Laurie Penny: feminism is for white chicks.

•September 20, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Laurie Penny: feminism is for white chicks..



•October 24, 2009 • 6 Comments

Butterflew piebald and wry,
A ship’s skeleton,
Charcoaled ribs with no ghost of a sail,
Heads bowed stern,
As we all pass by.

The Dream

•October 23, 2009 • 1 Comment

I dreamt that you were dreaming of me:
We chased and treed the four winds and left them knotted,
Quivering and breathless against the trunk.
You had called to them,
Enticing arms stretched, inviting sly fingers rubbed like lips,
An enbowed beak,
And down they had slid.

I laughed and you cried; then we set them free.

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•August 14, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments.

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Ellie goes to the bank.

•July 17, 2009 • 8 Comments

Here, Ellie leaves the house. Note the paused half-turn on the sill: face bowed, reflective; eyes tight and white-knuckled like sharp fists as she reviews The List of Forgotten Things. Confident, she shuts the door and makes two broad strides towards the gate before an abstract arrest sends her back inside, to emerge minutes later with an umbrella that, after a scouring of the local sky, is left lying inutile and limply pathetic against the porch wall.

In the street: Ellie walks delicately with a spread, lingering tread, long of stride and bent knee as if stepping over obstacles unseen. As if the street is a slippery kitchen lino, stretched and strewn with the toys of imaginary children. Further along she spies a dog-shit piled high, crusted and pat-a-caked like a christmas pudding, a shiny six-pence inside.

Ellie is going to The Bank .

Sick oh fancy that.

•June 13, 2009 • 11 Comments

Click that link, yank that tag, follow the crumbs to another exercise in mutual congratubation: “Wonderful how you love the way you beautiful way you words the feelings the words that love the way… as ever!”

Hoy llamé a, casa abandonada.

If you’ll like me, I’ll like you, and agree to review the potpourri of mental debris that you spew with a gentle praise, sentimental and undue.

My moniker, caressed with a mouse whisker briskly depressed will confess my address: check my shit, press it. (quicker!)

I plunge my beak in, for some sneak peekin’:

Never an ill word heard.

Never a critique to speak of.

Never mind that it is drivel or makes no sense, like Elliott’s clever pretense, a collusion of narcissism keeps us riding the vanity manatee, splashing through the saccharine waves, protecting the Emperor from the elements.

De las paredes brotan arañas.


•June 3, 2009 • 6 Comments

I ought to know: fraught thoughts grow taut, chemically unsorted.

Maybe I should go;  leave, cleave the corded excess of murdered words from the sordid mess of crippled phrases that crazy out my brain stem.  But t… what clichès.

Perhaps if I

Arrange, and cook a sentence,

In tiny ways,

So the gaze falls on just,


Few, choice words,

A shiny maze,

The moist curds,

Between the warm turds,

This pretention,

Might disguise the lack of invention?

Thought not.