Cold Lips 04 + launch party

Art, books, Design, Fashion, Fiction, Film, Journalism, literature, london, Music, Nightlife, spoken word

Please come and celebrate the best edition yet…

FRIDAY 27th April at London Fields Brewhouse

Entry from a fiver includes the magazine (RRP: £100), and ace music and poetry.

I began putting together the features last year.  It’s the kinda thing I’d like to read… designed by the beautifully talented  Personality Crisis who is now on a jet plane!

cold_lips_4_final_apr18 SMALL

Entry includes the new summer edition


THE FAT WHITE FAMILY’S ADAM J HARMER and his one man destruction show

Greta Bellamacina, Robert Montgomery

Stuart McKenzie, Ana Seferovic

Kirsty Allison (COLD LIPS editor) with Steve Norris on guitar

Chris Rotter

INSIDE, on the sexy paper: 💥Anti-fashion by Carl Fox ✨Duggie Fields on Syd Barrett (whose Madcap Laugh album inspired the cover shoot with Greta + Robert) 🔥 In the studio with Billy Childish 💥Malik Ameer Crumpler (Madison Washington) on hip-hop 👁 Judy Nylon on collaboration 💖Beyonce’s fave: Scooter Laforge – on The Odyssey ⚡Jeffrey Wengrofsky on digital subcultures 💥New poetry from Rob Plath, fiction from David Noone, and Joseph Coward (CXR) 💥Centrefold: Ana Seferovic by Tamara Suskic, and her collab with the painter Sam Hacking
and plenty more fashion, literature, art, music against the world. x


The night also celebrates the release of PERFUME by Gil De Ray… 

Gil Perfume

IMAGINE Roxy Music riding into town on balearic horses, all Clash Magnificent Seven after a few lost weeks at the rock n roll disco.
There’s a ska bassline to take us into the summer. FIYA! 💖



Pavement poetry and road movies 🌵📹🤳

Art, Film, Poetry

I like cutting poetry as video.  Pavement poetry films.  From notes on a phone.

Here’s a new one, from the groves of Peckham to the branded streetart of Shoreditch. I’d been listening to Terence McKenna, watching Unity Matrix and Rachel Bladerunner…

The story is the journey – the poetry is as we walk.

Classic road movie Palm Spring colours and my photographs using a Holga lens around the Joshua Tree inspired the art direction of the first edition of Cold Lips.

The colours numbed for the second edition, stripped back to fading Polaroids and Shedville typewriter font.


Did the first pavement poetry film on  Instagram last summer as I wandered.  Primrose Hill slate, sounds better than other pavements.

It’s a few minutes through this Unedited film, that I’ve had projected through performances…

I’m doing something on 3rd November with Ana Sefer and her pal.  The next one with Dave Barbarossa (drummer, Adam Ant/Bow Wow Wow) will be with Factory de Joie, November 25th.

And in the meantime, I write as I walk, and put together the third issue of Cold Lips.  x

John Cooper Clarke

literature, Nightlife, Poetry, spoken word, sylvia plath fan club


“Cold Lips is artistic and fabulous” John Cooper Clarke

Very proud to have the punk laureate support the second edition of Cold Lips as our cover star and with a rare, intimate performance on April 22nd – plus the rest of us. I’m doing poetry with Dave Barbarossa for the first time. And the music’ll be amazing. Look at that line-up!
Please come! The new edition will be back from the printer!

Having to pay John’s driver, hotel et al – hence modest charge.  More info and tickets: HERE



Art, Film, literature, Poetry, spoken word, sylvia plath fan club

Since launching the anti-literary Sylvia Plath Fan Club in 2015, I’ve been doing more gigs, as a poet.  What does that even mean, huh?  Basically, I stand up on stage – often between bands, MCing, introducing, doing poems – y’know?   Come see me…and you’ll get it…

I published my first collection late last year – got it on billboards outside the Ace Hotel in Shoreditch.  Thanks Daylite LED Media. So easy.


The cover was designed by Luke McLean – one of my fave people, and designers (Supergrass, London Field Brewery, Wrangler etc).  You can buy Unedited on the Cold Lips website, or from me at gigs for a fiver… [here’s something nice on it by fellow Lazy Gramophone member, the brilliant skateboarding performance poet, Mat Lloyd].


Lovely to get invited onto James Meynell’s Garage show on internet station of the year, Soho Radio.  Listen back below, and the post continues underneath…  

My nearest gigs are tomorrow – Thursday – the last night of the residency I’ve been doing with Saint Leonard’s Horses at the International Club’s Winter Conclave at the George Tavern in Whitechapel, then on Saturday 18th, I’m doing my first out of town gig for Cultural Traffic.


Sometimes I do readings with film – this is work in progress…

My first reading was for Ambit, nearly 10 years, I was terrible – it was a 2000 word short story, called Lyla, and I just got up and read it cold to some poor  darlings above a pub in Soho.  After that, my  ol’ pal Salena Godden started the Book Club Boutique.   I’d been working on my novel, and needed to break up the style, and found poetry a good way to find a more honest voice, away from the corporate writing, and paid media work I’ve grown up doing.

Now people say nice things:

Kirsty Allison is the most rock n roll poet in LondonKelli Ali

Wordsmith wizardryAdam J Harmer, Fat White Family

Her poetry is the only that gives me goosebumpsDelilah Holliday, Skinny Girl Diet

She’s a modern day Patti SmithJohny Brown, Band of Holy Joy

x kirsty

FETE OF PERVERSITY #peacefornice

Poetry, spoken word, sylvia plath fan club


Read this after the Paris bombings at the Sylvia Plath Fan Club…and still the Fete of Perversity goes on.  #peacefornice

And there’s a vid of it…

At the Fete of Perversity

Kardashians, cut the ribbon

Inspo-quote university

manipulating biddable malignancy

spectacle o

Art Deco sunshine filters

an Insta-speriential souk

smashed it

Bush n Blair dribbling


AK47 air guitars

holographs of Nixon n Kissinger

on drums

At the Dawn of uncivil war

Come to the

Merkel Mercedes auction


Lucky shot Trump


Gold bullets in a bottle


Rose petal oud


Monsanto tombola food

Drakma.  Dollar.  Euro. Riyal. Out.

Roll up

Roll up


rubber grenades in your skin


DLT riding a baby mammoth on a plinth


Titanium tanzanite tails to

Platinum camels and donkeys

and ten tonne snails

Coney island badtrip

Freak shows and weirdos and psychos

Murdoch whip pans

Drone focussed

Paid for this content

The robots

Over Gaza

The terror-drome eggshell bullseye

The quiet

The peace

The people

The megalosaurus

Climbing a flagpole

and Theresa Maypoles

and melting and fracking

and hating and


And bureaucrating

media Jet Stream Rainbow

Over Yemen

And Mosul and Ukraine:

Naked kid writes apolitical songs

freedom fighter


Your brain

Ping ping pow

Take Captagon

So good

So fast

To Die

So Young


On Diamond shattered screens

Ride aside



With cats

Eye flicks


And Brats schtik

Range Rover bomb

amber sky

Ammo fired

Explosions –

Gunfire cried

Displaced Ants ran

Birds sang

Boats sank

Horror songs

Howl dog

FGM Rape scream

Snoop snoop bang

The infadels stopped dancing

Dropped their drinks

Couldn’t think


Vertically distributed smiles

Legs hung from the mic stand

Silver jewellery fell to the floor

An arm was on the curtain and a shoe was in the door…

Blood already lay on the floor

Colonies had risen, been defeated



Jesus, Mohammed, defied

The board of Idolatry paused

In a reign of flames

carbon soaked atmos

Every stall burning off

Oil backsheesh

splitting the world

into lazy divides

Social media lockdown

Connections finished

Data cached

For chips

In heads

To help you remember


Rebels sold hashish cookies

spiked with death

To Putin

Old money Crusaders

Sanctioned chocolate

city waders

Patented cures,

for spells bound by


Against lizards

Scales down

Never swept up after

Arrows of judgement shot from the clouds

Held in Boston and Oxford

The vloggers and bloggers

Styled as Refugees in burkhas.

bribed mouths

pouting in

sanitised mud cleanser faces

They’re cool – called the magazines

In exchange for dough

And artists





Indexed superstructure

Or bombed


Red card

Calling it:

We fund

this rescheme as

brand Fans


crazy and stupid

As Fran Leibovitz said:

the best died

And still, the fete of perversity

will not give in to terror:

Workers march

Loafers lunch

Cake thrown

Roll up

Roll up

Best show on earth.

November 2015, Kirsty Allison


books, Fiction, Journalism, literature, london, Music, Nightlife, Poetry, Politics, Short story, spoken word, sylvia plath fan club

Started a fash and spoken word zine:  BUY IT

Beyond the editorial, read why in a piece for the Literary Platform

Look at these gorg photos by Charlotte Freed from the London Fashion Week party at The Library.  Thanks to DJs, Gil De Ray and Feral is MC Kinky, and all the amazing performers, and supporters.  Massive appreciation to London Fields Brewery for keeping artists happy

For more info:


Like Cold Lips on Facebook, Love us on  Insta, baby




literature, Nightlife, Poetry

The Sylvia Plath Fan Club


Please join us to celebrate the inaugural night of the Sylvia Plath Fan Club at the Arts Club East aka Gary’s Place, 64 Shoreditch High Street, London, E1 6JJ.

NOVEMBER 5th 2015

Words (stolen or otherwise) from the gorgeously rebellious mouths of:
Gail Porter (bigger than any politician, projected on Parliament in the 90s, the former kids’ TV presenter hurtled through a rockstar marriage and the bedlam which ensued – exclusive preview from her forthcoming book), Kelli Ali (once upon a time there was a band called the Sneaker Pimps, but punk bands before that, and so much since – pure poet, dying by the sword), Anne McCloy (she has the answers, Some Product, artist, professor, everything), Tony White (true gent of London’s literary scene, author of novels including Foxy-T, much published, amazing mind), Erik Stein (Cult With No Name, recently completed the hugely lauded Blue Velvet Revisited soundtrack, film to follow next year), Gil De Ray (rock n roll’s finest), Gary Fairfull (the guv’nor), Kirsty Allison and you?

Doors open from 4pm, we’ll start by 8pm.

DJ til late.


Music, Nightlife, Poetry

The night before the votes came in…


Was my pleasure to MC amid left-bank optimism in the wilds of Brixton.  Johny Brown – frontman of legendary folk-punk heroes, Band of Holy Joy invited the gorgeously French band over, A Singer Must Die 

– so it all went pretty indie.

Packed crowd also got to hear Morton Valence.  Love.  Robert ‘Hacker’ Jessett looks like George Michael undercover, Anne Gilpin’s more bonnie than her Hacker Clyde.  

When doing my homework, I discovered how poetic translations can be – finding zillions of versions of Baudelaire, Rimbaud & Verlaine.  Being the kind of girl who has to order the first thing she sees on a menu, in fear of indecision, I went freestyle and opted to make my own really bad translations below…


Enemy.  Baudelaire. Kirsty translation v1.

My youth was nothing but a tempest storm

Broken brilliant with sun rays

The thunder and the rain have ravaged me

And sickened fruit in my garden lays

Voila – touched by the autumn of my creative life

I prepare my shovel and pick

To reassemble the earth and soils

Arrêt – this water must not lick through cracks to tombs beneath

And who knows if the flowers that I dream

of finding in this sun will root or wash away, a tragedy,

Never finding the mystic thing which offers their vigorous beauty

O doulear! Alas – time eats life

and the obscure enemy locked to our heart is blood lost,

growing from this fortified dust…

In response to my enemy

Time is my enemy

Not nature

I fight in bars

On dancefloors

In praise of love

Of life raw


At the aftershow

Before there was Burroughs, shooting his wife, Rimbaud shot Verlaine.  

And after Rimbaud came Penny Rimbaud (creator of anarchic band, Crass)

Penny for your Rimbaud (based on this video interview with Ian F Svenonius on Vice)


Go military.  Go Defense.

Give me a penny for your Rimbaud.

Those left behind

Must get out of bed

McLaren, Branson, cash from chaos.

Exit the existential mess

Take action

Get out of bed.

Time and space are the replacement of place

The holocaust is the spirit of displacement

Accepted face

Of a corporate seditionary policy

Anarchy is rage not rave

Get out of bed

Get out of love

Our price is now

Insurrection, mutiny – see treason.

How does it feel to be mother of a thousand dead

No agitprop to Iraq half a million dead

5 years prep to make the platform blow

SantaClausification of dead rockstars

Dead philosophers

Dead myths

Full Marx Mythomania

There ain’t gonna be a revolution

We have to go sideways so we can’t be seen, he said

The true dimension will be like a prairie fire

Conrad’s anarchist will destroy GMT  – universal time…

Anarchists get out of bed.

We shall be moved

We must not bemoan the loss of dinosaurs

Or the concentration camp we live in now

As long as I can remain outside of it

And get out of bed


Vote symbolism

Vote dada

Vote surreal

Vote metaphysical

Vote rock n roll

Vote for the commodification of music
Vote disco

Vote anarchy

Vote punk

Vote religion

Vote politics

Vote homo

Vote labels

Vote The Band Of Holy Joy​

Vote Gainsbourg

Vote Russell Brand​


Vote Kardashian

Vote vagabond

Vote war

Vote rave

Vote pagan light

Vote silk

Vote nylon

Vote outsider

Vote for death

Vote for soil

Vote for now

Vote for the future

Vote for the past

Vote cancer

Vote hallucinogenic

Vote psychedelic

Vote adolescent

Vote child

Vote baby

Vote death


What did one socialist lobster say to another socialist lobster when it went to the voting station alone?

Stop being so shellfish

A very popular translation of Paul VERLAINE’s – THE BULLY – ‘lesser poet’

Through Interminable Land…

(Romances Sans Paroles: Arriettes Oubliées VIII)

Through interminable land

Ennui of the plain,

Vague snow once again

Gleams like sand.

The sky is copper

Devoid of any light,

You might almost gather

The moon had lived and died.

Floating clouds

Grey oak-trees lift

In near-by woods

Among the mists.

The sky is copper

Devoid of any light,

You might almost gather

The moon had lived and died.

Wheezing crow

You gaunt wolves too,

When north winds blow

How do you do?

Through interminable land

Ennui of the plain,

Vague snow once again

Gleams like sand.

— [this was riffed on the back ]

Devoid of light

Avoid the light

a void of light

Metal sky

Bullet hole stars w

Slate oak

Roots remain underground

Sheltered from wheezing city crows

Hunted by gaunt smacked up wolves

Queens of the night

Slumberous reward of narcolepsy

The warmth of dreams

Light – remove it

Through interminable land

Ennui of the plain,

Vague snow once again

Gleams like sand.

Condemned Women  – BAUDELAIRE [didn’t read this, or translate it – lifted from the amazing]

Like thoughtful cattle on the yellow sands reclined,

They turn their eyes towards the horizon of the sea,

Their feet towards each other stretched, their hands entwined,

They tell of gentle yearning, frigid misery.

A few, with heart-confiding faith of old, imbued

Amid the darkling grove, where silver streamlets flow,

Unfold to each their loves of tender infanthood,

And carve the verdant stems of the vine-kissed portico.

And others like unto nuns with footsteps slow and grave,

Ascend the hallowed rocks of ancient mystic lore,

Where long ago St. Anthony, like a surging wave,

The naked purpled breasts of his temptation saw.

And still some more, that ‘neath the shimmering masses


Among the silent chasm of some pagan caves,

To soothe their burning fevers unto thee they call

O Bacchus ! who all ancient wounds and sorrow laves.

And others again, whose necks in scapulars delight,

Who hide a whip beneath their garments secretly,

Commingling, in the sombre wood and lonesome night,

The foam of torments and of tears with ecstasy.


We walked through cows lost after milking – confused as the clouds rushing past the moon

Suitcase of books

Sleeping in sacks

Most people get three chances – I got FIVE

Light over flatus, ignus, aqua, terra, and me

Misty lake – babtism with nature

who wrapped like ivy pulling to her core

Beneath the soil

Buried in stolen black vinyl

And everyday I fight nature

From Babylonia, to the path of Venus across the Wiccan sky

Israel where jesus drives a Fiat Lux (let there be light)

To blood of Guenavere

Changing from clown to pallbearer

choking on the rust of gargoyle’s lungs

RIMBAUD – RAMBO – the shooter, the midnight looter – rebel poet, walked out on words by 20,

Dying in Marseille – a leg less than he was born with.

But who cares? Poets live forever.

#art #soho #12inch #12×12 #sleevenotes #newseries #WorkInProgress

Art, Music, Nightlife, Poetry, Short story

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A group exhibition reappropriating the 12 inch record sleeve as a canvas.

24th – 26th April
At artFix London

Private view
Friday 24th 6-9pm

Curated by
Novemto Komo & Steven Quinn

Alex Rayment / Andie Macario / Anja Priska / Anna Kolosova / Blair Zaye / Christina Mitrenste / Christopher J Campbell / Daniela Raytchev / Darren Van Asten / Deirdre Mc Kenna / Ella Fleck / Erin Elizabeth Kelly / Gala Knorr / Gemma Withers / Hannah Alice / Holly McCulloch / Ina Shin / Jonas Ranson / KEELERTORNERO / Keith Connolly / Kirsty Allison / Laura Gee / Laura Liliyana-Raffaella Cogoni / Lora Avedian / Mark Powell / Nathan Evans / Novemto Komo / Oly Durcan / Ricki Nerreter / Satoshi Nakajima / Skeleton Cardboard / Steven Quinn / Super Future Kid / Vicki Cody

Brought to you from residents of Hackney Downs Studios
& friends.

2099AD – The Illustrated Ape

Art, books, Fiction, illustrated ape, Poetry

Travel with me to 2099AD, deep arse space, a place of over edited fiction, where Planet Prada, Comet CHANEL, Land of Louis Vuitton and all manner of planets preferable to earth leave a few rebels behind… X

This voyage of discovery is yours for a fiver from SOLID distributors of the creative visual word form – also included in this once in a lifetime offer: moonshine recipes, and a dystopia survival kit (a beermat soaked with poetry).

Established in 1998, The Illustrated Ape features 100% original creative fictionpicturespoetrypop – and never, ever reviews! It has won popular acclaim, most notably the Creative Review ‘Best In Book’ award for design, and was one of only five British magazines selected for the Jam Anglo-Japanese exhibition. It is widely regarded as the most exciting and influential creative, illustrationgraffiti, and writing magazine to come out of the British urban underground, and is a primary resource for anyone seeing insights into popular culture.

Jamie Reid – the design king of punk, Julie Verhoeven – described in Taschen’s modern design bible, Illustration Now as one of the world’s top designer/illustrators, Paul Davis – award winning illustrator, John Lennon (previously unpublished work), David Hockney (previously unpublished work), Michael EnglishMartin Sharp – sixties design icon, Felix Dennis – OZ and MAXIM magazine founder and poet, David Sims – fashion photographer, Ryuichi Sakamoto – composer and film-star, Junko Mizuno (HELL BABIES) – manga artist and author, Jason Atomic – illustrator, Honey Manko – alt-diva, Heather Jones – songwriter and HOLE founding member, James Berry – poet, Michael Horowitz – poet, Tim Wells – poet, Cheryl B – New York feminist poet, and hundreds more acclaimed heroes of the pen and pencil.

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Art, Design, Film, Journalism, Music, Nightlife, Poetry

Shoreditch’s RED is the creative force engaging local communities through facilitation of the continuing Cultural Revolution in the heart of East London.

This versatile, multi-functional space has welcomed a myriad of creativity through its doors since opening in 2010; transforming a derelict group of buildings and unused land into chameleon like art studios, galleries, live events venues, offices, screening rooms, open air event setting, incorporating a street food market and bars.

In keeping with its ethos of cultural guardianship, RED has actively encouraged not only artists and local residents to engage with the facilities, schools such as St Monica’s Primary have utilised the space and in keeping with their continued commitment to communitas, RED plays host to an annual symposium of the religious arts initiative Urban Dialogues, bringing together people from all faiths.

A year in the making, MAKING SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING documents elements of the magic that takes place behind the doors (and often on the walls) of RED through interviews and photographs.

To celebrate the launch RED will be hosting a photographic exhibition and in keeping with its anti-hegemonic practice, 2000 copies of the book will be distributed at the launch.

Additional commentary from visionaries such as Stirling Ackroyd’s James Goff, Tom Burger Bear – one of the chefs who led Time Out! to dub Red Market as being the birthplace of ‘the new food revolution’, curators and artists such as Alice Herrick of Herrick Gallery, Jerwood Prize winning Svetlana Fialova, Paul Sakoilsky, Chris Bianchi, Matthew Hawtin of Minus, former street artist, Part2ism,Dimitri Hegemann of Tresor Berlin, trends author Dr. Lida Hujic , fashion designers: Roggykei, patron Nick Winter, Stephen Shashoua of 3 Faiths Forum, music consultant: Juan Leal, Gary Means’ Alternative London street art tours and more.



Family, Fiction, Medicine, Nightlife

A SPAR?  A British convenience store that’s not quite as convenient as a 7/11?  Is the consumer-etymology founded from a Dutch spruce, a Scando fir tree, something that never dies, like tinned goods, and Vesta meals?  Or did you mean spa?  A place to recover, are we unwell?



“Here’s Kirsty Allison, my old spar from the 90s…” introduced Salena Godden at a Book Club Boutique event, one of the St Barnabus gigs, or maybe Dick’s Bar?  I wasn’t sure what it meant.  I puzzled, replayed the words on occasion for several years –  a spar –  are we not friends?  Are we thorns?  Are we those silver-wheels at the back of cowboy boots?

And I thought back to the stabbing pain on the road to self-discovery, of the late nights and early mornings – the garden parties, the house parties, the This Is The Last Night Of Our Life parties and the wilds of ledges teetered, the wanderings towards experience, the asking for favours, the telling of secrets, of paths destructed and bombed by the quests to go beyond the sun and everyone before it.

And it was only when I was writing back to my old lover from the days when we met,  that I knew what spars are.

See, I met Salena when I was even younger than her.  She was sitting on the pavement opposite the Coach n Horses in Soho with beautiful Piers – who’s like Virginia Woolf’s Orlando and Gatsby, a great dancer and filmmaker, a lover of life, a giver of life.  They were from Hastings, there were a lot of people from Hastings – but until then, most people I’d known had been from London, where I’m from.   After the pub had rung its last bell we rode to the rooftop of a place in Bloomsbury that Salena was minding (a place with a room I remember crashing in where a woman kept perfect white, fetish shoes in boxes)…drinking pink Mateus from the bottle, looking out over the chimneys and aerials, towards Soho, Covent Garden and away to Fitzrovia, we listened to Tom Waits and surely shared stories from our different youths.

We hung out, went to poetry gigs, I was presenting on crappy late-night TV and editing on a fashion magazine – so wrote of Salena, the poet, and Jock Scot, and Murray Lachlan Young.  We shared sofas, and floors and many more bottles of 1000 different lands but as our lives developed, like old fashioned photographs swilling in chemicals, I feared Salena and I’s wild times were over, until her book launch the other day at Sophie Parkin’s new club – the east end’s Colony Rooms In A Crypt, Vout O Reenees.  I meet Dickie properly, the man who seems to have become the caretaker of her heart.

And for me, for the first time, I felt they’d fallen off, our old spars.  Gone, like puppy’s teeth in the snow.  So that was how I learned what they were in the first place.




Reading the intro to this proper collection of poetry, published by Burning Eye, available at Sophie’s club, signed, or online, via Salena’s shop or the larger ones, it strikes me that Salena (or  Gloopy, as we used to call her, after Salena Saliva, her ol’ stage name – instigated, partly by Tim Wells, I’m sure) writes an inspiring call to arms.  She was always ahead of me by some years, making a conscious committal to the life of writing:  the up at 4am strides through the dawn to the get a start on the manuscript.   All those hundreds of gigs.   The busy-ness of the business of writing.   And performing.  And being.  Radio presenting gigs giving her credibility, the establishment sending her the emails that say, yes, you are famous now.  Her becoming a voice of Britain, with more stories than we will ever write, or tell.

This book spans 20 years – it rises from a pre-internet era to one of fear and terrorism, to putting all of those experiences together, and it reads like 20 years of a life well-written.  There are poems I’ve heard many times, and those quieter ones with questions which none of us should ever forget to ask.  There are the times I’ve missed out on, and times we’ve been together – the times we don’t talk about, can only write of.

Sitting at the bar drinking fizz at the end of the party, I know my old spar is in the place where she always wanted to be.  And I hope, from the bottom of my heart, and our bookshelf wombs, that she will always feel this way.


Fishing in the Aftermath took me to unchartered waters –  if you’ll forgive me, it is a right catch for those who have ever been lost at sea, or sailed into high winds.  For sailors and creatures of the deep, but also, forever accessible with the ability to rattle into a new harbour and join the rebel pirates- always with an undercurrent that could swell voluptuously into tides new, or a changing, but spitting and laughing, sometimes dangerous, yet increasingly calm, collected and with a decent compass aboard the sparship enterprise…you could do far worse things with your cash.



Thurston Moore + Burroughs + Cunnilingus

Fiction, Journalism

Never has the art of getting down and worshipping sounded as sexy



Thurston Moore is as close to William Burroughs as I’ll ever get.  Moore’s band, Sonic Youth, were borne on the back of the New York punk scene which groupied the king kong of cut up.

I’m born on the back Ciccone Youth – one of their best albums.  Covers Madonna songs.

Thurston, currently living in this joyous town of layers (LDN) with girlf, Eva Prinz both curated this show at Red as part of the Burroughs 100 series – celebrating the centennial of the guy who shot his wife dead in the head, when playing William Tell.  William Burroughs was a Yale grad with a parental stipend, put most of it in his arm.  Which, as Thurston rightly said in an interview to NME, will continue to inspire folk forever – the act of being creative on drugs, not everyone can afford it…

The show at Red Gallery DOES IT THROUGH PHOTOS OF BURROUGHS HANGING WITH MUSICAL COLLABORATORS + THOSE HE PATRONED WITH CROAKED OUT WORKS OF ADVICE.  It’s a black n white who’s who of the world’s renegades standing aside their hero.  The catalogue features a total list of his recorded works. Oh, HIGH praise, I give.

Back from teaching at the Naropa University (Ginsberg’s palace to Kerouac et al), PRINZ MOORE put together a nice lil ‘catozine’ – feat. interviews and work by the students: METAL DREAM MACHINE MUSIC – that kinda explains the show as good as anything.

But the pictures on the wall,



2014-07-04 09.53.33

THIS WAS ON THE TABLE, AN OFFERING – better than buying newspapers with stories about a world I cannae change


2014-07-04 09.54.06

Cool bananas


2014-07-04 09.53.44

You gotta read to believe – Tom Verlaine from Television is in there under a pseudonym…GEEK OUT, PUNKS




Me n Rosie – pic by PAUL SAKOILSKY x





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2014-07-04 09.54.39






Fiction, Film

Okay, he’s my mate, but go see FILTH, the best thing Irvine’s done on film since Trainspotting.

You may have enjoyed The Acid House but it’s not got Jim Broadbent looking like he’s mainlined LSD on the set of Clockwork Orange, nor James McAvoy flitting seamlessly between the polars of evil and compassion – a performance that has wowed even the most ugly of critics.  It’s got that music-hall-nuttiness, so typical of us Brits, with some spectacularly Shakespearean-lighting – all that’s missing from the book is the nylon trousers…

As my first and most formative editor, James Brown says: “You wanna know why I don’t drink, WATCH FILTH…”

Cheers to that – x

photoPic by Inga Tillere.  the other guy is photographer, Grant Fleming

HMS Psychedelia – in honour of legendary Martin Bax

Ambit, Poetry


80 words for the 80th birthday of legendary founder and retiring editor of literary quarterly, Ambit (est. 1959)

He’s published many, including: JG Ballard, Burroughs, Peter Blake and Ralph Steadman.

His own writing’s not shabby either.


Kirsty Allison is hilarious and poignant – SABOTAGE

Fiction, Press
photoTime: A Lazy Gramophone Press collaborative project

“an obvious shift in tone appears in adolescence-adulthood, one that is particularly apparent in Kirsty Alison’s entry, ‘Oscar Wilde Said Youth is Wasted on the Young – so Let’s Get Wasted’… This hilarious submission marks a clear transition between the previous age and the one we are now moving into, which is not only amusing and perhaps a little embarrassing, but also somewhat poignant.”





Fiction, Poetry

I’m part of the LAZY GRAMOPHONE collective – misfits of the modern world.

A few years ago, founder and editor, Sam Rawlings approached us with an ambitious project that catalogues TIME – Childhood, Adolescence, Wisdom.

I got to write a poem about ADOLESCENCE…all the pieces interlink and it’s a spectacle of book, immaculately conceived – I am super-proud to be included alongside some excellent poets, writers and illustrators.

You can read my poem and see the beautiful illustration by super-cool artist, Lola Dupre by purchasing the book – leave a comment with your email and I’ll send you 20% discount code.


Mat Lloyd – skater poet, Philip Levine – publisher, Kirsty Allison


Sam Rawlings, Time’s editor

Kirsty Allison, Time

Contributors’ Five Things Journal Posts:
– Adam Green
– Bryn Hall
– Inua Ellams
– Zoe Catherine Kendall
– Andrew Walter
– Laura Dockrill
– Mat Lloyd
– Sorana Santos
– Will Conway
– Hannah Stephenson
Matt Black
– Claire Fletcher
– Carl Laurence
 Zophiel Webb
– Jude Melling
– Stacie Withers
– Tom Hirons
– Megan Leonie Hall
– Vincent J Prince
– Kaitlin Beckett
– Guy J Jackson
Eliza Gregory
Jeannie Paske
Jo Tedds
– Maria Drummey
– Tom Harris
– Liz Adams
– Lola Dupre
– Kirsty Allison


Time is a vast collaborative book project containing short stories, poems and artwork by fifty-five contributors. Ever since the project’s inception, the idea has been to create an environment where independent writers and artists could come together in order to share their work. The result of this endeavour is a collection of stories, images and poems based around the theme of time, its pages placing particular focus upon the relationship between words and pictures. By sharing in this way we hope to inspire each other as well as those around us, to draw a diverse audience and so help to illuminate the work of alternative artists and writers everywhere.


For media enquiries, speak with the fabulous editor: Sam Rawlings / / 07870 687 649



Art, Poetry


In bed with Balzac


“Greeting one another with the flippant banter that in certain circles in Paris passes for wit…a young painter, who regularly dined at the Maison Vauquer, had infected his fellow guests with the habit (of inserting -rama, from Diorama, on the end of every sentence) …coldorama…nipporama…hellorama…corn-orama”

Henry Reed‘s translation of Honore de Balzac’s Pere Goriot is brilliantly alive.  It’s anti-costume drama.  Paris 1837, with a palette of nowness.

McQueen jumper, white shirt, charcoal and silver pinstripe trousers.

Lesser-spotted Fash On Powtrey

Fashion, Fiction

Busy times on the All Star Kirsty Bus…you may remember some posts from Paris last season, I developed a live rap powtrey in response to the catwalk…here’s one from an off-schedule* show earlier, rammed to the gullet…

It was for Bumni Koko, a right superhappy homegirl.

Weird England crowd bit future punk/Bladerunner, long way from Paris. Okay, here we go, catwalk powtrey. Kaleidoscopia, A/W11, sci-fi film, neon retro futurism, birth on another star, hoop skirt, nets, silk rock, orange, black psych neons, mid length, glamingo flamingos, structure shoulders, old McQueen. Purple royal, pleat shoulders, EEEEEEmu. Leopard tribe, rose silver, peach silver, Bootsy gets to planet E. Cut lurex. Panels, zip backs, sequin inserts, PVC tails, evening Daft Punk retro ladies, tie die my acid eyes.

Video from her previous season:

The best shows can be seen here: and of course, Fashion East tmoz will be a total fashion moment – my fave today – “What is it we’re going into?” “I don’t know, it’s just fashion”).  Beyond fash on, the film has been going bonkers – we’ve been lucky enough to sit aside multi-million productions on the pages of every paper from The Times to The Sunday Mirror, there have been some lovely observations.  Oh, quick note on: tie-dye leather by Felder Felder, super.

I’m also working on an edit of my beloved novel, lecturing and doing a bit of styling…sounds like a Dear Diary moment.  Hmmmm. Libya, eh?  Who’s behind it, gearing up for Sarah Palin’s entree in camouflage?

But yes, I am terribly behind on uploading my images from the past weeks (multiplied by about six, I think) but they are coming forth, have been documenting, just not uploading.  Did finally go through my exploding drawers and file some of the stuff that’s been catalogued – and now, how smoothly my drawers slide.

Wool and leather, so next season, so AF Vandevorst Friend.  McQueen leather with my favourite thing of the moment – my vintage, hand-knitted, uber-poncho.  McQueen skirt.

*Off-schedule: independent shows.  (Largely) shitter, rougher and fresher than the official LFW** catwalks

**London Fashion Week

82 writing

Fashion, Fiction

This was about three weeks before my iPad got nicked, with all the work I’d been doing.  Seriously.  I’d got to a point in my novel where I was happy with the time spent, and have been playing catch up ever since.  Once the film is out I should be able to reclaim my life, do some art, write write write…

So I’m kicking into the time I’ve been looking forward to for the whole year – to work on my novel.  If only I could put down other people’s books…

This dress was bought for me.  Bracelets, Tanzania airport.  Rings, Shaun Lean & Antibes market.  Necklace, seen before

Rocks in my hand and holes in my face

Art, Journalism, Poetry

Freeeee London – The National Portrait Gallery, downstairs, great photographs by Mary McCartney, particularly one, that I must tweet to Boy George and Gemma Peppe.

Freeeeee London II- The Royal Festival Hall – MUST SEE – the World Press Photo 10 –  this touring exhibition is an education, every year.  Frontline photography at its best.  I caught my first in Mumbai.  They never fail to open up the world in the blink of an eye.

This is my look for today.

Also had the pleasure of falling upon Donald Gardner – poet extraordinaire – he’s playing at the Poetry Cafe tomorrow, if you want to catch some genuine, old skool beat.  They’re also doing some surreal.

Leather, McQueen. Jumper, vintage. Jeans, True Religon. Vest, M&S. Furry wool waistcoat, as before.

148 I think, therefore I AMBIT


I MADE THE COVER!!!!!!!!!!!

Ambit, the original psychedelic literary journal, jazzier than a jazz cigarette, kindly selected an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, and have published in their NEW EDITION, the 202nd edition, BUY ME, BUY ME, BUY ME!!!

The illustration is done by the fantastic Jack Foreman.  I love it, and it’s amazing to someone interpret the words.  The opposite of dreamy.

I’ve been working on this novel for many years.  It’s very nearly finished.  The excerpt is from Ibiza.  I’m super-delighted to give Ambit the first sneak…

Thanks to all involved, particularly the editor, Martin Bax, and prose editor, Geoff Nicholson (whose book about walking is particular interesting, my current read).

Clothes:  Blondie legs – according to Liz Havilliand, she used to wear knee pads, I don’t have a stock of them, but instead kept my knees warm in these first freezeswith legwarmers and lace leggings from H&M, boots, as before.  Jumper and skirt, Alexander McQueen.

Paris, oui, c’est 130

Art, Fashion, Poetry

Manish Arora – what a complete legend.  I’m gonna freeform you with my notes, then you can see if they match the pictures (what a cool game).

sooooooo (this is as written as the catwalked):


Psychedelic neon Kenneth Anger on roller skates, bursts of micro roses in red falling over white chiffon, applique disco ram heads/Indian devil doodles, ancillary baroque shoulders and hips, violin curves. Seventies porn club funk, James Bond, Paint It Black on the theramin.  80s/50s scenes of palm trees and yellow cars beaded onto 60s dresses.  Hot pants for Claire Manumission.  Gold metal prayer blanket jackets.  Rajasthani punk mirror balls on acid.

So, in pictures…

How did the rap and the pics compare?

(yes, I know it breaks Website Design Rule Number ONE to link to sites outside one’s own because you probably haven’t made it this far and are currently browsing, but if you didn’t come back, you wouldn’t find out what I wore, or the amazing style hints I’m going to share at the bottom of this post.  You know why I’m linking outside, because it’s such bad internet form to just swipe them, cheapo skanky behaviour.  I may one day get better at pics, but my camera was nicked in Ibiza, so I’m surviving on the good nature of others, my phone and inbuilt computer one)

Okay.  So I loved it.  The designer points at Hiroshi Nagai (feature in this season’s Another magazine).  Hats were by Christophe Coppens. The music was put together by Marc Chouarain, on tour with Benjamin Biolay.  He played the theramin (that wacky sci-fi Russian invention which responds to the distance of the hands to it).  Accompanied by Thomas Coeuriot on guitar and Denis Benarrosh on drums.  Styling was by Laurent Dombrowicz. Nice.

Now, let’s try it with Barbara Bui – boot legend.


Ipad pockets on suede with 80s sloppy wide shoulders. Safari militart. Rifat Hirst circles, casual jumpsuits with rope, platforms, classy hair, minimal make-up, sponge died silk urban safari, punched leather and silk dress, string vest. Double split on long skirt to cover poonani and show legs, toga silks, more gold, leather trimmed shorts. Alligator inserts.

Let’s try the game again…

Imagination vs the harsh flashes that lose the softness of fabric…although, let it be said, the internet is a great way to see collections without having to go through the ‘who’s sitting where’ escapades (which I still love).

I did take one pic yesterday:

First, the other show I saw yesterday, Sharon Wauchob.


Zip necks, ruffled hems, lay the drapes, thin lace, naked skin, pleated monochrome, mustard gold, minimal tailoring.  Fabric lover. No cover. Grown up.  Deconstruct.

Okay, so other than knocking about a few shows (I do occasionally write about fashion, not just is my novel-in-progress about a fashion designer/band manager, but for magazines since I was a teenager, which I’m not anymore, unbelievably when I’m keeping myself occupied with a blog as banal as this, but it’s Art, darlings, and occasionally I style things for people but)…WHAT ELSE WAS I DOING IN PARIS?

Meeting a friend who’s from Tokyo.  She was helping out Diane Pernet (internet fashion saviour) in Paris, and also with production for supercool accessories people, 1-100 by Graham Tabor and Miguel Villalobos.  It felt very equestrian.  Horse hair one offs – pictured, and men’s bracelets which are individually molded from wax.  Very craft.  Very horseshoe.  Very cool.  Whilst we shared some lovely charcuterie, Akiko found out it had been scooped up by superbuyer, Sarah Lerfel of Colette before they even opened their showroom.  Where Colette start, others follow, so my friend, Akiko Hamaoka is going to be having a busy time.

Here are some images of the one offs:

Akiko is on the left.  This pic was taken in a noodle bar emergency stop in Tokyo last year.  Next to her are Karen Kay (lovely lady journalist) and Jonathan Margolis (gadget man on the FT) – I was writing pieces for Dazed, Creative Review and The Guardian.

I didn’t take pics myself yesterday of Akiko nor myself.  So I can tell you what she wore – a gorgeous little pink jumper (very factory made), knitted track bottoms (alot of the girls on the Eurostar were also doing this, pink Reebok hightops, military jacket and mohair scarf.  Pastel colours.  She’s so beautiful.

I wore, the same as the Shoreditch House pic the other day with different boots (the rock n roll brown ones with a heel low enough to wander down the Port de Champs Elysees for about five bridges on nothing more than 8 horse chestnuts) and an aran Chloe cardigan from a few seasons ago. Must be something in the fashion ether (or Chloe and Stella and Celine) because there was a clear trend among the younger fashion pack for wearing oversize beige/camel arans and thin belts.  Ai.

114 desks and this ain’t one

Fashion, Fiction

Indeed, Geoff Nicholson, writer of multi-novels, sayeth something like ‎”multi-desks mean multi-productivity”… rooms offer views.  Most writers have rooms, right, I love the Guardian feature about the desks novelists spend all their years at (and the lovely story by Nicholas  Royle in Ambit 198).  I had a desk, but it’s packed up, had to make the room look like a bedroom for the estate agents, so I’m proper hot desking, which I’ve always done, and always will.  I am someone who can write anywhere, the tube being a favourite. I hate wasting time.  I hate repeating.  I hate life passing in stasis.  Some may call that hyperactive, yup, look at the amount of places I’ve worked…and by the way, I am getting close to uploading summer shots from Spain and Ibiza (the missing days), I had a camera nicked as well as my iPad (with a month of work), so lost a load of shots and it’s taken longer to sort through the shots from elsewhere…thanks for your time. My best desk is my duvet.

Betty Smith jeans, as before.  Boots, Zara via Oxfam.  T-shirt, free with Elle magazine a few issues back.

56 Lazy Gramophones


Proud card carrying party member of the LAZY GRAMOPHONE collective am I…official…my profile:

The Lazy Gramophone massive are a pure independent factotum who do everything the Institute of Contemporary Arts should be doing, ai -thinking, talking, events and generally getting kreative sheeat together, in an intelligent yoof co-operative styleee.

Dress, worn to lunch at Shoreditch House today for a Slack Alice Films movie meeting, by Italians, God Save The Queen – it’s brilliant for travelling between hotels around far flung Muslim/Hindu/conservative states as the skirt can be tied low ankle riding, or micro-short.  I love to enter a temple with a mini-skirt.  Brings out the punk-tourist in me.  I jest.  I gave up shorts in Muslim areas after my attempts to feminist the natives resulted in being chased out of town in an inbred Malaysian outback.  I’m now more inclined to a burkha.

52 blue Mondays a year


LOVE IS BLONDE…After 2 months my lover returns tomorrow – he’s been racking up cash working for FIFA on films and broadcast in South Africa.  It’s gonna rain after solid sunshine for weeks. He’s been locked in an Alcatraz residence precinct like District 9, with ‘fun buses’ pelleting them out past gun-toting chancers lurking around the gates.  He’s not had one day off for the whole stretch.  So excited to roll up to at Heathrow to collect him.

Vest, Abercrombie. Skirt, Mrs Jones.  Shoes, Cavalli

A few skint Christmases ago I handbound a book of 100 Love poems to him, here’s one that I don’t mind sharing:


My pestering hand creeps you out

Abusing your body, and your pretty pout

Stroking, needy, greedy charm

Please chop off my outstretched arm

Boring, pathetic, weedy hook

My fingers just want to have a look

See if you’re up for it

Or if you’ll flip at the vagrant mitt

Dancing up and down your chest

Reaching down as an uninvited guest

My pestering hand wants to read your mind

Calm you down and make a bind

Maybe find your five fingered friend

They’ll grip and that will be the end

Of this pawing touch and wanton twitch

That steals your rest like an evil witch

Your independence put on pause

Kidnapped by these tapping claws

Stroking, touching, marching forward

Digit soldiers in your chest beard

Pawns set ahead to check of drought

More annoying than a case of gout

Get your axe and sever my phalanges

Tie my pestering hand in good bandages

And commission a taxidermist to preserve

This iconic symbol of my undying lurve

Put it on a plinth and behind glass

Label it it Suus Vexus Manus

A reminder to all who want to be admired

That tempers frayed and services desired

Must be respected, honoured and obeyed

Or they could end up dead like this lonely maid

A bodyless scout in an early grave.

Never forget to consider the destitute tale

Of mindless wandering in another body’s vale

This pestering hand had no superpowers

And will never now be draped in jewels, just flowers.

Day 23, lazy poetry afternoon

Fashion, Poetry

Top outing eastward yesterday. Groovers and movers collected for PR shaker Letitia Thomas’ birthday at the Britannia on Victoria Park, owned by Cymon Eccles who used to run Boys Own, and runs the Griffin in Shoreditch.  He’s also opening a new bar, XOYO in Old Street in September – ai, you heard it here.  I used to DJ for him in Riki Tik’s in Soho on Friday nights.  Then went to a house party further east, more of a warehouse party, full of beautiful gay men.  On the streets when the host Oover Matic walked me to my vehicle, there were circus kids hoping to catch women in hoola hoops, drunk lost Mexicans, and many a freak.  Today I venture forth to Islington, for Lazy Gramophone, and then down to the Betsy Trotwood for Ivor Cutler.

Wearing:  Black Jeans, Alexander McQueen.  Check It Before You Wreck It t-shirt, designed by Sadie Frost for the Hep C Trust, customised by myself, all down the side.  American Apparel bandeau.  Shoes from Oxfam.  Jacket, McQueen.  Lipstick, Nars Heatwave.  Hat, Tubbs (see previous entry).

Day 18s and over only

Design, Fashion, Music, Poetry

Up the nylon carpeted stairs of 71 St John Street, past the PYMCA and Espionage offices is the new Biba.  The Mrs Jones Emporium provides salvage to rock stars and rockette starlets, from Paloma Faith to Kylie.  With a plastic flower strewn roof garden, living-room style hairdressing salon, and full transform-your-lifestyle kit shop, you have entered the entrancing world of my pal Fee Doran (aka Mrs Jones).  It’s a mantric chamber to leather, feathers, silks and tails.

There are clothes (many have been worn by musicians, various designers), interiors (brilliant collabs with furniture maker Louis Baker and others), alongside various art (including gorgeous Indian god prints by Crazy Girl),  It’s pure Mr Ben.  Fee’s style is the best amalgam of magpie vintage, from Woodstock to Studio 54, Essex hairdresser to Shepherd’s Bush Market.  I love her, and her dog, Ruffles, or something, currently sporting  orange tiger stripes.  Fully recommended.  Prices start at £7, for an eggcup reading ‘you’re doing my head in’There’s a full story with Mrs Jones that I did a while ago here… (you’ll have to root around between other interviews all done for

Also on my travels today, fell into Darkwave on Lamb’s Conduit Street.  Inspiring interiors.  After a peppermint tea in The Bloomsbury Lounge I went to a lesbian moustache convention, sorry, a poetry gig, read something, then finally got to see Woman E who bring drama to electronica, in a good way.  Rennaisance being my fave track today, with the rap, ‘90s throwback, panic attack’…perhaps.

Woman E.  Putting the E into EuroElectronica.

Today, pictured in the Blooomsbury Lounge of the Perseverance pub on Lamb’s Conduit Street, wearing: Alpuharran poncho, available in good tourist shops in the mountains near Orgiva, Spain.  Aubergine leather boots, McQueen.  Catsuit, American Apparel.

A lady looking for freedom in Hoxton a few nights ago

Cooler than a smack sorbet, John Foxx, playing his Analogue show on Saturday.

See post, Day 15, White Out at the Roundhouse

Louis Eliot and the Embers: from last night, my mum would like it too.  R2, get on it!

See post ‘She was just 17’

Day five. I don’t want to get dressed.


My friend asked ‘what happens with this 365 Catwalk idea on those days when you don’t want to bother getting dressed?’  Good question…today I am in a lull after Cannes, it was a phone call got me out of the T-shirt and knickers I’d been working in all morning…

Using the target of going out to buy supplies I got properly dressed, tried faking happiness for photos and it didn’t work, so these melancholic shots demonstrate the lovely Beatrix Ong’s current mantra for honesty in all areas of life.

Flat white lace-ups, TopShop (reduced to £15, nice).  One of my favourite skirts, goose grey leather with zips by Alexander McQueen, raglan sleeved top with Basquiat print in beige and maroon, bought in a Tokyo branch of Uniqlo.,,,

Kirsty’s glamorous life, day two in a series of outfit changes (I want to hit a year)


Today’s outfit: Hot orange gloves, scrubbing brush (both B&Q), shorts by Lonsdale, old crochet bikini top – did a cleaning shot yesterday, so instead, I have outfit number 2 to share with you…

Shades by Celine, shoes by Dolce Gabanna, bag by Dior (bought in a charity shop on the Costa Blanca – I’ve written a play set there, called Charity, if you’re interested, let me know, it’s just in a laptop drawer),dusty pink dress by H&M a few years ago

…outside a new crepe shop called Pandora’s, 27 Newport Court, London.

We were picking up Ginseng and Ginger Drink from the market opposite.   Went for a coffee on Old Compton Street, then popped in to see lovely friends, Babette & Robert Pereno in Jermyn St.

Digital Overexposure on the 12.20 to Axminster

Fiction, Short story, Uncategorized

‘There’s nothing like a new book to write in’ said Alice, ‘It’s as good as the first bite of an apple or having a whole box of chocolates to investigate’

Disconnected from the internet and the vagaries of competition brought by monitoring one’s friends, peers and mortal enemies’ status updates, and the boastful comments of knowing self-derision, Alice was finally free.  It had been a bruising season in the city and the train she’d caught, by running, was carrying her far from the digital overexposure of a life spent networking, jumping from one head to another like a toad across the leaves of a lilly pond.

Cluthing her decaf Americano with Irish cream and hot soya – yeah, soya on top of the Ameriano or it would be white, alright? – the houses sped to fields and she wondered if spring would ever break the black skeletons of the trees.  They stood like herself, an apocalyptic silhouette against the sky which ruled her mood.

Battered by the X-ray vision of largin it on social platforms far higher than the footwear of Gaga or Elton John,  these contributions were the cataclysmic combination of manic overachievers, obsessed with their own vanity, their external perception displayed is jousts of 140 character wit.

Neon Nights

Fiction, Nightlife, Poetry, Travel

This was recently published in the London Zine – a magazine I facilitate, sponsored by Islington Council (through Springboard/CSV, providing media access and training).

It felt so exclusive to ride through the London night,

The N11 bus rode higher than the net held by those fishing in crack pipe light

This confident orange roar swirled and licked at parties behind closed doors,

The elusive promise of London, every kiss and shop begging more, more, more.

But across the window panes of the silver flanked stairs of Trafalgar Square

Christtelnacht terror reigned in the reflection of Nelson’s hard glare,

The Queen struck her gilded telescope down her drive of old Pall Mall

Had her people revolted, or was her CCTV feed plain unwell?

Evil orange burned along the glass with Schwartzenegger power,

Was it an inferno from the moon, shooting shards of marigold flowers?

The National Gallery’s collection froze, oil eyes of history in despair

The stories their pictures told could soon be polluted air

The homeless laughed almighty as the fire licked their tinnies and sleeping bags

They’d lost far more than priceless canvases fizzling under the ferocity of the nation’s flags

But as the window panes danced, shining, ready to break

It was clear London city will never burn again, it just bathed in a neon lake.

For nightlights are the only reflection upon the streets and atop the plinth

Nightlife is guided by these torches to steer us through the city labyrinth

Bionic Catatonic

Fiction, Poetry


The stars drop out of the denim rippled sapphire camouflage sky

Like bullets.  And the Plough realigns as a target eye

Meteors hit like Roman candles over Lindesfarne

The half moon invites us to walk all night

Under its bone glaze, wise owl power

Serge clouds gather to shield us from 3:AM wisdom

Torches drop like laser guns

Taking my retinas, burn burn burn

This canvas ship between the rowan boughs

The morning promises a thousand greens

Moss surrounds the silver walls

The Milky Way high above conifer castles

Their branches sit on mountain tops

Black Elk feathers

I cannot hear the motorway or see the other tents

The cars have regressed

I am wild and alone and progress is yet to be invented


Come chocolate bombs and fall on Primrose Hill!

As long as it’s organic

Lactose free, not a cow in sight

Swarm over, Death by delight!

Come, chocolate, blast their synapses, those comfortable high-ceilings, fresh platters at Limonia, devil’s picnicking, boutique design, quiet drinking rockstars, and rich brothels of the night.

Mess up the mess they call a village, come on let the 100% cocoa release its powers. Let’s send them whizzing up to space at 5000 miles an hour.


The atom had been split

The stage pre-lit

There’s nothing the kid could do

Except blow up Western rule

Family leaders of their fields

Cured cancer, immaculately well-heeled

There’s nothing the kid could do

He’d joined Mensa at age two

His mother was a Nobel Prize winner

His dad a self-righteous sinner

They laid the gauntlet not to be matched

The brother did a better of job of staying attached

There’s nothing the kid could do

Nothing to impress, just nets to fall through

He tried to keep up

But ambition shadows died


I’m a bionic catatonic

Whizz splat Whizz splat

Verbally isotonic

Then nigh dead

I’m bionically pre-possessed

So much excitment in my head

A zillion rays of neon genius

Mistress of my own lodge

Rules are not for libertarians

Nor the lack of time we’ve got

Time Time Time Time Time – too much

Run out, don’t leave me  Never stop

Lost again – staring at these walls

No future is beyond them

I’m so finished I cannot walk

After this fallow phase is over

I’l be back like n’er before

Competitive till I kill myself

for having no walls at all

Freak bird

Fiction, Nature, Poetry

And there it sat, the lonesome beast

Sheltered by the roar of trains

Underneath the platform edge

Peck peck peck peck peck

A bastard bird, half rook, half pigeon

A long tail feathered freak

Its eyes a blue from beyond the sea

Nervous, its gaze could never cease

To guard its laughing father’s joke

The half breed could never sleep

Its life was the cowering in the shadows

It knew not what else to do

Born and flung out from its nest

A half-life pigeon footed creature

Too scared to even fly

The story ends when we find out

A passing train crept up one night

The half-breed, lived only half its life.

Where’s my yacht?

Fiction, Money, Poetry

I can’t afford dollar bills.

Never known the ten pound note to look so pretty,

And the golden nugget coins to shine so well.

With money so expensive,

What’s the point in being rich when I’ve got pocket full of soul and a soul full of rich.

I got a purse that sings salvation to a bankrupt nation,

But with money so expensive, what’s the point in being rich?

I got a pocket full of soul and a soul full of pitch…a whore for the filthy expression, mortgaged up to our idols like Paris Hilton, a nation full of chicken nugget travellers and pound shop luggage…inbox full of links, it stinks.

A buyer’s world for namedropper queens, rapist kings of the city, strange hotel girls waiting for their yachts, going to the bar to find the names they’ve dropped.

Parties are for lost souls, nightclubs for devils dancing, hanging on Skint Street, lost in the shadow, don’t be a hero, get on the blower, someone call China, and get us notes over.

The riches are blind with botox glows, the darling accessories of it’s all a show, we’ve always been a credit nations, I mean what do we do?  The Hacienda was the last time a factory was new.

Tits are great

Fiction, Poetry

MONDAY 6th JULY:  I read this for Burlesque Against Breast Cancer at the BIG BOOK BOUTIQUE, 23 Romilly Street, Soho.


Wah Tit, Wah Tit, Wah Tit

I’m a baby just born and I want it

Mummy milk, booby feed

I dream to suck bouncy breasts,

Oh, I just wee-ed.

Gah Tit, Gah Tit, Gah Tit

I’m two years old and I luhve it

Bubbling bountiful dewy heaps

Drip feed me mummy! Oi, stunner! No?!

Weeping sag bags, I can’t let go, stitch up the bloody milky bites rinsed flow

Woar Tit, Woar Tit, Woar Tit

When I grow up I’ll be big like Barbie – fit

What? Is this a cock between my legs?

A spot before my eye, I, I, I, I love breasts,

Wow, milk down there, not eggs?

Phwoar Tit, Phwoar Tit, Phwoar Tit,

I’m a teenage boy obsessed with girls bits

My hands are in my trousers, 24 hours a day

I’m a spunk making machine, I think my mum’s got x-ray

Dewy tit, Dewy tit, Dewy tit

Flashback neon rays of birth shoot as young girls permit me to spit,

To lick their chrysalis nipples, like jelly in a silken scarf,

Afronted, ahoy, pirated I am, by sexual dominating zeppelin ships,

Their precipice of slutdom thirst, first class, first, class first

I want Tits, I want Tits, I want Tits,

Every night since I was born I’ve dreamt of mitts on starlit teats

Waifs to chafes, I will adore, Tug those bra straps, amour, more, more, more

Breaking records for my orienteering of mounds, quests obsessed for perfect speciwomans sound,

A knife will sell me the cleavage soft, the solution is surgery, I get the lot, purrr, purr, purr,

Hurt Tit, Hurt Tit, Hurt Tit,

Silicone Everests inside my pecks bleed and beat,

I did it, I’m a half-op sextaur, best parts of men and chick,

Dick with Cleopatra sphinx rack, married to myself, a wife for life

My chest sits pert and hung, sorry mum for what I’ve done

Feel my Tit, Feel my Tit, Feel my Tit

Grope it, Tug it, Worship it,

I’ll play with yours if you pay for mine.

Slap my perfect sugar lumps, I’ve never earned a dime beyond my breasts

Everything I own is thanks to my ambitiously aware lovely lady chest.

Middle aged tit, Middle aged tit, Middle aged tit

Suck it, lick it, wobble, jump it

Eh, don’t you want to strap up this brainless pair

Of paid for accessories that used to get in anywhere

Underneath disease lurks, leather mask, karmic rot, for what?

Boozy tit, boozy tit, boozy tit

Floppy, blobby mammaries, nipples chewed wine stain red,

Chew these fatty funny mother lumps, you sick twisted harlot chemo drunk

Go on take my youth, my despair.

Rape me like I ever cared.

Dying tit, dying tit, dying tit

Forgetting to rub, the devil crossed my Mount Si-nais

Realised the sin had got inside

A cancer thumps this pumped up rack, disaster sacks

Happy I never got fully woman made, my false titties are buried alive, alive

OAP Tit, OAP Tit, OAP Tit

I’m an ancient lesbian loving demented freak man again, still a hit

With my cock still intact, I’m back, to being the full diamond in the rough, just a man who begs to feel, who wants to steal, a look, a sacred secret touch of heaven mounds on earth,

Whatever the size or girth

Tits, tits, tits, tits, tits, glorious dreamy whipped cream heaps of love.

Face it darling…addicted to botox

Fiction, Poetry

I first read this down my old friend Salena Godden’s new literary salon, the Book Boutique in Soho on Monday April 6th.  The girls like it…


I keep my hood up to protect my identity

My problem is I think I am a celebrity

Crippled by heels & burnt by hair tongs

Shades on, my legs so long, it looks wrong

Baby I’m the same as Courtney Love & Lily Allen

With my Louis Vuitton bag & red soled Louboutin

I’m a Facebook fan obsessed by heroes

Poster stars pouting for zeros

I want to be the same,

And if I can’t have Kylie’s fame

I can buy the her face

Her perfect halo, her pout & her grace

And I read in Hello!’s guide to secret places

That opposite Harrods one can buy A-list faces

I sneak up the stairs of the celebrity clinic

The Botox police stand at the entrance, as cynics

The paps hurriedly snap up at the gate

As a puffed up famous forehead gets there late

The nurse makes me wait, By a burning fireplace

There’s a room of freaks, plastic & fake

In the 80s they would have had a simple skin bake

The quick route to cancer, suicidal self-hatred on show

Never superficial enough or worth the front row

But now it appears even the most commonest woman

Arrives in this room, the queen of her kingdom

Reigning as far as her mirrored reflection

Beauty skin deep, stranger than fiction

I meet the Doctor, she’s an old fashioned girl

One who sleeps in rollers for her hair to curl

I tell her my dreams, of looking the same

As Kylie or Madge, just pump me with fame

I sign the forms for many thousands of pounds,

Deny responsibility, “I’m just bored with the frown”

And as I kick back on the dental style chair

I realise that I’m in a Nazi lair

There are swastikas painted all over the ceiling,

She’s been hiding here since the war, I get the feeling

She’s injecting me to homogenize.

And soon not even the faintest surprise

Will show on my face as famous Barbies sit by my side

Perfect people, no need to hide

We’re all the same here, Vacant expressions, pouts open wide

‘It’s Thermage this week darling’, another confides

It’s Botox addiction, united we stand

Here doctor, take another grand

Our hearts are encased by collagen

New race with minds forever frozen

I live in this surgery 24 hours a day,

Knocking around Harvey Nichols for an hour of play

My song’s now at number one, ‘Zoom’

It was written by my friend from the waiting room

She left it to me when her lip popped out,

Shortly followed by her marvelous pout

Her forehead pinged back

Beneath it were hooks and cables

And designer labels

Her head then melted, shocked by fresh air

And other than a pile of Myla underwear

All that remained of her was a pile of pills

Extra cils, and that was woman with looks that could kill


3:AM, Fiction, Journalism, Travel

Rise of the New Mohemians

Tokyo’s streets are a homage to sci-fi fantasy, seventies style. Fields of mirrored skyscrapers are snaked by webs of towering monorails, glass-fronted mainstreet superstores flash with phosphorescent adverts. But like every Big Brother backdrop, a revolution occurs a few alleys back from the sheen, and in Tokyo, mazes of traditional cubed houses hold a variety of secret Steppenwolf doorways.

Behind one such door in the North of the city is a library bar with vintage issues of Visionaire and opulent Japanese-edition fashion photography books, it stands as a temporary salon for writers who don’t use pen & papers, or laptops, they write novels on their mobiles.

Drinking an £8 coffee, Ryu, king of the new ‘mohemians’, explains how he came to be credited as the first m-novelist,

“It came from necessity, I was working in a bar in Shibuya where the girls with the orange faces are” begins the 23 year old whose profits from his first m-book have allowed retirement to a desert island, where he’s profoundly in love with the local delicacy of octopus balls. In broken English and through a translator he goes on to tell how he felt disturbed by the repetitive cycle of observing chicks arriving to the scene, enticed by the appeal of darker life, slipping into a world of wrist-cutting, drugs, prostitution, debauchery and occasional degradation.

From his bar he assembled a team of groupies who spilt their stories to him. He emerged as a writer making notes on his phone about the new faces’ demise. “I sent the first notes and chapters to girls fresh to the area as cautionary tales, they told their friends, and their friends” Using emoticons to signify character moods and shortcuts of text speak, he uploaded test chapters to a website which got downloaded to phones. Ryu’s high octane writing appealed to girls across Japan, the site received unprecedented traffic and a paperback publisher soon clocked the sounds of the underground; his maverick m-novel, Tokyo Real, went on to sell three million hard copies, 32 million have been issued via the website.

“I didn’t plan to begin as a counsellor, or a writer, but the notes on my phone became chapters. The book was then published and it was made into a film, manga and anime.”

This organic progress has now been gazumped by market manipulators, and Tadashi Izumi, who has a PhD in Victorian literature from Cambridge, and Honjo Sae, who formerly wrote traditional books, have picked up on techniques to exploit this new market, they’re at the helm of this epoch which sees around three million people across Japan self-publishing in this way, students are it, teachers do it in their lunch time. In a society where texting is way more polite than speaking on the phone in public, it’s an acceptable form of creativity that fits in your pocket. The process operates in one of two ways, either via subscription, where users sign up for a certain amount of content a month for however many yen, or they give it away free. Apparently giving it away for free is favoured, as with most creative acts on the web.

Tadashi Izumi recognised the largest audience being teen girls, so began writing stories specifically for this audience, cannily, he also designed merchandise ready to rock.

“It’s a marketing dream,” says Tadashi, “The audience have time on their hands, they are always on their phones, killing time. We call them the Oyayubizoku generation (the thumb tribe). I created merchandise to tie in with Crossroads, my first m-novel. The characters wore a perfume and necklaces already available in the shops when the book was launched online. They thought they were real, pre-existing products, but the book worked as a kind of advertisement’ he says.

Crossroads sold 2m copies in just one week, the website receives around 12million hits per month. Izumi’s follow up book, Cross Overhas a diamond necklace available in select boutiques which sells from 100 000 yen (over £700), he’s trying to break into an older demographic. “Shakespeare would have been a mobile novelist” he claims.

Honjo Sae was recruited by Japan’s biggest record label, AVEX to write stories which include members of bands, as a cross-promotion, multi-platform, 360 PR megamix.

“You have a smaller screen space,” she explains of the Keitai Shousetsu which are fast spreading across China and Taiwan, “It’s all about action, less description, and the sentences have to be short, with spacing to fit on the screen”. Honjo calls herself and Ryu ‘non-fiction novelists’ as they are picking the truth from real life and interpreting them back to the public. Fantasy is everyday for Tokyo people. This is the tech age where several generations cite all their heroes as cartoon characters. Atom Boy is cooler then Elvis. So manga houses are also providing hand drawn cartoons exclusively for the phones, there are m-soap operas, m-films, m-street art, customised screen savers and Comic Studio software which allows consumers to develop plots for all mediums where they are the protagonist. We are living in the future, and the immediacy of technology suits Japan’s mohemians, it’s a culture that embraces the moment. Tokyo is a socially connected city where a walk through town is like being in the ‘Ray of Light’ disco video, or maybe that’s the sleep deprivation, Daft Punk gone crazy.

Yet aside to tech love there is a tradition for respect which permeates everything from the one-to-one love binds of seaweed around sushi, where the consumption is intimate, dark, with low slung opium smoking seats to recline upon to suck the exquisite delights of Bachannalian feasts, where plethoras of health and happiness are served alongside iced jasmine tea, with or without alcohol, Kobe beef gently fed by the tit of people who want to eat happy cows, parma ham wrapped around samphor type of asparagus, creamy tofu with sesame sauce, pork steeped in dark illicit concoctions, and the finest tuna sashimi. A pool of heated water to have blanched mushrooms and soup or the temples of such world class gastronomic havens as chef Jeff Ramsey’s 25 course tasting menu on the 36th floor of the Mandarin Oriental, where views of red flashing lights create organized patterns in which to try and understand the city. It’s a joy to taste and behold. And perhaps this ritualistic respect related to the very art of writing, and communication and the painstaking skill required to use the pictorial scripts. The pride and manners expected from one another are perhaps a route of this servitude reflected in digital society, which sits within pleasuredomes of simplicity and intellect demonstrated at places such as the 2121 Design Sight, (a masterpiece cocoon to the art of design by Tadao Ando and Issey Miyake). It’s not as easy as ABC. But this complexity leads us to wonder how many adaptees to m-writing will blossom overseas. In Europe we’ve probably all now got friends who have bought a zillion classics for a fiver for their Nintendo DS, and perhaps downloaded some of the sample chapters that are getting provided digitally as promos from companies like Canongate. Transworld last year pioneered a programme of texting in for chapters, which proved moderate success, HarperCollins have the e-experimental imprint, The Friday Project, and 3 are adopting socially networked technology such as Skype calls to allow us to all integrate into the future and apply these Mohemian ways with handsets like the INQ. Soon the Espresso machine will print titles on demand in bookshop, to order – you want Lolita on pink paper in ten minutes, you got it. This means less shelf space, more data space.

The old guard will always prefer a book. But the advantages of being able to adapt screen colours, font size are incredible for the dyslexic or visually impaired. Also, as a study aid, or for those who like to flit behind a hundred books at once, the e-book is the answer, you can carry a library in your handbag. Genius.

But how many writers can give up words for text-speak is yet to be seen. There are numerous companies exploring ways to use mobiles to market novels designed for traditional paperback, particularly bestselling brand authors like Andy McNab although it may be left to indie kids to invent new ways with words, and today is our playground for the future.

Thanks to Takeshi Miura and Akiko Hamaoka for translation.

Kirsty Allison started writing professionally as a teenager on Loadedand Dazed in 1994. Her fiction has appeared in Ambit andKatalogue. She has recently been performing poems around London. She has been working on a novel set in 1990s Shoreditch since the 1960s.

Kirsty Allison travelled to Tokyo with

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Saturday, May 16th, 2009.

Bottle that blonde and mod that rocker

Fiction, Poetry

She had one eye paranoid, the other on the prize

Schitzy blonde, leopard skin vice

Fucked an old rocker, his history skin bare

Excess all areas, a toxic pair

They fell everywhere

From VIP to up stairs

His records-his stories, more tunes than air

He missed more flights

Than he smoked Marboro Lights

It was the vodka that was hidden

In wardrobes and boxes with lids on

Discovered like a cheating lover

His secret blur

The son sat listening, awake at the door

His mother’s stomach had been kicked in before

The tune that was played

As a cupboard crashed on her head

Was ‘I wish you were dead’

She’d written it when they married

For the dreams they both shared.

I’ll be more rock n roll than you was their motto

They worshipped the same insane grotto

An island of bacchanalian fantasy

Each the stars of their own movie

Exhausted by each other’s quest for success

She killed his career, made him a mess

Sure he was finished a long time ago

He was a victim of his own ego

Amazing associations to pop heroes

Blow job tales, his nose as long as his toes

She’d fallen for his vinyl

Like the Lambrusco price tag to a wino

Whether she can be blamed

If she begged to be maimed

The attraction had been destiny,

Like Sid & Nancy

Adieu, her smile an old fashioned lie

She looked better than when he’d first picked her up, she’d been totally cross eyed.


Fiction, Nightlife, Poetry

I did my first open-mic reading on Sunday, at an Irish pub, this got max love:


I was never as hardcore as you

Your behaviour was totally new

Never seen in London before

It sounded so cool as you violently swore

I was never as hardcore as you

The night we broke into the zoo

You took the crown from the lion’s head

Whilst I found the horsebox and went to bed

I was never as hardcore as you

Your lack of sleep I could not do

You rode shotgun ahead racing the fast lane

Taunting the keys you stole for my jetplane

I was never as hardcore as you

Winehouse n Keith Richards could not continue

As dawn rose, we could only raise beers

Our heavy lids saw you swing high from chandeliers

I was never as hardcore as you

I was like a flunky, riding your bugaloo

The police pressed charges but not to me

You took the sentence and I paid the fee

I was never as hardcore as you

Your infamy base a sleazy who’s who

Your biggest fear ending up like me

An unknown face, softcore, no joie de vie

I was never as hardcore as you

I tried to keep up but my face went blue

You tied me up, took drugs upstairs

I lay there in my underwear

I first read this at an Irish open mic last Sunday:

I was never as hardcore as you

But carpe diem is your only cue

And now I’ve accepted my hardcore fate

I’ll always be a complete lightweight

Neimeyer exhibition extended

Art, Fiction, Short story


I made an illustrated short story called BIG BANGS for Katalogue, for whom I also worked as a contributing editor.  The piece first showed as part of a group exhibition at the Trafalgar Hotel in London last year, where an A1 signed print was purchased.  Katalogue are currently showing at the Oscar Niemeyer Museum in Sao Paulo, Brazil.  It opened to the public on October 25th and has been extended until the end of March 09.



This is one of around one hundred private poems I wrote to in a handbound volume:

My pestering hand creeps you out

Abusing your body, and your pretty pout

Stroking, needy, greedy charm

Please chop off my outstretched arm

Boring, pathetic, weedy hook

My fingers just want to have a look

See if you’re up for it

Or if you’ll flip at the vagrant mitt

Dancing up and down your chest

Reaching down as an uninvited guest

My pestering hand wants to read your mind

Calm you down and make a bind

Maybe find your five fingered friend

They’ll grip and that will be the end

Of this pawing touch and wanton twitch

That steals your rest like an evil witch

Your independence put on pause

Kidnapped by these tapping claws

Stroking, touching, marching forward

Digit soldiers in your chest beard

Pawns set ahead to check of drought

More annoying than a case of gout

Get your axe and sever my phalanges

Tie my pestering hand in good bandages

And commission a taxidermist to preserve

This iconic symbol of my undying lurve

Put it on a plinth and behind glass

Label it it Suus Vexus Manus

A reminder to all who want to be admired

That tempers frayed and services desired

Must be respected, honoured and obeyed

Or they could end up dead like this lonely maid

A bodyless scout in an early grave.

Never forget to consider the destitute tale

Of mindless wandering in another body’s vale

This pestering hand had no superpowers

And will never now be draped in jewels, just flowers.



I hadn’t cried for years – until I saw you

Same face, more skeletal and the clothes made for you

You touched my jacket and my bag – I couldn’t hug you back

I offered coffee, you were late.

You’ve finished your book, well done.

Beat me to it.

You’d been at a meeting, was it for your past

The one we once shared

Bonnie and Clyde, Hindley and Huntley, Kurt and Courtney

You and I

We were

I gave you my my number on my card

Drop me an email.  I’m sorry.

City Lick


Vanity head, lipstick botox, identikit face to fit in pout in

Apple sauce knickers, custard cock, haribo breast milk

Skinny late, false fur, petrol toking, range roving, lid lost

Sanity chaser, reality checker, material comparer

Play with my things, they’re better than yours, Work hard

Best grades, best shades, fastest car, how far does it get you

How far do you go to find the centre of the city

Special rooms for special friends, special clubs, tiger heads

Heavy gold, stage clothes, highest heels, eggmen, walrus, ego

Go low, beyond the gutter, higher than the edge, further

Max out, throw up, polluted breathe, dog tired, maverick mogul

High achiever, hardcore player, lux one, velvet tongued, gloss

Sheen, shine, 20 a day, in a shake, ready before you,

Filed perfect, slick sublime, comic timing Rolex, sharp

Wit tick, no shake, stutter free, imperfection free

Waste heavy, plastic rich, eco label when convenient

Conservative and liberal, demon democrat, master of debate

Lawyer, accountant, agent, advisor, doctor, trainer, speed dial

Homecare, cleaner, nanny, go.  Happy, yes, got it all.

Infatuation No. 1

Poetry, Uncategorized


Darker than the night,

Slicker than oil,

Obsession is my sin.

Dress undone

You’re watching me

So uneasy

Beautiful electricity

Dangerous body

Eyes connecting

Room disappears

I’m watching you

Feels new

Damaged hit

Intense too much

Moment passes

Too late

Missed the slot

Never forgot

Distant love

Unrequited dream

Best fantasy

Delusion supreme

Higher state

Taste n’er sate



I hate going out

I’m so easily influenced

I hate staying in

I get so distracted

©Kirsty Allison 2008

29 Jan 2008

Words from far far away


I’m a sucker for a story

I’ll exchange my best days

For a broken childhood tale

Or orphaned rhyme

Your bad behaviour and bastard rhetoric is excusable

I’ll empathise

With your criminality

Find beauty in your twisted smile

Your evil eyes have put a spell on me

One that I’m too enthralled to despise

Your hair is long, your eyes are torn

Your jacket’s got more stories than you

Because your memory bank is full with hard nights and black days

Your jeans are ripped, your sleeves are long

Shades on ready to burn


Pediment dreams, burnt by the rising light

The sun scorches my mind.

Memory on fire

Violated, drugged or hypnotised

3 times unlucky

Lust revenge or criminality

Excuse your mind

Marry me, give me stability.

Make them see I’m not for sale, rent or lease, perlease.

Moonlight island fantasy, broken by a storm

Which lashes from right to left

Striking down randomly

There’s been no love

Wildside explorations

Medicinal journeys conducted from bed

Trust, naiveity and gold – all sold to the lowest bidder

Sleaze never looked as great as it did on you

When I was tied up in the basement

And you put our drugs up your nose

Leaving you was so easy

As you’d stopped listening such a long time ago


Goodbye, farewell, I’m so glad we’re leaving

Each other, it’s been a trip, a lifetime

But my memory can’t hold any more

Two times the trouble with you

The effort became so full time

Every thought should not need to be vetted

And it’s about time I started to use the tricks you’ve taught me

so well

I’ll miss you. I’ll kiss you and we’ll start once again on this trip of our lifetimes

where we take up each other’s time

do you want to waste your life with me, do you want to forget.


I’ll call you a cunt to your face

It’s a shame you ain’t listening

You lost respect such a long time ago

When I first lost control of my mind

It had all happened before,

My normality it’s not yours

And nor is my reality

Getting better for keeps, Ownership makes me weep

Or lack of it.

An islander forever, a broken shell on the beach

Weathered by waves from beyond the infinity sea

Scared to swim to the other side

My own strength a mystery

A net is easier to cast than a spell as a domocile

I lie in the sand

Coral, bamboo, and plastic by my side

Washed up like me

With emotions behind catching up with the reality of being here beside your side

Wondering if we’ll blow our castaway dream again with our tidal emotions which glow in the moonlight mercury letting our salty tears join the sea.


Realities of untouched beaches

hold broken cocomut shells

and polystyrene

Shocked young crabs dart and sprint out of the way of thumping explorers.


Paper castles, freedom gold

Is there more together to hold

Infinity seas touch our feet

Reality melting in the heat

Is it possible to share the dream?

Can this illusion be what it seems?

Do we create our own destiny

Or join the dirty city

I’ve drawn our treasure island map

Is it another deadend trap

Of london living and breeding frm our souls

Dream foundations, too many holes, in our pockets.


I’m in love with the road

This town’s got all I need

How long I’ll be staying

I can read, feed and breed forever wherever

Or will we keep on travelling

So we’re not going home

The road is all I live for

I’m just bourne to roam, like Tammy Wynette, Johnny Cash and every folk hero ever born

So that train’s gonna leave the station

Leaving me behind

The full moon’s blazin madly

Am I out of my mind

When you realise I’m not at the station

Remember I’m happy at the stop before

My luggage is just a geetar

And maybe I’ll get a car

Or perhaps just a van

Or a wooden house on stilts

There’s nothing I live more for

Than the sun rising over the road

Train trucks glistening in the moonlight

And the glint of the ocean’s gold


Pediments like Stonehenge

Sit on the horizon

Longtail boats balance on the sea

Shoals of fish escape the nets

you and me make love on the beach

©Kirsty Allison 2008

03 Sep 2007


It’s another high society funeral

What you gonna wear?

Gonna make it look like you care –

Or like you’ve been crying since dawn for the guy you met once

At a club

Burning or burial, how does it compare with the one, last week

You know why he’s here?

Did you snort the ashes, or scatter?

Was there a sponsor at the wake? Sorry, who was there?

I was.

©Kirsty Allison 2007


The duck’s bill scissors the lake as the midges chase the evening air

The swan sticks its head in the water

The bats fly in pairs

The light goes out over the towerblocks

That prove this to be the cit

©Kirsty Allison 2007

24 Aug 2007


She spent around 2 hours a week polishing fruit

104 hours a year

5228 hours of marriage

When everyone was dead

She stopped.

©Kirsty Allison 2007

Fash Bash

Fashion, Poetry

oh, I love it, how much was your face?

there are no seats, at a catwalk!

where’s my status, darling?

You should see them, it’s all nu black in New York

I love a new designer, yes

The old ones are so at the back of my wardrobe

The lights, the music, so fab

And the show’s so fast,

I don’t wish it had been longer, no

I can’t concentrate for that long

Can’t stretch my eyes too wide

Will mark my appearance with creases

And I always have someone iron

Have you seen the new skin, that’s what I want

Maybe there’s some in the swag bags

yum. sweeties.












Heathrow Mentalists

Short story

12th June 2008:


“Hello Heathrow!”


(Picture, part of the Trinity series by Caron Geary)

As the flickering lights of planes descend over the foggy wasteland of Portakabin style hotels in Heathrow, thousands of potential clients touch down ready to make their dreams a reality.

“Welcome people, to your future!”

The lux shiny gold fittings of the low level hotel disappear as I swing through the doors to a soulless shell of a convention room.  An interior decorator hasn’t got past reception since the sixties and any veneer of international glamour fades as I scan nicotine coated curtains touching sweaty carpets that display merchandise on push-up tables.

“Have you ever wondered why some people are more successful than

others?  Why some earn more money? Are happier? Have better jobs?

Better relationships? Better health?”

Uh, yes.  I live in the 21st century so have been known to feel like a Primark carrier bag on Sloane Avenue.  If our modern measure is by comparison to two-bit celebrities, I do of course have a barrel deep of bad trip potential.  So yes, if this man in a blue silk suit in front of us is to be believed (he’s not dissimilar to Tom Cruise in his seminal ‘Tame the cunt’ role in Magnolia) my very commitment to being here is testimony to the fact that to survive in our world, I need improving.

It may seem to those I meet that I am my own self-made hero, but this is merely a façade to the fact I am forever unemployable.  Tonight the bible according to this life guru, Richard Burgess from San Francisco, may be worth ordering, and even if I can’t afford it, I could always rip off his idea, join the other side and become as rich as he’s claiming himself to be.

“Success is as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west…” claims Burgess; his tanned hands gesticulate from left to right, with the force of world leaders.  He illustrates the sparkle of gold from underneath his magic illustrative air rainbow.

His dazzling finesse tips towards the pinnacle of truth he’s about to reveal; but is the grand-secret he’s suggesting something of false alchemy?  His freakish obsession with cash has me wondering if the initiation process has begun.  Or was it when the sorcerer’s apprentice cold-called me on my landline and I listened?  Did I arrive here by some kind of phone hypnosis? Or did I walk into a Scientology meeting instead?  Is my life in a state of trance?  Do I want to be interrupted?  Perhaps what troubles me more is the notion that really I want to be rich and perhaps I’m just hiding behind the recycling bins of life’s car park.

“Tonight, I’m going to teach you the secret to success, all you have to do is two things…”

I wonder whether I would trust this guy’s hey presto simplicity if he had long hair, a wizard’s moustache and beard, flip flops and had just walked out of his psychic healing hut on a beach in Goa.  But he’s got me, from this moment of promise I am willing to invest in this furtive prophecy, I am not going to giggle like a schoolgirl, I am not going to walk out like a stroppy teenager, I am instead going to stay here and listen.

“This programme you are here to find out about tonight, ladies and gentlemen, will give you a new start in life.  This is like a blank cheque to the future. We have researched the last 4000 years of history to give you the information you are here to receive today.  We have learnt from science, from religion, from philosophy, from esoteric studies, how to turn your life around.  Now I want you to greet those people around you.  Look each other in the eyes, and greet new friends with new confidence.  It starts now, if you want it to…”

Of course I’m interested in new friends, I want to be a person who hugs people like it’s not an invasion of personal space. I am surrounded by others who are each willing to believe that everyone can teach us something.  We all need each other to reaffirm our very being.

Before I know it I’m hugging strangers around me.  Without eye contact.  God, this is so embarrassing for a Brit.  Do I really want to be in the same space as these fantasy-prone, co-dependent victims in a scabby eventskeller in the armpit of West London?  But deep within, Richard Burgess, a man who gives pyramid scheme operators a run for his hard conned cash, is starting to appeal to the Aleister Crowley in me.  I want to have his success exactly.  I want to make profits from prophets.  I want more power than North Korea, more friends than Lily Allen on MySpace and more money than anyone else I’ll ever meet.

By inviting us all to hug one another, Richard Burgess is doing the same as the church; he is also using access codes of religion to give our lives meaning.  He is creating a past, a present and a future.  He has a messiah complex, and we’re all willing to be his messengers if we can achieve his type of success.

You see, whether it’s faith healing, psychic surgery, fortune telling or black magic, chances are it’s based on deception.  Maybe not entirely, but I came here tonight as part of my study into how to make millions out of mentalism.

Mentalism?  What, pray tell is that?  I asked the ed at Bad Idea the same thing. I haven’t heard of anything like that since I lost it on a podium with white gloves burning, screaming MENTAL MENTAL MENTAL.

But a few days further of research led me to realise it’s something way more old school than the magic and illusion of Derren Brown.

I asked magician to the stars, Marlow Reed to define it for me, “It’s about surreptitiously getting information out of someone” he explains. According to Marlow, ‘cold reading’ is used by salespersons, hypnotists, advertising pros, voodoo children, con-men and therapists.  They all bank upon their subject’s inclination to find more meaning in a situation than there actually is.  It’s little more than the usual tools of manipulation, suggestion and flattery.

It’s about putting the approval to the subject.  Sitting ducks are obviously easier.  If someone walks into a psychic’s stall they’re looking for answers, “It’s been going on for centuries”, he tells me.

Since I was a child I have danced to Boney M’s lyrics about Rasputin, the lover of the Russian queen, but do you know the real story of how he used mentalism to get into the Tsar’s palace and cure the haemophiliac heir to the throne?  The man used all of Richard Burgess’ skill in combining experience with myth:  Born a peasant boy the young Rasputin became a pilgrim and grew up learning to survive on the streets.  He hustled and entertained whores and harems with his declarations of prophecy and parapsychology.  Using healing, hypnosis and forecasting powers was not enough to keep him alive though.  One of his former prostitute pals stabbed him, called him the anti-Christ and set up a survivors support group. How’s that for a jilted girlfriend?  But Rasputin didn’t die; he became a junky, taking opium for the pain.  His life turned worse following the world arrival of aspirin, his skills stopped working with the king’s kid. Then, in the same way that every Eastender claims to have gone to school with the Krays or every clubber in the late 80s claims to have been to Schoom, many Russian men of the time claim to have murdered the supposed shyster, Rasputin.  But his work was not in vain, the legend inspired all sorts of dodgy self-declared miracle workers shedding dappled mysterious autumnal light over the ease of being connected to the world of spirituality.  Even before the times of Rasputin, starting one’s own army to protect one’s insanity has oft been viewed the best defence.  Hassan-i-Sabah, a Persian of the eleventh and twelfth century managed to reprogram hundreds of villagers. His technique apparently was to simulate death via drugging folk before awakingthem in hedonistic pleasure gardens with wine and virgins that they thought was heaven.  Hassan-i-Sabbah is said to have appeared as the divine-to-be-obeyed, which he would be, all of his empire-building orders being carried out unto his devotee’s death.  A Mongol defeat prevented this from going any further in 1256.

Another historical shaman of note is Stalin’s favourite mentalist (and therefore perhaps everybody else’s), Wolf Messing.  Stalin, obsessed by authenticating Messing’s powers of illusion sent him into a bank; presenting the banker with a ‘note’ which requested ten thousand roubles. The note was actually a blank piece of paper but the cashier still handed over the money. Messing put the cash in his briefcase and left the building.  Messing then re-entered with two observers and the cashier had a heart attack when he realised what had occurred. The power of suggestion should not be underestimated.

And don’t think it’s just the Commies up to tricks of mind control.  Top power tripped loony Hitler had one too.  Erik Jan Hanussen was a mentalist, occultist and astrologer.  Although he claimed to be a Danish aristocrat he was in fact a Czech Jew.  At his height of stardom he enjoyed brown-nosing in the company of Germany’s military and business elite with his mind reading and hypnosis act.  It is said Hanussen taught Hitler secret crowd control techniques and the best utilisation of body language.  Hanussen apparently predicted the fire at the German parliament building, the Reichstag (partly how the Nazi’s came to power).  However, either knowing too much or being somewhat of a Keith Flint, his assassination followed shortly after.

So the history books don’t bode well for mentalists.  Top bad magic guru, Aleister Crowley was a bit of a new age dellusionist of his time.  Like any fruitloop freak he believed what he was doing was right. Mumbo jumbo conquering all (and to a certain extent I have to believe that mind over matter is as good as we’ve got against the ills of the world) but this occult hero combines everything rock ‘n’ roll dreams are made of; the self belief of starting a group opposing the ideology of mainstream culture lead him to expand on his learnings from enlightenment theosophic group, The Hermetic Order of The Golden Dawn which Yeats too had joined, and start his own.  A supergroup of Buddhism, Raja yoga, Egyptian mythology and more, he founded an ‘anti-monastery’, The Abbey of Theleme in Greece which taught self-empowerment-type behaviour.  Burroughs and Leary were members of chaos magic splinter group, Illuminates of Thanateros. But like many of the pantheons before it, Crowley’s place crumbled after his world tour of life and he died a skint smackhead back home in Blighty.

As these characters whiz through my mind, I consider leaving this tawdry coven in fear of becoming the victim of another dark episode in Satan’s path, but recognising that my brain likes to be challenged, and ever a woman of experimentation, one thing I have never done, is join a cult (as long as falling under 12 hour sessions of rhythmic acid house mantras of repetitive beats played in warehouses rammed with thousands of vacant lunatics doesn’t count).

The bell tapping orange toga wearers on Oxford Street are not quite what I’m into.  It is the manipulation of minds and alternative cults that have always held a fascination to me.  From blowing oneself up en masse, on demand, in a barn in America, to the sixties ashrams of India, to feeling the spiral tribe force of professional anarchic communes, there’s got to be a few good war-stories from joining a secret club.  Deriving from the Latin word cultus meaning care or adoration, hero-worship and bullying are often themes of cult discontent.  As Richard continues to deliver his personal story of survival to us, images of The Cult and the polar opposite, The Polyphonic Spree, all heavenly and 2006 Winter Diesel-ad like create a fan base in my mind.  Just as every brand should. There’s a lot the PR departments of record labels have sifted from meetings like this.

History often works in the same way.  I like to think I would have been on that bus of pranksters, in the band, with the band.  Being painted with the blood of suckling lambs, cavorting with virgins, wearing capes. I wonder what the oh-so-clever marketing hit squads would do confronted now with the cream of psychedelia?  I always found Charlie Manson and his backlit aura kinda cute.  A poster boy for revolution.  Maybe my romantic visions of black magic occults are no more fun than it would have been as a virgin at a Hellfire Club convention.

Joining an NLP (neuro-linguistic programming) derivative cult for this sacred rite of knowledge goes against my natural pride of being able to find the answers within.  By distancing myself from the crazed ravings of a self-made guru who’s clearly doing alright from his preachings, I reaffirm my own sanity and intelligence.   This is what I reason as I attempt to back off from buying into his mantra.

But through the haze of what Richard is telling us, I do see an answer.  Prior to getting here tonight I discovered that anyone can become a Reverend at the click of a mouse, like Robbie Williams, 20 million ministers so far have signed up for free ordination at (my fave click through ever, Instant Absolution of Sin) but I bet, other than the instant power of being able to marry, or preach, there’s got to be some good blags in that, ‘Yes, I am a woman of the cloth, and I demand a room in your inn’. It would be a start because for every noticeable conman with stooges in the audience there’s got to be someone like myself who has more than a laywoman’s understanding of the religion of PR & advertising.

Religion equals power.  I start to think Richard is less of a mentalist or deluded despot but more of a master of his own magic. My scepticism and cynicism is exchanging for respect.  He is empowering me.  Where before I joked about promoting my own uber-underground club, I am now seeing it as a reality. In the coffee break, I beat down the crowds of Burgess-o-philes to the man himself.  Richard may not be doing Sri Baba sleight of hand tricks, pulling watches and jewellery from thin air, but it’s tough getting past the wanton crowds.  Close-up, the guy is strangely attractive.  He knows how to spend money, and his A-B-C solution to self-improvement doesn’t look like an illusion.  He’s got the eyes of Jesus.

We greet each other and I feel electricity pass between us.  We agree to meet, me being a journalist, in the bar after the event. I go up to the merchandise stall and spend what a facial can cost in London. £130.  I’m rewarded with a mentalist bumper pack, complete with hypno-CD, a self-published book with quite a nice photo of him in Thailand on the back, a new age DVD, and a pack of cue cards each with a different message of relief for the spiritually bankrupt.  I also put myself on the mailing list. Abracadabra. I will die richer, happier and more metaphysically opulent than others.

After our break, the enriching secret prognostics flow from his gilded mouth,

“The first thing to do is to make a commitment to exceed your previous levels of accomplishment…” he announces.  Do better.

I see him, and visualise my success with him later.  He’d be on my Richest Fucks Ever list.  I like the way he hustles the audience, asking questions with only one likely answer and making the impossible seem available.

“Number two is to learn how to be master of your own success.”

After signing up to his next London seminar for £250 on my credit card, we wait until everyone has filtered out and meet in the bar.

He’s big on body contact.  He tells me that walking on coals in Tibet was what made him realise anything is possible.  “Seven seconds to register the heat, by which time it can be over” he summarises. We then whack up the temperature and I wake up in the middle of the night to find he’s not in the hotel room anymore.  It was a good night, but the merchandise I’d bought is gone, as is Richard.

One good thing about con-artists, unlike religions, is they don’t hang around.  I consider phoning 0800-Get-Me-An-Exit-Counsellor, but the lesson’s learnt.

I leave in a hotel feeling empowered with femininism and vitriol.  In the cab on the way home Richard West AKA Mr C from The Shaman plays on the radio, there’s a remix featuring Tim Burgess from The Charlatans mixed with Just An Illusion by Imagination – like this story.   I never met that guy – I never passed over any money – I never fucked him either.  Ever feel like you’ve been cheated?

It was her summer

Fiction, Short story

It was her summer, the one that would remain unsurpassed for the rest of her life.  Jenny was 16 and her beauty was at the precipice of slutdom.  Her lips carried the dew of morning strawberries and the glisten of apples just ripe to be picked; her eyes bashed as though she was reading the thoughts of the boys whose eyes swung around her honeyed being; her bikini perched beyond gravity over the pertness of her bronzio butt and her peachy full tits.  More svelte than a supermodel, she was fresher than any fantasy, hotter than any horny pornstar and innocent enough for her sexual awareness not to blare out like a used hotel room.

“Are you wanting any dinner tonight?” her mother yelled,

“Nah, we’re just gonna have a burger down the valley” she shouted back.

“Not at that the fucking Alacazar?  You know a fucking Paki’s taken it over, don’t you?” bellowed her dad, from the roof terrace of their Palladian-style finca on the edge of a village near Torrevieja, on the western coast of Spain.

“No dad, you know I would rather eat fuckin’ Spanish food that eat there, doncha?”

“Alright petal, make sure you’ve got your mobile and you wear your lid, for the moped, woncha?”

“Course, see ya later!”

Jenny left her helmet in the garage, behind her dad’s work van.  She didn’t wait to hear her parents say goodbye.  She was off, the summer heat rippling through her bountifully bodied dark hair, she channelled J-Lo, but was as off-the-hook as a shrieking Christina Aguilera.  People always thought she was Spanish, for which she was truly thankful.  Even at her part-time job in one of the British supermarkets that stocked everything from The Sun to Pataks vindaloo sauce the customers would always try to cobble together a few Spanish words for her, sometimes she’d pretend to be Spanish, singing English songs with a Spanish accent.  She wasn’t ashamed of her British roots, but she wished her parents would bring down the fucking Saint George flag down from the front terrace, and get a car without GB stickers.   To be accepted in Spain, it was cool to blend, not erect mushy pea carnivals and battered fish shops.

Streaming through the valley’s orange groves she smiled hearing the dogs howl in the distance, as they did when she first got to the Costa Blanca as a child.  She watched Spain change, the dodgy cowboy builders from South America who were always trying to undercut her dad were nearly as bad as the Irish who arrived on the shores of Torrevieja like there was another potato famine to escape from.  And the Spaniards, they had no idea what foundations were, the buildings would never stand up in England.  She questioned her dad once, on whether they really needed damp-proofing and double layered walls when the climates were so different, but he bashed her in the stomach, shouting that it made him sick to think standards could be so sloppy.  So she never discussed it again, she tried to with her friends at school, but their vocabulary only went so far, the problemo with living in a village is that all the native old school were inbred and stupido.  There was a nose of the village, a forehead, and a way of thinking.  Her mum said Jenny got her intelligence from her, Jenny asked her why she thought it was so bright to regularly shop all the mothers who signed on back in the UK thus leaving her with only Spanish friends and no one left to call when they returned to Blightly, “Because one country full of them is enough.  Shysters, blaggers and thieves.  It’s why we left Essex, there were so many criminals there, didn’t realise we were following them, did we?  Should have gone to the bleedin’ Algarve, I don’t know why we didn’t” she complained.

Her grandfather had been a bent socialist copper in the UK.  He was the first of the family to make a home abroad.  He had a castillo down in Marbella.  He was found dead in his pool one day, garrotted by a burglar apparently, that’s why they moved up the coast, but what had begun as a village was soon increasing like the disease of progress itself. “It’s like a bleeding Lowry painting down here!” her dad would say, “First phase of industrialisation, attracts bleeding agrarian peasants from every half-bitten economy in el mundo”.

“Buenos Paulo!” Jenny said, parking her moped up at the bar where DJ Paulo was playing that night.  He sat outside the bar in the square with a crew of guys she’d not met before, they were probably from Benidorm, they had flash clothes and greasy skin.

“Where are your friends tonight?” he asked her, in Spanish.

“I’m meeting them here soon, I just thought I’d maybe get a minute with you first?”

He walked up to her and kissed her on the lips.  He tasted of pork scratchings and salt.  To him she tasted of Haribo and cucumber.

Paulo then went back to hang with his friends.  Jenny laughed whenever he said something funny, he was so hilarious, his revolutionist nature had got the better of her, they hadn’t slept together yet, but she was sure she would find time alone with him soon, and then he’d ask her to marry him and that would be it.  They’d get a casa blanca together and kiss in the sunset for good.  She’d be accepted as a Spaniard and everything was as rosy as a cuppa.  As he told jokes about the English and their lack of understanding for the intricacies of his motherland, she chewed on sunflower seeds, spitting them out on the floor like a true favela chic.  Then, one by one, her three amigos arrived.  Juan, Dogtooth and Azy.  Azy was actually called Azalea by her hippy leftover mum, but she hated it, and she thought Azy sounded more Spanish.  Dogtooth’s parents were sub-subsistence farmers from Andalucia who came over to Torrevieja for the money, they got part time jobs selling houses to the incoming immigrants from the UK and Ireland, and then returned back to their farm, but he’d been coming every summer for six years, and he was cool, if not slightly annoying.  Jenny’s dad couldn’t stand him.  Juan was Azy’s gimp.

As the night went on, they drank more and more, and DJ Paulo spun some brilliant music, it was all Spanish, English words mainly, so as they got more pissed they sang louder and louder.  Jenny tried getting the mic from Paulo to do karaoke with, but he wouldn’t let her.  Not in front of his posh friends.  It was normally fine, with just her and her mates.   The Spanish had a funny game they played with the English, they’d pounce on them and see which language came out of their mouths as their first response.  It was always English, usually swearing.  Jenny had got better at shrieking in Spanish, but she still fuzzed up when she’d been drinking and dithered between exclamations.

Then at around 2 o’clock when the fireworks lit the sky from a fiesta over the mountains, in walked a stylish bitch.  She was sassy and grown-up.  She’d driven a car, not a bike to get there.  She wore black heels with belts going around the arches, black stockings, and a black dress which was low cut with folk embroidery trimming the neckline and the hem.  Her hair swished from side to side like a shampoo ad, she smelt good too.  Jenny hated her on sight.   The woman didn’t even notice Jenny as she took strides past her straight over to Paulo.  The bitch then leant over the decks, took the needle off the record he was playing, caused the place to stand still in silence and she snogged him.  In front of everyone.

Little Jenny then went up to the decks, split her drink on purpose over Paulo’s records and ran out, Azy, Juan and Dogtooth followed her.

“Fucking hell” she screamed in an annihilating storm of embarrassment.  “I’m going to kill that fucking Paki bitch!”

Dogtooth looked at her, “What do you mean, ‘Paki’, she’s like Spanish isn’t she?”

“Uh, durr, stupido, haven’t you seen where she fucking works?  At the fucking Paki joint, the Alcazar”

“The Alcazar, it’s a Spanish place, not a cuzza house” he replied

Azy looked at her, and at Dogtooth and at Juan.  They were visibly embarrassed and perplexed.

“It’s a Spanish joint, babe, chill out, huh?”

“Eet’s been takan ovir by some people from Madrid” confirmed Juan.

“I’ve seen her fucking face.  And I don’t fucking like it.  I’m going to kill her”

“Nice!” said Dogtooth,  “You know what, I’m gonna split now, laters, Azy, you want a ride?”

“Sure” she replied.  Juan followed.  All taking a lucky escape.

Jenny was left to smart in the balmy heat.  She pushed her bike down the valley towards the Alcazar, just letting it roll, out of gear.  She’d had enough.  Coming over here and taking her man.

As the night grew longer she waited behind the stables of the restaurant for her prey.  The sparrows flew all night and the swallows created art in the sky as the sun hinted at its return.  She’d got a sharp rock in her hand, she thought it looked like the shape of a fox.

At around 4.30, the waitress’s car pulled up into the carpark for the restaurant.  Like a ninja Jenny slipped through the shadows to bash her in the face and head.  She made gouges in her head quickly and easily, but her skull was too tough to crack.  The girl put up no fight, because she didn’t see it coming, and Jenny acted so professionally and quickly.  Pulling her onto the back of the moped, Jenny pulled the bitch’s lump of flesh tight over the seat behind her, she made her arms fall around her back, she wasn’t sure if there was a pulse or not.

Driving back through the orange groves, she stopped where the rose bushes marked an orange growers grave.  Next to it was a shovel and a pile of fresh soil.

As Jenny dug the hole she told off her victim for pretending to be Spanish, but she was greeted with a terrible surprise. The girl moaned, “Por favor, por favor, por favor…ayudeme!”

It was then that Jenny realised it was her native tongue, there was no way this girl was anything other than Spanish.  She hated her anyway, and continued to dig.  She then got to the bottom of the hole to be met by the carcass of an orange farmer and a dog.  “Fucking hell!” she swore.

Jenny then heard a moped coming through the valley, she buried the girl alive.  As quickly as she could.  The lights from the bike were catching her goose-pimpling skin.

The mounds of earth behind her moved as she got on her bike, she had a nasty feeling it was gonna be her dad looking for her, he always accused her of fucking peasant boys in the orange groves, so she chose to spin the other way, but there was also a bike coming from that direction.  She felt the world closing in on her, and decided to get off the road and escape through the orange groves, but it was too late.  The waitress was running at her like a possessed zombie, and in seconds Jenny’s dad crashed into her earth covered body.  He flew over his handlebars, hurtling into Jenny, knocking her down.  Both the Brits were out cold.

The waitress then saw her father on the moped looking for her.

“Papa” she screamed out.  He was always accusing her of fucking peasants in the orange groves, and had woken earlier when he heard her car arrive back in the carpark.  He thought he’d find her with her knickers down against a farmer’s hut, but instead he saw his daughter, his beloved only daughter, covered in soil, looking like she’d been abandoned` by god.  A hole grew in his heart,

“Que pasa?” he screamed…

Father and daughter then buried the dirty foreigners in the hole Jenny had dug for them.


2 MAR 2008

The Mute Beautifuls