The writer. The philanthropist. The liar.
My Depression Bench is sturdy, only somewhat rotted through, and well located. I strutted to it the other day as the heatwave cured itself to typical Scottish spring. My fever had just broken and I was feeling feisty and filled with an alarming capacity for truth, thinking if I could at least strip the bench … Read moreMy Bench
Recently I’ve been thinking about all the old men who I allowed to take away my life. Loads of little tiny doctor fish nibbles, you fool yourself into thinking they must only be taking away the dead skin, leaving the dewy and the obscene. I think I have turned my terror of them into a … Read moreJoining the statuary
let it be known that when I die I am staring up at Orion’s Beltand thinking of love in big wet swooping waysfor now though I am baking the vantage loafgluing crumb to crumb and hoping it makes meritswapping out Having a Coke With You for Lanafake depth toocan still feel the bristle of hands … Read moreOrion’s Belt
As 2021 ended, the two years of paltering half-life alone at home decided to come to an end with a dusty, miserable little crescendo, killing my dog off with a big full stop. She of great fawning beauty fame, of calm, of love, of anchoring, and then, latterly, of anguish, of despairing longing to go, … Read moreMore stick less carrot
Those idiots with their sea swimming and for-Instagram winter lido visits don’t know shit. The real cold, sharp shock comes in seeing an ex you’d half-forgotten existed, half-longed to see when you were looking your absolute snatchedest. If sea swimming is all about jolting you into the present, seeing your ex — looking fresh and … Read moreOn the fear of not always being snatched