding onto the rights: but just imagine how good it would be. this song (voted Britian's favourite break-up song by Channel 5, apparently, ha) must have been hard for agnetha to sing, cos it's obviously about her breaking up with bjorn. he moved out of their family home on christmas day, 1978. i mean, ouch. the vid's also worth watching for the post-Annie Hall men's tailoring.

anyway, it's snowing and college has been cancelled so i should probably go and enjoy the outside world.

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

la roux - quicksand
amazing song, amazing video, she looks like tilda swinton and olympe maxime's lovechild.

in other news i slept in until half four today. that's been the second sleep this week i've dreamt of someone and woken up feeling changed by it.

Sunday, 18 January 2009

chasing monday mornings

sundays are strange, they spend their time chasing monday mornings. i caught the train to salisbury after work last night; ate sausages, chips, sweetcorn and egg (over-easy) for supper; drank a bottle of wine with dad; revised; decided to go to bed at the relatively normal time of 1 a.m. but ended up cooking chips and getting very very drunk in the work room, just me and 4music. i woke up at about 1 this afternoon, wandered around salisbury for a while and noticed the salisbury zavvi is one of the ones HMV has bought. it's back to basingstoke in a few hours, to go to the cinema with chris and some pals and then home to revise/procrastinate yet further.

i can't wait until 11 a.m. tomorrow when my exam will be over and i won't need to worry about the ridiculous things you worry about in exams - needing the loo, sitting in the wrong seat, tripping on a chair and falling onto the floor as you walk out silently - until may. after june i'm set off into the big bad world, fingers crossed the economy has dramatically picked up by then and i'll have a plethora of fun retail jobs to take.

2007 was actually a really fun year.

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

this is me, all moving on up now,
maybe making a bad job of it but
this is me now, the eight stone tarzan,
gabezilla, watch me grow taller smarter,
i'm wised-up now. a whole new world,
i'm thelma, i'm louise too, and i'll do
anything i please to cus i'm no corpse,
put the silver bullet in those vampires,
put the witch in the oven. i'm nowhere near
nothing. free's such a good word to be
yes it's me me me, walking walt disney.
i'm pinocchio and i cut off that nose,
shed those ties, threw up every lie i told.
it's all H-O-N-E-S-T-Y from here til i die,
why, it feels so good to be alive, cus
i'm a real boy now, got my dreamcoat on,
and oh oh How
beautiful the sky looks, seen from my blue eyes -

these are a group of pictures i've taken over christmas. i don't consider myself a photographer in the slightest (we're 21st century teenagers lol, we're all photographers) but they're photos i really like. i always look at things too subjectively which makes it difficult for me to work out if anything i produce is actually worthy of anyone else's attention.

i hate to jump on the bandwagon but my dad put lady gaga's album on my laptop and i've spent the last two hours sitting here in my bedroom with it on repeat. i've got an exam in 12 hours so i probably shouldn't be procrastinating like this. i managed to work my way through my GCSEs doing very little work, but i still can't manage to understand that i actually need to WORK to succeed in my A Levels. this time in 5 months i've finished college and i'm turning 18, and i still haven't quite worked out how to get out of bed when the alarm goes off. i slept through a doctor's appointment and a drama lesson today. it's awful really.

i bought a copy of allen ginsberg selected poems last week. i've got no idea if he's a cliched poet to like, in the way e.e. cummings is, but either way i don't really care. i went for a meal with chris tonight and then caught a train over to my dad's and read a bunch of ginsberg poems the whole way. you should read his poem Many Loves. or perhaps you shouldn't because i think i only enjoy it so much because i "identify" with it.

ON NEAL'S ASHES - allen ginsberg
Delicate eys that blinked blue Rockies all ash
nipples, Ribs i touched w/ my thumb are ash
mouth my tongue touched once or twice all ash
bony cheeks soft on my belly are cinder, ash
earlobes and eyelids, youthful cock tip, curly pubis
breast warmth, man palm, high school thigh,
baseball bicept arm, asshole anneal'd to silken skin
all ashes, all ashes again.

song: Paparazzi - lady gaga; book: Can You Keep A Secret? - sophie kinsella. (sophie kinsella writes appalling yet absolutely brilliant chicklit, i don't know whether i should lie and say i'm reading proust or something.)

Monday, 12 January 2009

eco soc pol

i read somewhere that everytime a recession hits, someone remakes brideshead revisited; i think it's the same thing with me and making blogs. i'll create one when i'm feeling vaguely creative/pretentious, spend about an hour agonising over the URL name for it, get bored changing the layout around, and then use the new blog excessively for about two days, posting a new blog every other hour, with a confused notion in my head that perhaps i'll receive some sort of gratification/satisfaction from talking into the big wide empty cyberspace. of course what always happens is that the various blogs i've started became ignored and quietly vanished into the murky black holes of the internet.

i guess i'm starting yet another blog because i'm having an accidental gap year, and with most of my friends talking about university offers, or lack thereof, and most of my old best friends living miles and miles away from me, a blog (i hate the word "blog") could possibly be beneficial.

i have no idea where to start. it's twenty to two in the morning, and i was browsing the guardian website. i just stumbled upon a new article uploaded sometime after midnight - waterstone's is axing 200 jobs; staff are to be told this morning. i guess it sums up how bizarre modern life is that i can sit here in the comfort of my room, 17 years old and about as naive, finding out rapidly about bigwig decisions that will in 8 hours leave 200 people upset and unemployed.

i don't understand the credit crunch or inflation but (this sounds very stupid) the political/economic/social climate we live in at the moment makes me want to sit down and cry quite a lot of the time, sincerely. every other day or so there's another announcement of 1000 jobs vanishing just like that. i guess i should be happy because it's the "death of capitalism" but the truth is i have to love capitalism as much as the next middle class teenager. i'm stating the obvious so i'm going to go, i don't know, think about icelandic banks and cry myself to sleep or something. over and out.

film: the Science of Sleep; poem: Many Loves - allen ginsberg; song: Sad Little Moon - the magnetic fields.