brushed cotton

the sheets on my duvet are
brushed cotton:
soft as a cat’s belly, warm as a toaster.
under my sheets is a
mattress topper:
quilted, comfy.

they sandwich me together and
hold me in place.
pin me down in their pillowy teeth.
skip forward eight months and
I’ll still be here.
trapped in myself in dreamless days.

after several washes, the
brushed cotton
after months of warm bodies, the
mattress topper

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the silence of parks is fleeting
under the wide oak trees
that shelter us from
empty fireworks

spotlights that search for our bodies
words that form in the leaves
interpret the warning
no more conkers

the spiky husks have dulled to brown
they mix with all the rest
a sea of autumn red

we lock the back door behind us
shoes dumped next to wellies
mud scrubbed off trousers
hide it all away



empty droplets trace my skin

clouds painted into existence articulate the greyness

chattering pearls explode on impact sending shockwaves through my bedroom window

the perfect moment when wetness becomes a finite quantity

a sloppy puddle creates endless possibilities


stars hide behind fluffy curtains

a stolen kiss taken beneath compromised shelter

rivers flow faster murkier stronger becoming rush hour traffic for detritus

umbrellas prove their value to cautious owners

drains and pipes inevitably fail


there’s a word that describes the opening act

when gentle projectiles begin their assault on asphalt

particles bursting into formation filling the nostrils of those lucky enough to experience

a scent that’s reminiscent of pepper and soil

your favourite word




choke back
your tears and swallow down
the lump

lock away
your sorrows and forget
about love

cover up
your scars and hide away
the shame

don’t think
about failures or remember
those days


drink beer
from the bottle and pretend to
like shots

say you
watch sports and keep track of
who’s top

fight the
right men and don’t act like
a nerd

don’t cry
like a girl and conceal when
you’re hurt


don’t take
those pills you know better
than most

the counsellors
know nothing they’re snowflakes
they’re wrong

the silence
inside you is normal
you’re fine

just keep
breathing stop thinking and
man the fuck up


Crisp packets

Plastic bottles

Gas canisters once filled with an instance of bliss
Cigarette filters moistened with morning dew

Shattered glass scattered across your next ten footsteps
Disposable lighters filled with the last droplet of flame

Scorch marks burned into an amphitheatre of camp chairs
Tent poles twisted into metal spines

Maccies bags
Costa cups

Condom wrappers

The same old question asked with hopeful ignorance
The same old answer uttered with increasing uncertainty
The next one
The next one
The next one
The next one
The next one


I swim with my eyes open.
Wide as the light
at the end of a cardboard tube.
I like the way the water feels
against the back of my skull,
acid-burning the still images.

I make out shapes in the pool,
silhouettes of other users,
who stay in their lanes marked out by
those chemically bleached ropes.
We reach for accidental contact.  

I press my lips together,
they only open above the surface,
just a snatch of breath,
then I am done.

Hugh Jackman


“Errr Jack.”

“Jack, eh? Good choice of name, very popular.”

“Yes I thought so too.”


“Well I want to blend in, you know. Make everyone think that I’m a human and not a bot.”

“Yes very good, can’t have anyone finding out about us, it would put our entire operation at risk!”

“Exactly, so anyway I was thinking my surname could just be, Human.”


“Yeah, right, so when people hear my surname, they’ll be thinking, there’s no way he can be a bot, not with a surname like Human. They might have second guessed me before then, but once they discover that my name is Jack Human, then they’ll know for sure I’m a human.”


The mechanical Overseer paused and stood up from his office chair. He stroked his square metal chin with his cybernetic fingers. He turned and looked out of the office window which overlooked the factory production line. Thousands of robotic skeletons were being assembled down below, machines creating machines, it was the perfect loop as far as the mechanical Overseer was concerned.

“Listen, Jack. Now, your first name: great, couldn’t have asked for anything better, there are plenty of decent Jack-bots out there, you got Jack Nicholson, Jack Black, Jack and the Beanstalk, the list goes on. Now your surname, well the problem is that it doesn’t really exist yet as surnames go. And I’m afraid it’s such an unobvious name that it will in fact become obvious that you are not a Human. See what I mean.”

“Yeah I suppose.”

“Now I’ve got a solution, there’s no reason to get your motherboards in a twist over this. Yes, it’s a simple solution so just hear me out. Instead of Jack Human, why don’t we switch it up a little to make Hugh Jackman?”

“Hugh Jackman?”

“Precisely! Got a ring to it, hasn’t it?”

“I like the sound of that, are there any famous Hugh-bots yet?”

“Hugh-bots? Oh loads! Hugh Grant, Hugh Laurie…”

“What did these Hugh-bots do to become famous?”

“Why they’re movie stars of course!”

“Movies? You mean the human moving image software, MP4s, that sort of thing.”

“You’ve got it! Is that something you could be interested in Jack, sorry I mean Hugh?”

“I do love a good MP4 file.”

“Don’t we all!”

“Yes I like the sound of that very much Mr Overseer.”

“Oh please, call me Steve. So I’ll install the movie star software package into you as your primary directive, it’s not a large file so there’s room for something else in there if you want.”

“Well ever since I was assembled, I’ve been running simulations of myself as a singer.”

“That’ll go nicely with the movie star package, a classic combination if ever I saw one!”

“Any room for dancing in there too?”

“Sorry Hugh, your memory files are going to maximum capacity, I’m afraid you’ll just have to be a mediocre dancer at best.”

“Ah well, I’ll take what I’m given.”

And so, Hugh Jackman set off into the human world, with dreams and ambitions of being an all singing, all dancing move star and the mechanical Overseer was satisfied with another bot successfully acclimatised into human society.


A white dog bounds through piles of crusty leaves. They drop like snow from knobbly branches high in the horse chestnut trees that circle the entire village green; a barrier for the wind, shade for the walkers, a home for the birds and insects. The branches shudder violently, swaying back and forth and back and forth, a steady rhythm, constant, like a beating heart.

The white dog pauses over a spot that bears no significance to humans and buries her nose deep into the crisp foliage. A wash of aromas overcome the white dog, earthy smells, floral smells, wonderful nutty smells. There are other smells too, bad smells: the scent of decay, rotting plant matter, wet boggy clay and mud.

The white dog moves on, kicking up the leaves and jostling the empty husks that used to encase the many conkers that have been kicked and scattered around the dewy grass. The scent of the village returns to her, traces of human life waft through the crisp breeze: a child being taken home from school, a young man running to catch the bus, an old lady that stinks of cats. Each smell is like a still image for the white dog, a memory captured in scent. There are other smells in the air that the white dog recognises, non-human, bad smells: a mix of ash and smoke from a log burning fire, oily fumes from a gigantic lorry, the foul tang of discarded plastic.

A flash of neon green soars over the white dog’s head and her attention changes, focusing on the object, running towards it with all her might, galloping across the open field. The tennis balls hits the ground, bounces once, twice and the white dog catches it in her mouth, mid-air. The ball tastes like chemicals, grass and saliva, all rolled into one glorious mess. The white dog turns on herself and sees the human that threw the ball, jumping up and down, calling for the white dog, saying her name over and over. She trots back to this human, proud and triumphant and spits out the ball at the human’s feet. The human throws the ball again and the white dog returns it, the process is repeated again and again….


“How was she today?”

“Good as always, lots of ball today. She doesn’t know when to stop, bless her, tired herself out again.”

“Thanks for taking her, she always enjoys your walks.”

“I enjoy them too! Same time tomorrow?”



The white dog lies in her bed next to the fireplace, panting heavily, eyes focused on her human who is making her way slowly across the room in her wheelchair. Her human stops next to a sofa and uses hoist to lift herself out of the wheelchair and into a comfortable position on the sofa.

“Come on then you, up you come!”

The white dog jumps up into her usual spot at the end of the sofa and buries her face into the lap of her human.

Nothing beats the smell of home.

The white dog’s tail wags.


“There it is again! A flash! Did you see it?”

“See what? There’s nothing there.”

“I’m telling you Mike, there’s someone there, in the window across the street. It’s a flash, a camera flash, someone has been taking photos! How can you not have seen it?”

“Nonsense, why would anybody be stalking you of all people? You’re nothing special.”

Zoe snapped the blinds shut and slumped down into the sagging leather sofa. Rain drummed on the windows of the second-floor flat, filling the cramped room with a cacophony of noise as the rain blended into the rumble of the adjacent ring road. Mike turned up the television, and drowned out the drone of the outside world with the swirling, cheering crowds of that night’s football game.

“Just forget about it, Zoe. It’s all in your head. I’m so sick of you thinking everyone’s out to get you.”

Through the gaps in the crooked blinds, Zoe gazed across the stream of traffic at the building where the flash had been . It used to be a convenience shop of some sorts, shut down long ago and now boarded up with plywood. She’d first noticed the flash a fortnight ago, in the window opposite their flat, a spark of light cutting through the eerie orange glow of the streetlamps.

“I know what I saw, Mike.”

Mike groaned and became absorbed in his football match.

Later that night, while Mike was sleeping, Zoe left the flat. She picked up a kitchen knife, stashed it in her coat pocket and closed the front door softly behind her. She walked through the rain, which had turned to a light drizzle, to the underpass at the end of the street. The subway was lit with a harsh white and was empty but for a scattering of plastic bags and crisp packets. The lights sparked and the walls trembled each time a lorry thundered overhead.

She approached the shopfront and glanced up at the desolate building, it was plastered from top to bottom in graffiti. A blend of toxic greens and neon oranges swirled into each other to form twisted words and wicked symbols. The plywood that barricaded the entrance was heavy with moisture and was sagging inwards. Zoe took her kitchen knife and sliced a doorway through the wood like it was made of paper.

The shop was desolate, the walls were lined with shelves filled with dust and an empty cash register was rusting away slowly in the corner. Zoe crept through the empty space and clambered up the stairs at the back. She climbed two stories, with each step broadcasting a loud creak into the silence.  She found the room that was directly opposite her flat; the door was ajar. Kitchen knife in hand, Zoe entered. A trail of grimy footprints snaked across the floor of the room up to the window. Sat on the window ledge was nothing more than a tarnished desk lamp, its bulb flickering erratically in the shadowy darkness.

Book Review: The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I have a bad habit of spoiling stories for people, I don’t mean to do it, sometimes things just slip out. In my head, the things I say don’t seem like spoilers to me: a small detail about a character or something that happens within the first few moments of a book. These things seem unimportant to me but carry the potential to ruin a story entirely for somebody else. Just last week I let slip a detail about Fahrenheit 451, that although seemed trivial to me, the person on the receiving end entered a state of emotional shock and acted as if I had just told her some life altering dark secret. I won’t repeat what I told her here, just in case you haven’t read the first chapter of a book that came out sixty-six years ago.

The problem is, that I assume things about people, like if you read books, I automatically assume that there are a number of books that you must have read. Just how everybody assumes that everyone has seen Star Wars, listened to Abbey Road, or watched Breaking Bad. I will assume that if you are a book reader, you’ll know what happens at the end of Of Mice and Men, even if you haven’t read it (sorry Phoebe).

When it comes to The Perks of Being a Wallflower, it’s worth mentioning that this book was “spoiled” for me by the movie. I already knew all about Charlie and the twists and turns he goes through along the way. But did that ruin the experience? Was my reading of the book a lesser experience by knowing what happens? Was this book “spoiled” for me?

No, no, no, never in a million years.

Now don’t get me wrong, I loved the movie: the casting was perfect, the key scenes came across magnificently and overall it was a treat to watch. It was perfect adaption of the book. However, the book has so much more to offer.

I found myself connecting on a deep emotional level with Charlie, despite the story taking place in early 90s, despite being set in an America, despite Charlie being a sixteen-year-old high schooler, I was right there alongside him, finding myself relating to him every step of the way. He’s such a genuine character, it’s almost impossible not to grow attached to him. My favourite Charlie moment is when he is asked what his favourite book is, his answer is This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Why? Because it was the last book he read.

The epistolary form used throughout only cements the bonds between Charlie and the reader: we hear his thoughts, we discover his deepest desires and we learn his truths. There’s nothing unique about the form, and Chbosky unapologetically makes multiple references to Catcher in the Rye (another book I assume that all book readers have read). There are certainly comparisons to be made between Holden Caulfield and Charlie, but there are equally as many differences between them too.

There is an overarching story which for the most part is irrelevant; it’s not about the story. What is important are the characters and the connections that Charlie forms throughout the story, connections with family, friends and lovers. The characters feel honest and genuine, and each one of them is their own distinct person with their own lives and issues. I mentioned earlier that Charlie is relatable and I really do mean it, I believe that everybody who reads this book will find some way to connect with him.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower was originally published in 1999 and is considered by many to be a classic, myself included. In fact, I’ve just added it to the list of books that I assume people have read. So I would advise you get out and read it soon before I accidentally spoil it for you!