Tuesday, 9 September 2014


There is nothing like stepping out into the night in skyscraper heels. She tells me this as she shuts the heavy door behind her. On the step she pauses, teetering, to light her cigarette. Her hair glows, brazen and fox-red. Above, the moon is so bright that the sky is green. We laugh in the verdant light and walk out singing David Bowie songs to the pavement. Past the hydrangeas, the silent houses are demure and innocuous; every window is censored by identical lace curtains. I am craving the sea. Though there is something comforting about suburbia, the harvest moon solicits the old ritual and I am nostalgic for silver beaches, cold grey oceans, damp sand, salty lips and wilderness - lifetimes ago.

Tonight though, we walk to the river, more of a trickle really, strewn with polystyrene takeaway remnants and broken bottles. I am staring at the sky, I can't think of the moon (white as a knuckle and terribly upset*) without Sylvia in the sentence. I say this and we laugh again. Across the grass a group of hooded teenagers regard us warily. Beside me she is spewing pseudo-profundities and snippets of poems between drags, she says something about being free. I am distant.

Have you ever considered that maybe you expect too much? Hail Mary, full of grace, put your old dress back on and learn to kiss with your mouth wide open, we will burn and fade like the stars, but our memories will throw a light out for years after we cease to shine. There are lovers though; the men that will learn how to catch the chunks of meteorite that hurtle towards us. To hold them close as shrines, as altars, as pieces of another life. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, I don’t care if you think I’m sparkless and tarnished, I can be anything you want. I know you are scared of standing too close, of catching alight and burning to dust, but know that if you do, I’ll still be here to choke on the ashes. We are in love with our own suffering, how disgusting, how self-indulgent we are. Yes, yes, I understand you but look at how deeply I’ve been wounded. We are only a vapid subtext, she tells me not to believe in god, but trembles when she speaks of heaven. Doesn’t she know that in just one second with the right person, we are god, just as god is irrelevant? Salvation for atheists. Our hymns in tune with thoughts, in time with hearts, the psalms written in our veins, our molecular structures just as fucking cosmic as the whole dazzling self-sure milky way.

It’s fine. If I stay here, I could learn how to ground myself, the earth is solid, the concrete is cold: I can touch it. The grass is dew laden and star dappled and the damp seeps through my soles. But I am already too far gone, miles away with a man so bright that even the moon is jealous.

Neon text installations by Jung Lee, more here, a bit melodramatic but lovely - neon is my favourite thing

Friday, 5 September 2014

Where do we go now but nowhere?

you know, i whisper, i still get a surprise at how fast autumn comes in i don’t mean to talk about skies all the time it just happens and if you spent ten years of your nineteen on an abandoned tumulus on a pulsing grass-hidden meridian with only sky and sky and sky for miles you would understand what it's like to crave a seismic interstellar love affair splayed across concrete and asphalt you know i only survived the winters there because i liked how the grey sky sometimes turned lilac but i am somewhere else now anyway and the sky never gets the right colour here because it’s always censored by the milky radiance of traffic lights and neon takeaway signs if i am honest i find things like that more romantic anyway it is only a stop off point i don’t want to spend four years here i tell everyone i don’t know what i want but really i know exactly what i want i made a list of goals it included 1.love 2.travel 3.recognition and nothing else so then what the hell am i doing? what are you doing girl pull yourself together you’re going to the best university in the country count yourself lucky not just anyone gets in you know this is a privilege then you’ll graduate and feel a bit lost again for a few years and then maybe eventually you’ll be one of those journalists or an editor or something and maybe you’ll write the odd poem sometimes and maybe get published in an anthology of ‘promising’ irish 'writers' and your name will look nice and symmetrical in monochrome times new roman at the bottom so get the fuck over yourself and stop telling strangers about the limits of your existence and coughed up trite about displacement and futility and love and hearts the homeless guy just wanted a cigarette not your life story you narcissist 

Saturday, 9 August 2014

Baby, baby, ain't it true?

It is beginning to get dark earlier again. Come here, don't fade with the summer, come, the foxgloves have closed but the pollen in the too-tall grass still makes my eyes itch. The blackberries stain my fingers with their sultry juice, warm and nostalgic. Stay for the harvest moon, watch it rise, stay out all night with me we can lie in the heady meadow and count the perseids fall. I once saw seven stars shoot in one night, on a tiny island, the beach was phosphorescent and a boy whose name I never bothered to learn told me to stop wringing my hands - the wishes will wait. (He knew nothing.)

But who do you pray to like it really matters? Like we're not all expectant and trembling, collectively biting our lips at the sky? Like somewhere it isn't midnight? Like somewhere we're not just waiting for winter to come and stiffen our deft hands and turn us taciturn.

Tell me all your secrets and give me something to hold. There is nothing to worry about.

Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Stop the swing of the pendulum, let us through.

Take off all your clothes. Peel away the flimsy layers one by one, let them see it, the white sun-starved skin of the hipbones, the ribcage; jutting out, jagged bleached rocks. See how beautiful you are then. Fold further into yourself, legs too hot in your black nylon tights, take them off, take them off, sucking at your skin, they suffocate. And what about your arms, your hands, awkward with redundancy, what do you do with them? Where do you let them land? Nothing is instinctive. Cover your eyes, block them all out, come now, you don't want to see them anyway, don't cry, you always knew you were too vulnerable, too small, too quiet. Don't love needlessly, no one will do that for you.
Open your mouth, tentative, turn the first words out slowly, like the first graceless creaks of a rusty wheel. Let them hush. The thin melody hovers, pauses, expands. Watch it rise.
Fill the room with silver.

Happy birthday Kate Bush, eeh, eeeh queen of everything!!

Also, I did a little gig the other day and somebody filmed me, you can watch it if you like:

Tuesday, 15 July 2014


The man is too close; 'you look pure, your eyes are gentle.' It's not a question. How many additives do I have to mercilessly shove down my throat until I can look contaminated? Forget it. Throw it away. I go to the cemetery to sit for a while (it is, after all, a dreaded sunny day.) Foolishly attempt to apply lipstick with no mirror and let my eyes flirt with words I am not taking in. Maybe I should get 'murderously psychotic' emblazoned across my forehead. How's that for purity? Maybe I should write. I have forgotten a pen. Maybe if I had nice new stationery I would write nice new things. A subsequent wander through a glossy bookshop: €14 for a Moleskine. Fuck off. But Hemingway wrote in one! I am not swayed. I spend €1 on a pen instead.

Q. Are you with someone else now? (I don't care, I'm just curious in a non-committal, bored way.) Does she pull her hair around the side of her neck? Does she wear worn out boots and tacky 80's cardigans? What cigarettes does she smoke? Is she better at rolling than you or does she have to relight every third drag too?

(Are you still looking for me in her?)

I allow myself the small liberty of rendering you just a body. That's the trouble with idle men though, isn't it? They make assumptions and call it philosophy. Do you ever wonder who's life I am ruining now? Don't worry, dear, you can rest assured this old trainwreck is hurtling right on over the horizon, still falling over the heels I can't walk in and parasitically recharging myself off the flickers of amber street lamps.
Don't think about me. I'm not being callous, I just don't think about you.

This explains me quite well.

Slightly cheesy but whatevER

Saturday, 5 July 2014

It's nothing at all

All of London unravels behind me I abandon pretty red-brick houses like unfinished poems. I can block it all out quite easily and turn back in to my self, shut the rest out, lightless and blankly irretrievable. 

It is summer and my mouth is forgetting how to swallow again.

It is summer and I am not worrying about anything rational. I am worrying about what way the light will slant through the window of my shapeless bedroom when I finally give up and go home, and will it catch the dusty crystal there and send me little rainbows or not. I am worrying about what home will be, it's never been a place, but please please please even I need something to fall into. I am worrying about what is going to happen to this little girl; perpetually dazed, habitually sardonic, all jutting out bones and shyness and love for the world (bizarrely, still unconditional.) Does the world look at me and think, what luxury! I hope so. I'd love to be me if I was anyone worse.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. (Hi if you're reading, you know who you are, is this too much, sorry.)

ps. It's my birthday on monday, 19 is the age I have always wanted to be haha.

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Qu'es-tu devenue maintenant, sous cette pluie de fer, de feu d'acier de sang?

The greyness is settling itself uncomfortably, familiar, a premature autumnal heaviness. Outside the traffic is binging and purging with the clean precision of a neurotic ballet dancer. I am heavy too, and neurotic, and grey, maybe. I have already dried up my desires to run blindly on instinct, it usually works out eventually but optimism or opportunism can be exhausting and and inexorably futile. Sometimes, maybe, it is better to accept infeasability (although tomorrow I will wake up smiling idiotically and renounce this, starting it all all over again.)
I hate, hate, hate uncertainty. I hate the incessant swing between arrogant authoritative confidence and crippling self-disillusionment. Is that what makes artists? The pendulum swoop between absolute narcissism and despairing self-hatred? Fuck did I just call myself an artist? Goodness no, even I'm not that pretentious. I hate even trying to feign eloquence most days. It would be much easier to just sidle into that obediently bland prettiness, the kind of banally attractive girl that might win beauty pageants but about which nobody is going to write poetry.* It's like a placid, unattainable and equally undesirable dream, this innocuous regularity. But then somebody whispered through wine-dappled lips about my 'beautiful soul' and that is more than enough to risk futility all over again.

*Disclaimer: I am not the kind of girl about whom anyone is going to write poetry either.

Image mine, cleansing my crystals 
Polaroid of me and my sister's best friend in Highgate.

I love Jacques Prévert at the moment he is like a french Ferlinghetti or something.

**Title translation: 'Now what's become of you, under this iron rain, of fire and steel and blood?'