I walk the alleyway, stepping around the burned spoons and questionable puddles, dragging my fingers over flaking bricks, moss and paint. Above me, cleft narrow from the intense black, is the faint dark grey of the night sky lit from below by the many lights that fail to keep anyone safe. I walk this alley because no one else dares to. I walk this alley to get some peace and safety.

The path runs blacker than black before me, and I follow the scents like a dog with its nose glued to the floor. I smell piss, smack and The Righteous; those who believe and who stamp down on those who don’t. I scrape my fingernails over White Power slogans and I caress the multi-coloured forms of gang-tags; The So’n’So Boys, E14 Rebz, Pinky’s Dart Masters…. I don’t fucking know. I’m not a bad person. I don’t know who these people are. I just stare at their art and wonder why they waste their time on robbing the working classes when there’s tens of millions of upper class coin waiting to be shafted for this kind of low-high-brow form. All the Best People have a gangtag covered in perspex in a gallery for chin-strokers to admire. Some of the Really Great People have a corner of their living room for a damp collection of bricks to admire in company and distain when alone.

I round the dog-leg with my heart racing. I don’t believe in astral bullshit but I sensed them before I saw them. An arm grabs me around the neck and throws me against one wall and then the other. Then I hear the voice; a young woman with the rasp of a fifteen year cigarette career, but with the vocabulary of someone who is no older than her mid-twenties. Cold steel catches against my seven o’clock shadow. I’ve felt a few blades at my neck over the years, but this one has been maintained. This blade has been taken care of. The bluffers keep it blunt and for show, the pro’s use it regularly and keep it lethal. It’s sharp.

She demands some things but I’m not listening. I think of my girl in her summer dress, dancing through the weeds. I think of her climbing on the old oil drums, flashing a glimpse of knickers I’ve never seen before, and may never see again depending on how I behave. I think of her in goggles and a thick winter coat setting fire to glue along the flank of her thumb and wrist, inhaling the fumes before shaking the vapours free, leaving her with a smouldering grey line on her skin. I think of her ex-boyfriend, the one who gave her black eyes and made her shoplift for concealer so she could go to school. I think of her gleeful smile as we chloroformed the swine, nailed him to a dead tree and watched his body fit and writhe into darkness as the blood ran red over white wood.

My new friend demands my belongings again and snaps me out of my moment. She whips the blade across my skin causing a deep cut, my skin parting over muscle and flesh like a silent scream. The blade is returned to my throat as the blood pumps warm down my shoulders.

I forget my girl for a moment and search through my pockets… I cannot find my wallet and phone.




I bleed always


Translucent and odourless, it flows cold


Flavourless and…. pointless?


Not pointless.

Wrong word.


The grief of distant stars…


…no longer there…


…the light reaching us too late.


Can you be saved?


Do you need?


Do you want?


Touch your fingers


Eyelash-kiss my moist cheeks again…



As you snore in my arms, the vibrations run through me like the tremors of an earthquake; the ripples spreading out like stones hurled into a pond.

Your sonorous baritone makes my atoms dance.

I see my reflection in your eyes and I’m always dying.  Always falling to my knees clutching my chest or covering a wound on my neck.  Always clinging to life inside that perfect circle of black.

Hide me under a quilt so I can bury my tongue between your legs, picking hairs out of my teeth.  I’ll wet my broken lips against your sex, nodding my head…




…agreeing with everything you say.  Hide me under the sheets, leave me to nest between your thighs and not come out until the spring.



I put down my cup of tea on the table and pretend to scratch my nose; actually, I’m sniffing my fingers.  I’m wearing her black thong under my skinny jeans, so my cock is half squashed and half rubbed raw against the zip fly.  My hair is filled with her shampoo.  My teeth glisten with her toothpaste.


The question is asked

__ ___ ____ ____ ______ _____?

and I reply;

Excuse the language, mother…

…but I fucking love her.


Sanctuary II


Sanctuary II is here.

As with Sanctuary, it is a combination of my pictures and my writing.  Please click here if you wish to purchase a copy.

Kneeling In Jumpers


She told me; stop picking at my food.

Chomp, mutter, cough, clink, the exciting sounds of the restaurant.  Can’t relax next to the window.  Taxi cabs beaming across my face, the room flicking yellow as they indicate to go either or.  I drink too much wine, too quickly.  Not even at dessert and I’m glued to the chair.  I cannot move because that’ll give everything away.  I feel like the floor is rolling surf, and I am trying not to capsize.

She told me that God was like Apple, whilst flicking her phone.  Deliberately creating things that were inherently designed to be flawed and eventually fail, just so they can be replaced, and the users punished.  Hacking away at a piece of steak, a rhetorical question meanders over the candles; why create something just to be adored?

I tell her television careers have been built on less, and she doesn’t laugh.


It’s the black dress that does it.  Her little black dress drives me crazy.  When she is at work I remove it from the wardrobe and slash it to ribbons.  It’s a ritualistic execution, death by 1000 slices, just so the fucking thing knows how I feel.


One morning I can’t find her.  The bed is empty and colder than usual.  In a purple dawn I rush to the beach and find a trail of clothes – and a slashed dress – on the seawall, followed by her unique instep.  I follow.  The footprints end where the tide breaks on the sand.



The owner of the body smiled to the assistant and paid in cash.  Taking his ticket he told them this was his first time.  They hoped he’d enjoy it and come back.  I’m sure I will; it looks so beautiful.  He passed the gift shop, went outside through the automatic doors, walked briskly along a yellow stone path towards a viewing platform.  Then he turned his back on the sea, churning white on the rocks below, spread out his arms and fell backwards.

Unnoticed and anonymous he remained.  After the violence of the initial landing, the driving waves pushed him inside a small cave, sheltering him until the tide turned.  By nightfall, the gentle sea carried him back out under a moonless sky speckled by stars.

Drifting and silent, he left a fishing trawler untroubled, bobbing on the waves, the crew finishing a last round of cards and liquor before four hours of uneasy sleep.  Dawn was broken by the clicking and skittering of dolphins, flanking him as they swept in and out of the sea like thread in a tapestry.  A passing oil tanker caught him in its wake, throwing him like a ragdoll as debris gathered and coiled.  Mummified in plastic and netting, he changed course towards a small island – little more than a rocky outcrop with thirty or so square yards of beach.

He washed up at this new Eden, a bundle of human rubbish and one protruding hand, eyed curiously and pecked by the puzzled locals.



He stands up, quite abruptly.

But he stares straight ahead, looking firm.

So it can’t be a spider, not this time.

“I am an inventor” he declares.

This is somewhat melodramatic even for him.

He’s still holding his sandwiches though.

Quite a comic image really.

I’m trying not to laugh though.  This is clearly important to him.

So I ask the inevitable.

“What have you invented?”

He sits back down.

“Well, nothing really” he shrugs.

He looks at his sandwich.  Crumbs are falling like snow.

“I think I’d like to invent something useless.”


“Because it feels like more of a challenge.

Everything has a use really.

It’s hard to think of something genuinely useless.”

I raise an eyebrow and my lips curl.


I’m not feeling that cruel.

I’ll just look instead.

He won’t notice.

“This is what happens when you spend hours in your room

And you





And I punctuate by prodding his kneecap with my finger.

“They say it’s bad to be alone.

But what do they know?

I’ve had some amazing adventures in my head.

Met some great people.”

“Who are they anyway?”

“The people I’ve met?”

“No, the people who say it’s bad to be alone.”

He shrugs again.

“Please sit back down

It makes me nervous to sit at the feet of someone

Especially when they don’t know where they are going

You might tread on my legs.”

So he slowly curls his legs under him.

“I’m sorry” he grins.



In accusing darkness I hide in The Alleyway, so notorious that no one dares walk through it even in daylight.  I slump against damp brick, feeling the moss and mould grasping at my sweat for salt and life.

Breaking into the old house had been easy.  Weeks of surveillance had foreseen the low fence surrounding the back garden, now a wild tempest of long grass and weeds, and the rotten windows.  However, having observed the house from the outside, I’d planned nothing regarding my escape.

My heartbeat begins to slow, my breaths become more regular.

I open my bag and pull out a box full of photographs of dead people.  Not dead as in corpses but dead as in alive in a time long passed, fresh faced young people from over a century ago and old men and women in bonnets and caps.  They stare back at me defiant because they want to continue to live, though I know the little girl on the street corner in 1901 is almost certainly now gone.

Flicking through the sepia pictures I see a troup of teenaged girls from a boarding school, marching and looking into the camera; some sneering, some curious but all intimidatingly confident.  I see a boy on a sledge with eyes clamped shut and mouth happily agape and the dull blur of a watching policeman.  Wondering if these frozen memories stuck in their minds like these delicate prints, I have to close the box to the patter of incoming rain.