sugar coated 
2018 - 08

I walk into the fragrance department of House of Fraser, greeting the sales assistant, Nina, a tanned older woman with shiny black hair and an always-killer pantsuit. She smiles at me in acknowledgement, but we have run out of things to talk about as I have been in here every day for the past two weeks. I bought something the first time, but since then have only lingered, sniffing bottles based off their titles - the names need to seduce me a little. I have been returning to an over-priced chrome bottle with the word Pegasus embossed on it. It doesn’t smell like any kind of horse, it would probably be too on the nose, but there is a leathery greyness to it that almost works - that could perhaps be structured to conjure up an image of horses with wings for business and not pleasure. Horses in battle, but the battlefield is a bank or the floor of a stock exchange, rather than the moth-like leisurely behaviour I would prefer to embrace (or be embraced by). Lazy but intentional, like a butterfly cruising in the back garden on a hot summer’s day. Heavy like your drunk eyelids looking at me on a screen late at night in my living room.

If it seems a little much that I can even relate this act of smelling a perfume I saw on the internet to you, don’t worry - I know. But I relate everything back to you - that's how obsession works. I guess fragrance and desire are both objects you can allow to consume you completely, and so an obsession with one might only naturally translate into an obsession with the other. It might be different if we could touch on a regular basis, but instead I am in this department store, floating from bottle to bottle, looking for a way to wear the heat I imagine emitting itself from your throat as you watch me, cigarette in hand, burning distractedly.

what’s your crisis rating on a scale of 1-10
2018 - 05

A list of holes available for you to fall into:

my mouth; the sink while you wash the dishes; the un-fillable hole that some kind of childhood trauma has left you with; a Sartrean hole; the leaky tub-hole that is never covered enough when you take a bath; the hole you were born out of; the hole created for addiction to occupy; the inside of a peach when you remove the stone; the space in the ground where diamonds are mined from; a freshly dug grave, probably not your own; the many holes created by crucifixion; the hole in a winding song; the hole created on the internet for desire; the plot holes in this story; the hole in a piece of blown bubble gum after it pops; the halo above the Virgin Mary; the hollow feeling in your stomach; the hole in your jeans that appears where your thighs touch most vigorously; black holes, all of them probably.

lip: lavender chiffon, buttercream
2018 - 07

A strawberry ice cream cone is melting into a cloudy pink puddle on the sand flats of Joshua Tree; two flies, glittering; a neon red ant emerges and submerges, slick with sugar. A jackrabbit gallops past clumsily, face in profile, its long ears reminding you of: wooden spoons, your mom. Her birthday is tomorrow. You order a letterbox subscription of flowers on your phone’s web browser and they will arrive on time. Your brain shudders: not an aura, though it is the time of day for one.

How many graves are there between you and the house next door? Not animal ones. ‘Don’t be cute,’ you say, without enough expression. That night, he dreams of a chrome filled bubbling lake. Your nose streams mucus in a gentle shade of jade green, and you wake up with his hand resting on your blistered shoulder. A brown and white freckled feather is placed at the end of the bed. At first you thought the desert smelled eerily of nothing, but you realise later it was the smell of hot skin.

chemical peel, blush: coral
2018 - 07

She bends you over the bed of your Airbnb and pushes down with a clasped grip on your neck, sliding her fingers inside you slowly from behind. Your asshole reminds her more of the pedicel of an orange than a rosebud. Someone spills a jug of water outside your door, and in a distracted moment you notice that your tits and belly hang down lower than you’d like. The sun pours through the open window, and you look out at the wall of fires burning on the horizon. Your dog sits outside politely and stares at you. You pretend to cum.

beauty sleep; luxe hell; tear
2018 - 06

Dear _______,

I have been thinking about Brunhilda often recently. I have attached a reproduction of an image I purchased on Ebay through an antique print dealer. I am not sure whether it’s a legend or history at this point, or if it matters, but because of her I have been thinking about the monument, the quadridga, the mythological sometimes-women commanding chariots scattered around various capital cities as a means of inciting… I’m not sure what.

Brunhilda offers an alternative mythology, sculpture, image, image-object(?) to these larger-than-life, militarized expressions of power and glory and degradation. This woman, a former monarch, sentenced to death by her son for adultery and treason, was dragged by a horse – a mare, specifically – or several mares perhaps, the distance over which and total extent of her injuries unknown, but ultimately I suppose we can conclude that she was dragged to death and there was a horse involved.

If you don’t have any horses on hand, you can drag me in a long glittering gown behind a pink Lamborghini, a monster truck, a sled pulled by huskies, a herd of ox, three butch women on dirtbikes, or my four immediate family members. The sequins will leave a sweet trail.


Blackstaff Mill, Belfast