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

JZHrRKUtqlqawLCodzZCEB-pUJaWRdkwCqzT4PLUlfE 11148640_10152769797015843_1067961276379957070_n

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.


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.



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


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.

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.

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’

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

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



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.












The Mute Beautifuls