The Horrors Of The Night


the room’s oily black and reeks of dead joints

in the darkest there’s a quiet crunching sound

a creature of the night doing its utmost not to get caught

the shadows are suffocating and seem impenetrable 

but after a minute or so my eyes adjust

i can see the foot of the bed

i stare at it 

waiting for Bob to start creeping over my toes

snarling and cackling from behind stringing grey hair

but he never does

it’s not halloween but i’m positive michael myers is here

his white will shatner face glowing lightly illuminated


as he stands the door

on the opposite side of which

awaits the babadook

in his crooked hat and flowing cloak

knitting needle fingers 

clicking and clacking

groaning as they skate against each other

i wait to hear it

3 knocks

ba BA-ba dook dook DOOK

but it doesn’t come

another crunch

louder this time

you stir next to me

i freeze

waiting to be caught in the act

seconds pass like decades

but you don’t move

your breath shallows

i can see the faint outline of your tits

in the steak-knife light 

which slices through the curtains

this is how jason voorhees can see us

his one good swollen fisheye 

flicking from your tit to the back of my skull


a gentle thwack onto the bed between us

shit i dropped it

where is it?

where is it?

my hand flaps about the bed

a crow looking for its prize

crumbs lead a trail beneath my fingertips

then it is there

one side smooth and sticky

the other rough and unreliable

this is my token through the night

my coin to the charon of slumber

it usually takes all 14 of them

my love and my addiction

my mistress

i look at you

in all this fuss you barely moved

you slept soundly

but yet i still can feel my heart pumping against my tonsils

cos when it comes to the horrors of the night

nothing terrifies me more than you 

catching me eating hobnobs at half four in the morning




step 1: remove all packaging

step 2: place on a baking tray in the centre of a pre-heated oven

step 3: Cook on a Gas mark 6/200c/fan180 for 22-24 minutes

step 4: try not to worry about your reoccurring dream where you fellate Andre the Giant

step 5: remove from oven and leave to stand for 2 minutes 

step 6: consume whilst pondering whether it was consensual…


3 Women Of Notability

i saw 3 women of notability on my way to therapy

i didn’t speak to them nor did i hear them speak

all i have is 3 snapshots

polaroids hanging the dark room between my ears


the first woman was talking to a man on a moped

she wore a stained white t-shirt which read:


in swirly curly pink font

like a pig’s penis

a pair of daisy dukes

and broken flip-flops

her greasy mane was tamed back 

held tight in a bun 

like a puckered arsehole

her face was gaunt and hollow

jagged features pressing through

her skull trying to free itself

i rode the track marks on her arm to her hand

she was holding a box of tampons

extra absorbant

she handed them to the man on the moped

a courier making an urgent delivery


the second woman was sat in a nail salon

she was sat by the window - facing outwards

ginger hair sprouted from her wrinkled head

her face was sun-weathered leather

slathered in bronze paint

her hands were laid on a table

they looked dead and haunted

voodoo trophies stolen from a dime museum

her long acrylic claws were fluorescent green

drying under some contraption

she watched them forlornly

eyes downcast and deep set

lost in her own existence

the window framed her 

she was on display

a depressed orang-utan in Dam’s red light district

offering services to those with specific needs


the third woman was crossing the road

she mirrored the zebra streaks beneath her heels

black shoes white shirt

black suit white towel 

wrapped around her head

it was a dirty with dark red spots

blood or hair dye

her face was mostly covered

half her nose, mouth and one eye were exposed

despite this she walked straight and with purpose

seemingly more embarrassed than endangered

she didn’t even register me when she skimmed past

i turned back, worried and confused

she disappeared around a corner


i was restless with my therapist

jittering my seat

unable to focus on her questions

i’d then become lost in trying to find a passable answer

she clocked onto this 

what’s wrong?

it seems like something’s bothering you?

i tried to brush it off but she persisted

i struggled to find an answer

feeling foolish

then fuck it

i said it:

i have to know what’s under that fucking towel!






you were sat next to me in bed

a burnt out joint balanced between your fingers

ash desperately clinging to the end

you were wearing a t-shirt you got online

the one with the hippy biker wearing the iron cross around his neck

as he pours roach feed on john law’s grave

above and below him it reads:




it’s a replica of the one nick cave is wearing in a photo from 1982 

a poster of that photo loosely hangs to the wall by decayed blue-tack

3 feet above you

nick looks down at us


he’s also singing from the stereo

and you gently sing along under your breath

you’re not wearing any make up

but you still look serene in the lamplight

i think of this comment and try to work out if it’s a compliment


i turned to you and through the fog asked:


How big are humpback whales?


You ceased singing.


nick continued regardless

wailing as the music swelled

you raised the joint to your lips

had a puff and said:


I dunno. I reckon I could take one.


And after that moment, I wasn’t as scared to spend the rest of my life with you.

3 Miles Apart

3 miles apart
6 months separated
9 o'clock (pm)
she is in her room naked in front of an unflattering reflection
her eyes stare back into themselves
each blemish on her face is inspected
every feature scrutinised
my mouth is too small
as are my tits
palms glide from her sides
cup her small breasts
she pushes them together and gives up
vision trails downward
I hate my gut
tentative finger tips press against it
then slowly move to her muff tuffs of curly brown hair
need to trim the bush
she wraps some pubes around a finger tip
as she follows her legs downward
turning to inspect her small tight arse
he loved my arse
he loved me
I hope he loved me
a bus ride away
he is in his room
weak limbs propping him up at the foot of his bed
also gazing into a mirror
his hair is disheveled
his eyes are dark and worn
he is in his underwear
the bare bulb shines harsh light on his skeletal figure
he looks deeply into his reflection
you're a cunt
he stands and his hatred doubles
she makes her way into the bathroom
steps into the shower
the water is warm
soothes her
she clasps her face in her palms
pulls them over her crown
soaking her hair
he'll be here soon
he steps into the shower
the water is colder
he lets it tighten his muscles
faces the plughole
his hair engulfing his face
under the water's endless stream
it's nearly time
in their separate rooms
they both dry their hair
he used to fall asleep to the sound of my hairdryer
in the mornings
but couldn't sleep of a night when I held him
he uses the hairdryer to dry his whole body
remembering how she laughed the first time she saw him blowdry his bollocks
she opens her drawer
her vibrator is hidden in amongst the underwear
she finds a sexy pair
black & lace
they were his favourite
said they made my arse look like it was covered by a gothic doily
he finds his favourite pair
one of the few without rips & holes
she never did buy me the underwear she promised
she paid for enough
for everything and I nothing
she sat in front of her vanity mirror
brushing the tangles out of her hair
the straighteners beeping as they warmed up
there was a spot on her forehead
fuck sake
do I pop it or leave it?
I'll cover it up
once untangled she began straightening her dark hair
majestic strands steaming into conformity
he stood at his mirror again
his hair a curled mess
he turned on the shaver
the buzz sent a shiver down his spine
as it passed his ear like a sexual whisper from her
do this to me
do that to me
do anything you want
I'm yours
clumps of hair fell to the floor
on his shoulders
once he'd shaved the sides
he quiffed the top
using the wax she'd bought him
2 days before they broke up
its smell was a perfume from their time together
would she remember?
he looked at his phone
should I text her?
no leave it
she looked at her phone
he hadn't text yet
he'll be here soon
she began applying make up
darkening her eyes
contouring her features
deep black-red lipstick like dried blood
he shaved his face
shaped his stubble
trying to look handsome again
she always said I looked 12 when clean-shaven
now I look old
feel old
20 years older than I am
she clipped on her bra
and looked at herself in the mirror again
hair done
make up done
a leggy brunette with black lace underwear
black was her colour
will he think I look beautiful?
he used to tell me I was beautiful
I never really believed him
he puts on his shirt
black & white & paisley
she bought it for him
another attempt to cheer him up
coax a smile
a real one
from behind his dying eyes
then black suit trousers
socks with holes at the tips and heels
she pulls a dress over her head
black again
he convinced her to buy it
it suited her
he followed her into the changing room
they kissed hard
his cold fingers slipping into her thong
she was wet instantly
it was time to leave and fuck
fuck the shopping
she smiled at the memory
then a pang of sadness hit her gut
she ignored it
checked the time
almost time
he'll be here soon
he too was now fully dressed
hunched over his desk writing
at first he was careful
but soon the words took control of his cramping hand
they splattered across the page
his thoughts like the brains & skull matter from a shot fired into the back of the head
he began to well up
prickly tears stinging his eyes
but even now they wouldn't break
wouldn't set themselves free from his lids
her phone pinged
I'm outside, I think
she looked at herself in the mirror once again
then headed for the door
she paused before answering it
just a moment
she opened the door
her date was here
her date wasn't as tall as him
but he was bulkier
unlike him, her date wasn't skeletal
and he was more handsome
more conventionally handsome
he didn't look damned
death didn't stalk her date
this was a man who'd never felt depression
by now he had finished his first letter
the one addressed to his family and friends
but still no tears fell
am I really this dead?
he placed it to one side
tore another sheet from his pad
he began the one for her
he wrote honestly
slating himself
his emotional unavailability
saying how he wished he could feel
but his head wouldn't let him
how this wasn't easy for him but it was the only option
still he couldn't cry which only confirmed his thoughts
she and her date were already on the bed
drinking red wine
talking shit
god he's boring
this is awful
she placed her wine glass on the side
and grabbed his cock to shut him up
undid his flies and took him in her small mouth
her date wasn't as big as him
his cock was handsome
that's what she used to say
he had a handsome penis and they'd both laugh
she thought of this as she sucked
her date began pushing on her head
his helmet pressing against her tonsils
must get him outta my head
by the end of this letter he had began to cry
but like always it was momentary
and then dried up
never to be released
he folded the letter and placed it in an envelope
pausing before sealing it
as if that act truly signified his finality
then he ran his tongue along the edge
remembering how he'd run his tongue up her inner thigh
he wrote her name on the front
placed it next to the other letter
I owe her this at least
they were both naked on the bed now
her date with his head between her legs
giving some of the worst oral she had ever received
sloppy and without technique
he loved oral
would do it whenever he could
he worshipped my cunt
he loved me
I think
she pulled her date's head up and kissed him
guiding him into her
he began fucking her
too eager with minimal talent
he was too lovemakey
she wanted to be fucked
not made love to
she gazed at the ceiling
and wondered what he was doing?
was he fucking some girl?
a girl with bigger tits and a nicer arse? 
he wasn't
he was fixing his attire in the mirror
all black
he looked like he was going to a funeral
which to be fair
he was
he checked everything was laid out as it should be
then checked again
unsure whether he was putting it off or not
he looked at his phone
contemplated calling just to hear her voice
to tell her that even though he was unable to show it when together he had loved her
I did love her
now he loved nothing
least of all himself
he remembered the letter
he'd explained it all there as best he could
her date was now spooning her
kissing her neck like he used to
sliding in and out her
she couldn't not think of him
no matter who she fucked he would come to her thoughts
the great sex they had
she was the only woman to ever make him cum
a side-effect from the anti-depressants
it was a title she was proud of
she was also the best fuck he'd ever had
and vice versa
but depression destroyed his libido
as well as their relationship
she would've carried on
loved him no matter what
destroyed her own well-being for him
but he refused to let her
he wouldn't bring her down with him
she thought he was lying when they split
thought he'd used it as an escape clause
a pathetic excuse
but soon she realised this was the case
and if she didn't, she would by the morning
he placed the stool under the light fixture in the living room
he had tested it
it would take his weight
he spared no expense
he didn't want to fuck it up
wake up concussed and embarrassed
still here
he tied the rope to the fixture
stood back and looked at it
with a slight glimmer of pride doused in sorrow
her date pounded away as she rubbed her clit furiously
bringing herself to climax imagining it was him
pretending her date was him
having to force herself from saying his name
the sexual showreel in her mind was bringing her closer
this bastard better not cum before I'm done
he stood on the stool wobbling slightly
he pulled the noose over his head
tightening it around his neck
she was on the brink now
she was so close
he was so fucking far away
she could feel it
any moment now
he looked in the mirror
saw himself
he did look handsome
at least there was that
he smiled his final smile
kicked the stool out from underneath himself
I'm coming! I'm coming!
she buried her face in the pillow
wishing it was his neck instead
suffocating herself
stifling her screams of his name
orgasm and longing meeting in one moment
her legs jittered in ecstasy
he danced the hangman's dance
swinging violently
as instinct & blurred cognition fought over his fate
his movements slowed
his legs twitched
then he was still
as was she
her orgasm was over
her date was coming inside of her
she could feel the warm seed
then he flopped down
breathing heavily
that was amazing, her date gasped
he threw an arm over her
she wanted to cry
what was the man she had loved doing now?
he was still
dead in his living room

Polka Dot Thong

I was in the lingerie department when it happened, sorting thru the underwear – my job, not a hobby. I was unloading a plastic crate of cotton midis (size 22) when I found it: blue with polka-dots, incongruous in size & style, a skimpy size 10 thong. Out of place, almost as if it’d been put there on purpose. Identical to the one you had, the one you wore when we went to that cheap jazz night in the ill-equipped café near where you used to live. We danced, you perfectly, me awkwardly. We quaffed red wine to feel classy & swayed at the side when we felt heady. I was behind you with my frail twiggy arms around your waist, your firm full arse pushing against my semi, & your hand enveloping my wrist. You’d squeeze it every so often – a reminder that you loved me. We ducked out before the encore, sung to the bejeweled velvet sky & kissed under the golden glow of a lamplight, as the rain reflected in diamonds under our feet. Then we went home – your home, your old home – & stumbled thru the front door, trying not to wake up your housemates. Collapsing on the bed in your sub-zero room (no money for heating, so we kept each other warm), we kissed & stripped. You laid under me with nothing covering you except that blue polka-dot thong. I kissed my way down from your half-smiling mouth, a small bite on your neck & your back arched & your skin sung. Further down, passed the mole on your collarbone, I sucked on your left nipple til it hardened, mirroring the other. The left was your dodgy nipple, that’s what we called it, cos you had to charm it to get it hard. I ran my tongue down over your ribs expecting to hear a xylophone’s chime, then I prodded your belly button with my tongue to make you giggle. I reached the waistband of your thong, I gripped it between my teeth & let it ping back. You giggled again. I put myself face to face with it, staring into an ocean with polka-dots isles, just like at work. I looked down at the thong in my hand, so delicate & soft & I began to sob. Tears & globules of snot burst from my face into the polka-dots, my back arched over my straining knees & my chest cracked. I calmed down, removed the thong from my face only to be greeted by a sticky mess, soon to crust like the discharge you find the morning after & I knew I still loved you.

Night Terror #387

the roaches are everywhere. hard stone backs in formation race across the carpetless floor. an endless army of scurrying legs & shells all heading to my bed & back where they came from, orbiting my psychosis. stamp. stamp. neverending. I ask my mum for the hoover but shes too busy being molested by a pig in an overpriced suit & royal blue tie. grunts & screams, saliva & blood, orgasms & tears. a swirly curly todger up her jacksy. I leave them to it. best not disturb. the hoover is in the cupboard in the hall, under my fathers swinging corpse. his purple face mocks me, bulging eyes accuse me of incest & betrayal. I try to explain but a roach the size of my useless tongue races outta my gullet and calls me a liar. I reach down to pick up the hoover, knock the deceased who swings back & forth, crotch against my boat race, turgid cock prodding my sullen cheeks. he laughs. I scream & pull the hoover out & slam the door which shatters like glass & crumbles like tissue paper. the roaches are speeding. the wind thru my toes reminds me of some trip I once took when I was 5 or something & then I hear the crying. my mum is gone as is the pig. a long bloodied fleshy periwinkle rope trails thru the flat, wiggling & twitching, heading off towards where the kitchen was. I follow the crying to find a bundle at the end of the rope, a babe in a small mud puddle of bodily fluids on the checker floor. matted black hair like wisps of the imagination are pasted to its tiny cranium. I lift it from the mess, wrap it in a tea towel we got from south end and hold it in my arms. a mushroom nose, eyes longing for death, a tiny o where the sounds of horror emit. I rock & coo & tears dart from my eyes onto its minuscule face, the fluids mixing as they streak downwards cleansing him. he's yours. a tug on the umbilical cord & we spin to see her. shes dolled up in her slimline dress & clumsy heels & with makeup pristine & hair curled like the day I fell in love with her. beautiful & innocent like a tampon before its been shoved up a slit she says. I tell her he's in pain & needs care & she says she'll take care of him & my innards spin & flex. no I say & she looks ugly & leering. her beak sharpens & her curls straighten like knives. she totters towards us, her heels chipping away at the floor. I pull him to my chest & try to force him into my heart but he just won't. roaches crawl down her legs in an endless spate & she stops. she looks down & smiles that smile that used to set my nerves alight & another babe plops onto the floor from between her thighs. grey & vicious looking. without a moment of hesitation it chomps thru its own umbilical cord & grows to the size of a man, face still pubescent. they both laugh & kiss, tongues lapping up the broth they produced. we'll take care of him she says, as she rubs his tiny prick with eyes on mine & a sardonic grin. they move closer. I take a step back & look at the babe. he's crying worse now. the skin on his torso is moving & stretching. he is in agony & I can do nothing. he caterwauls as I scream for help. his alabaster skin rips & aphid appendages, huge spindly legs, sprout from his side. antennas erupt from his crown with a fountain of sickly black blood. I drop him to the floor as my legs give up & throw my body backwards. he turns to me, eyes loveless & mouth clicking & scurries up towards them & up his mothers rancid roach-ridden cunthole. the cord has tightened around my ankle & I am dragged to the same sticky abyss. I cling to anything for salvation. she is thrown on her back by her partner, he parts her legs & dives headfirst into her insectile muff. she screams in pleasure or pain, I am unsure. I grab my ankle & chew my way thru the cord, black puss seeps tween my teeth & down my gullet. I choke as they devour each other. I cant look anymore. I crawl past as my insides fill & spill. I fall into a mass of roaches, their tiny feet tickling my skin as I succumb to my inevitable suffocation