Thursday, 22 December 2011

Bits and Pieces

Your Face

Oh darling, your mouth tight
Cold blade shivering with your pulse
Reflection in your eyes of the steel
Horrid renditions of sonnets
Fall from my lips like diamonds
Strewn around this corpse you call a body
The knife reaches in and tugs
At the gap under your cheekbones
Draws blood from your beautiful face
Draws blood from your beautiful face

For Eabha

I have a little sister called Ava
Who’ll miss you a lot if you leave
All she wants is a JCB digger
A few Barbie’s and puppies, you see

She wants every star in the sky
The moon wrapped in radiant blue
Three suns shining as nightlights
A tree to catch sweet morning dew

A fairy she wants as her sweetheart
Unicorns to run in the field
The night contained in a small glass vial
That she decides when to set free

She may seen spoilt to you Santa
But she just believes wishes come true
So don’t let her grow up too quickly
Allow her to keep believing in you

Couple Of Disasters

The sun kissed me
Burnt my soul up
Now I am rotten
I infect everyone

Wounds of glass
Skin ripped off
Torn up memories
Skip in line

Keep making jokes
Laughing at nothing
Expense is paid
In fingernails

Don't Mention Names

I walk the line to reality
Perchance your wings crisp
Fall your feathers gently on me
I kiss the nape of your neck
Count to ten to bring myself home
I want you, I want to keep you
Never let the rope go

We are two girls
Pretending to be lovers
Two boys
In love with one another

I have this string of pearls
Swallowed by the sea
Fog on your lips
Our own brand of sickness
Skin pulled tight
Perfection written
A brand of love for the fallen

Friday, 16 December 2011

The Rain

 Note: I suggest reading Naturally first, then Hunted then this.

I fling open the fridge and there’s nothing except scotch.
I pour myself a glass and swirl the liquid, drinking deeply, it burns as it hits my empty stomach.
The cupboards are filled with cat food, the cat is fat and I am rake thin. My ribs have started to become more defined through my skin. My eyes have that sunken look. My mother always used to tell me to remember to eat. At her wake last year I ate nothing from the buffet, the guilt was unbearable. She never understood why I never left the house, why I never had any friends. I never told her how much they frightened me. I’m sure she’s looking down at me now, crying at me. She’d have wanted me to leave here, to meet people and to fall in love. The feeling when they look at me is unbearable but I try for her. Every now and then I’ll go to a bar and I’ll talk to people but only the younger ones ever stay. They stay because they don’t notice how I never look them in the eyes, never do anything but nod and agree with them.
I drink a few more glasses and the cat plants herself in front of me, begging for attention. She is a whore for attention. She purrs and the silence is mellowed, I feel less alone.

I walk to the grocery store. My slept in clothes and 3 day stubble is drawing looks from girls. They giggle as I pass, give me little glances and then turn to talk to their friends. The grocery store is nearly empty, there’s one lone women at the counter. She coughs and scans cereal for an old woman whose nails have been bitten bloody. My eyes hone in on the nicotine stains on the check out girls hands, she’s not unattractive but she’s nothing special. She’s seen me before and has never taken much notice. I wander around the store, throwing food into my basket. I buy some cheap scotch and a copy of The Readers Digest. The girl scans them, absentmindedly. She has no interest in me and her accent is foreign as I hand over my money.

I leave and the girls are still there, across the street. A torrential rain of giggles comes from their perfectly glossed lips as I walk by.

Thursday, 15 December 2011


 Note: I suggest you read Naturally before this

I find my lighter under my table and I flick it on and fizzle the ends of my hair, the smell of burning protein drives me insane so I throw open the kitchen window. Winter air biting at me as I sit and shiver, too proud to get a coat.  The cat climbs out and goes on an adventure down the garden path, flicking her tail from side to side in slow, careful motions.  I wrap my arms around myself and go to the window to watch her, amber coat glinting in the frost.

The doorbell rings, it is ignored.

The cat lies low and leans down, shaking. Eyes wide, pupils dilated. Ready. I’m transfixed, fascinated.

The doorbell is still ringing and then they start knocking at the windows, a voice shouts.

I’m still watching as she runs forward. Paws light and soft on the snow, teeth sharp, claws extended and then in her paws is a starling. Neck broken on impact but its still jolting around slightly, I get violently sick into the sink underneath me and I sit back down as the cat begins to play with the poor dead creature.  I plant my face down in a stack of notes and close my eyes.

The knocks on the door stop as I drift off.


Wandering through the night, I listen to her speak in muffled tones through her scarf. Eyes full of love peer at me, vivid green, willing a response from me. I murmur and nod my head, that seems enough for her so she continues. The stories blur into each other, a 16 year old girl talking with blunt emotionless phrases. This 20 year old boy walking beside her, smiling at the right intervals. She looks at her watch and lets out a shriek, she was meant to be home hours ago. She has missed the last bus and is fluttering about, I offer her my couch as she wanted me too and when we get to mine the couch isn’t where she goes. The cat is unsettled as we throw ourselves onto the bed, limbs flailing.

I dream afterwards. Darkened room and in the corners, shadow tendrils reach out and tug at my seams.
Opening, eyes everywhere. The whites of their eyes bright in the shadows. Moving from left to right, side to side. One body moves out from the shadow, it's the girl. One body moves forward, It's the girl. Her school uniform ruffled and torn. Her eyes white, no pupil. Blood streaming down her legs onto her glass slippers. She opens her mouth to scream, inhuman noise fills the room; collapsing it around us. Many more girls around her begin their song. Their teeth fall to the floor, every one makes a noise on the tiles, giving a tune to the screams. Their bones shatter and they collapse. Broken, contorted limbs pointing all at me.

Waking up the next day. See the stained bed covers and I groan, I shake her awake and escort her outside and from her mouth flies question after question.
I ring for a tax, shove her into it, and she cries and cries--peering out the window like a dog going to the pound. I walk back inside and make coffee. Settling into a monotonous day of coffee, editing and nicotine. The cat still hasn’t forgiven me and is sulking in the corner, makes pitiful meow noises through her fangs.

Monday, 12 December 2011

Being Weird and Things That Annoy Me

There are many things I can say to emphasise this point, I could say we are all creeps, all weirdo’s and that is the truth. We are all weird, we all have that guilty pleasure, we all have that crutch no one knows of. The problem with me is that my weirdness and oddness, is displayed clearly and openly for the world to judge. That doesn’t mean you can call me a freak, that doesn’t mean you can point me out for ridicule. I am who I am and I will always be this way so stand with me, stand up for us. The weirdo’s and creeps that make up this entire world, don’t let idiots drive you away.
There are days when nothing annoys me, but those are rare. They’re diamonds in the rough of my life and usually only come to me after copious amounts of scotch. Usually everything bothers me, how the sun hits my face, bothers me. How the cold makes me lick my lips, bothers me. Life itself, it bothers me. I was not who created it, therefore the world, the system, everything, bothers me.

Life is said to glitter. We’re meant to be grateful for the man-made existence we are dealt. We are meant to accept that if you are not normal, you are ridiculed. That if you are too subversive, you are punished. Where to be different is seen as so horrific? Everyone is different, yet we try and try and work so very hard to be the same. Trained in schools and jobs to become mechanical sheep for the broken society that humankind has created.

You know what really annoys me? The black and white views of the people in charge, annoy me. The stereotypes perpetrated every day by the media. The fact the government can choose to say that the way I live life is too abnormal to be given the same standing as the airbrushed, vacuum packed people whom they think are normal. There is no normal, there is no one like you, stand up and be proud of that and tell the assholes, the government, the bastards who think that you are wrong, that you. Beautiful, broken, untouchable you is worth something more than where you fit in their scale

Sunday, 11 December 2011

Lust Said To Love


This pavement is mine
The trees, birds, noise
Belong to me
I own this place
I’ll make you leave

I don’t have time
For your declarations
I have many fish to catch
The sea of memories
Picked clean

Lust said to Love

Love is a nasty word
It’s filled with promises
With whispers and secrets
I’ve had it and I’ve lost it
War is closer to love
Than peace could ever be
Love is accepting madness while
Dripping in ugly.

Love is boredom
It’s paying your bills on time
Choosing names for future children
Celebrating the anniversary
Of your sexual sobriety

Lust has the beauty of sunrise
The glances of hypnotised girls
It’s tainted but simple
Scripted on bathroom walls
Caressing it’s own skin
It’s selfish and satisfying
Fingers skipping on your chest
Sweat falling from your hair
A single smirk, a slow walk
A disappearing act

Lust has many faces
Many names and stories
Remember little but regret nothing
It’s a waiting game
That you must always win

Friday, 25 November 2011

A Man Washed Up On The Liffey

On Thanksgiving
A man was pulled from the river
He had floated for days
Today he washed up on the bank
My friend and I
We jumped off our bus to watch
Our voices high pitched and excited
We laughed till the firemen turned the man
His limbs were static
Turned like something inhuman, rigid
We were quiet then
As he was hoisted up
The ambulance did not blare the siren
We walked home then
I tried to empathise but I couldn't
I didn't care, I can't care
My friend talked about the man's family
My family are unimportant
So in my death, they will be thought of
Given sorrows and kindness
If that man had no family
Is he worthless?
All that has changed for me
As I stood with the gawkers and watched
And did not avert my eyes
I learned 
That I am as bad as the rest of you.

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse

Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse.

Lara was afraid. Her parents had been torn out of the car as they had looked for the keys. They had left her on the balcony and told her to be very quiet. They’d put their fingers on their lips, shushhh. She understood but she was screaming and crying now. It was her birthday, they said they’d go to the toy shop for a present. But the monsters from the television had gotten them. Her mothers face was turned towards Lara, Her Mother got up and walked in a strange way. Lara ran out the front door and into her mothers arms, her Mommy was alive, her Mommy was alive.

He was curled up in a tent. Next to his beautiful girlfriend. Or at least he thought she was beautiful. His parents didn’t, not with her dreadlocks and her veganism. She wanted to save the planet. They’d been camped out on the land for days. They’d left the city when they’d heard about the infection. She’d wanted to go here anyway, he folded his body into hers. He heard a twig snap outside, a deer? Fox? He pulled opened the front of the tent. That’s when the screaming started.

Julia had been married twenty five years. How she hated him now. He was snoring fitfully on the sofa. She walked out into the garden with her gardening tools. “Might as well pull up some vegetables for the stew”. She put on the radio and perched it on the ledge. The infection had reached her town. She stood up and smiled, reaching down she picked up the hedge trimmers and walked towards her sleeping husband.

Celebrity Zombie!

As she lay on her chaise langue, her hand reached out and fingered the crystal glass in which her Bloody Mary was stagnating. Her bodyguard entered, he was tall and dressed in glittery black sequins. “Gaga, the undead have risen”. She took that as her cue to get up and tiptoe over in her white heels, “They will not come for me, for I am their Queen”. Her body guard leant back, puzzled “They don’t care if you’re famous Gaga, they will eat you”. She scoffed at this and tossed her crystal glass into the fire. “Invite them in and we will see”. The body guard shook his head and took a step back, then turning to run towards the door, she heard it slam as he exited. Then heard his screams as he was devoured. She walked over to the door and pulled it open, “Come, come meet your Queen”.

Masochism is An Art

I knife stripe my upper arm. Suddenly it is engulfed in pain. The dewdrops fall on the white carpet. Masking it in my peace. His eyes wander to my arm, he is fascinated, transfixed by the spectacle. I pull at the blade again, across the gash. My back bends and I can hear  the birds, my pain becomes one with the world. I feel connected, solidarity breached by the open expanses beyond. The pleasure melds so readily with the inner struggles I have always faced. I feel reborn every time the steel of the butchers knife connects with my arm. I feel my roots stretch out, I am whole. His hand reaches out and fingers the scars that criss-cross my legs, my back, my neck. My soft, feminine skin marred with the beauty that comes from the knife, the razor blade. Garden tools and kitchen implements became different to me. I see them as methods for new scars, new beauty. They are an extension of my arm, a bringer of pleasure in the pain.

A girl I knew when I was fifteen, saw the scars and her eyes lit up. She was twisted and dark inside. Her emotions were one, That emotion was a longing for self satisfaction. She took a blade and swiped me, uncaring, she did not map my veins like I did. She hurt me and her back arched too. When the blood wouldn’t stop, I would take out my kit and sew. Like a rag doll I would piece myself back together as she watched with grey, eagle eyes. Her black hair, short and jagged. She was beautiful, she smoked her cigarette in its long holder and did not care for the stares she got. Jaws would be broken if people spoke out and they knew from her sharpness. They kept their mouths closed. They watched as she pulled me into a shop by my collar. No words were spoken, quiet flooded the scene. Old women would walk to the other side of the road as we approached. They knew something ungodly was afoot but their vocabulary did not stretch to accommodate such things. She ordered me and I followed her words like religion. “Sit” “Stay”, I did not falter. I knew her for what she was and I knew the consequences for inaction. She would test my endurance, tie me into a ball with rope and then leave me in the wardrobe, go about her business, perhaps go to sleep. She’d punish me with boredom because pain was not an option. I left her and the guilt nearly drove me insane, she did not care. Her plaything was gone but she would find another, someone who would stay indefinitely and sometimes I wonder if they do a better job than me and I wince with the competition for it. I want to compete. I want to see other boys and girls like me and be the best. Break the boundaries of what they can take and rise above.

Now I am alone. I have had new  owners but they are not enough. I don’t respect them because I cannot bring myself too. They are weak, uninventive. They have enough imagination for two rounds with me, maybe three and then they fall into old patterns. “Do what I say or I’ll… I’ll …”. I laugh at them and they hit me and with that they break my focus. I laugh at them and I walk out. Some claim they can master me, then they fail. They want to please me in their dominance, they don’t want to please themselves. I should be their object but instead they cuddle into me at night so I can hear their heartbeat. They tell me they love me. That is not what I want. I want the quiet, cold of anger of them. I want them to teach me how to be pure. I want them to deny me my own needs to fuel their own desires. I don’t want them to love me, tell me I’m beautiful. I want them to use me. But they do not. That is their greatest failing.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Various Poems


Where are you, my betrayer?
Is it the glint in my eye?
My hand gestures at dawn
My demenour in blonde
Are my broken glances
What they noticed?
Ode to my betrayer
You have painted me colourful
Let me be ordinary for once
Show me my solstice quietly
I flick my wrists
Do you not know how to whisper?
Dream quietly and be humble
Or I'll cut my eyelashes off
Break my mind against your castle

My betrayer is a liar
He uses my words against me
Spits at me as I step
There is a horrible thing within
But sometimes he is gracious
Lets pretty men open doors for me
The gruff Sirs turning into flowery Misses
And when the night comes
He uses my voice against me
Makes me scream an octave higher
He chose how I sing
The  notes I hit, he plucked the strings
But if he does not stop
My betrayer will see
How nasty I  am
When I pursue a flawed masculinity

Denim Jeans

I want to see how your bones knit together
I want to name your veins
After greek gods till there are no more
Please, make me scream so loud
The neighbours are horrified

I want to see jealousy as I take you on parade
I long to cover you in blood
I want to see you red and glistening
Let me see your nightmares
So I can be in your dreams

I want to sew our souls together
So we will be one
Then we can take the bastards down with us
I want to feel the rush of pain
As we burst into flames
And tumble forever downward

The March Of Toads

We march like toads
Our fingers glitter with icing
Our worries behind us
The ones I forget I own
My teeth are grazing
On our despicable nature

Your lips are wet
Unpleasant in their anxiety
My lips like two half moons
Are trying to lead us down the path
Where we will not destroy ourselves
We slouch together, tangled
Unimportant limbs are weightless
Meshing and crunching of bones
All of our words have been spoken
So let us not speak at all


The streets I name Verona
Although they are not fair
The stretch to a leather infinity
Brick by brick, we will rebuild

It houses many a Tybalt
The skin tight jeans of the Juliet
Romeo drinks his sorrows often

I perhaps am Mercutio
I tell tales in my insanity
Tempered under my breath
I see my ending days
And I will go down laughing
Call upon the plague
On all your houses
On all your houses

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Ugly Words

You are pathetic
As you fumble with your purse
Clasp a cigarette in shivering hands
You tell me your hardships
As if you were in famine
Constant pain you call it
That’s your life to you
I take a cigarette from the box
The stains on us match
You open your mouth to speak
But instead you groan
Fifty years my senior
No further along than I
But you are the only one
The only one who loves me
So I don’t show my doubt
My disbelief or sorrow
I smile and drink from your flask

Tuesday, 8 November 2011


I sit down on the pavement
The sidewalk of chewing gum
Dirty footprints of passers by
The plastic bags floating like tumbleweeds

There is a girl in neon pink
With a child screeching but ignored
The father blows smoke into the carriage
The fun and frolics of young love.

A man paces past me
Bag full of the cheapest cider
Talking incessesently on the phone
So common to my poor rural ears

A poet in a long coat lights a pipe
Grey hair in turbulant freefall
Finds some way into the shelter
His failure evident in every step he takes

Everyone huddles like sheep in the irish way
One girl is nestled away in hiding
The young ones have heard tales of her thievery
The stealing of money,identity,culture and space

The crows swoop past me as I write
Boarded up shop windows, my backdrop
My bus pulls up polka dotted in dust
Some get off, others stream in like cattle
I walk over and hand a man my coins
Masquerading as a child once again
My ticket discarded by my seat
I am approaching my judgement day
As I creep towards my future.

Monday, 7 November 2011


Some kid on Yahoo Answers wanted someone to write a poem for her about Diversity.
This is what I wrote.

Sometimes people are black
And when they're not they're white
Or actually they can also be inbetween
But everyone is an individual
Race is one of those things people think of first
But you can be diverse in gender
Or sexual orientation
I've got a diverse taste in pasta
Diversity also won Britains Got Talent
It was awesome when that kid
Jumped out of that bag
It was like "Holy ****"
Someone put a kid in a bag

Three Poems

For The New Muse

All of you have been the same
If I brought you together
To break out of your own skin
A river of death would begin
But this new one is the worst of all
Life hasn't broken you
But the world has been kind
It has been soft and gentle
Left no cracks and gave you everything
Warm meals, clean clothes, freedom.
Afraid to be judged as you are
But you cannot judge those who've never fallen
Childlike in their optimism so they be
The continual pessimist in me, drawn towards
you moving checkers the wrong way
When I have difficulty looking after myself
How can I make sure your innocence is kept?
The adult world is a stalemate
We can not bend it to our will 

King of Hearts

My heart is broken
Not by love but by choices
It tilts to Gods angle
Coughs up organs and stars
So don't expect a place in it
I live on lust and exhaust fumes
Fifth,sixth and twelfth chances

I like the feeling of sorrow on my breath
I'm a stealer of kisses
Remember my moonlit brush strokes
Across your skin
Maybe that is enough for you?
But maybe more for me?
Feed me and pay me in kisses.
I will leave with madness on my tongue.


The matter of urgency
Our solitude and lack there of
I asked the boys of the green fields
Vodka bottles tipped near the swings
They answered in lead obscenities
Mixed in with their short sightedness
Plath, Lawrence, Bukowski?
Where are your Gods?
When they left did you paint them in gold?
This matter does not matter
The truth has lied to the poet often
Where are the children who've eaten the corn?
Where is my wolf biting my wooden door?
I will cover you all in blood
Love is such a timid thing in this

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Documentary On Venezuela

I do not know you, Little One
But I’ve seen you in the graves
Creeping with my ancestors
Feeding on the beetles on the stones
You call me in the shadows
In the dawn of my indifference
To your plight in the favalas
Little beedy eyes bright in the dark

Saving one
Replaced by another

I can not give you all beds
So I will ignore your plights
And drink my scalding tea
Safe in the knowledge
That I
Will not become one of you

Monday, 31 October 2011

Entries for a 100 word Short Story competition

 Mothers Talk

My mother looks me up and down. Bundles me into the car, her friend's in the passenger seat. Starts talking, words I don’t understand. Jobs, money, men. They laugh and smoke. The car gets foggy, I cough. No one notices. They blare music from a cassette, my Mother flicks her blonde hair. The friend turns around, cooing. I reach out my pudgy fingers, tugging and laughing. Happy for her gaze to fall on me. The friend takes the hands back. She speaks “Isn’t he cute?” she asks. My mother snorts her disapproval and shakes her head, dismissing me.


I noticed the first boy at thirteen. He was short, had features like a mouse. I was taller but he ran faster. He played sports and I played video games, behind the sheds. Hiding my Gameboy in my sleeve. In class, I had a Tamagotchi under my desk. I fed him and put him to sleep. Named it after the short boy. I learned nothing because I kept him alive. And one day, the boy kissed me behind the sheds and he called me names after, told everyone what I was. So I hid like always and closed my eyes.


I met a girl on my street when I was a child. She had chocolate hair and amber eyes. She lived in a van. “She ran with the bad children” my mother said. They all called her names but they called me names too. Her father was gruff and he drank something vile from a flask. Her mother was always crying. She’d call for me and show me all her toys. My Mother said “They’ll take your things”. One day my new bike disappeared. That day the girl was gone, my mother was right. She’s always right.

Human Animal

I was wandering on the bank. The drugs in my system were fading, I groaned. And from the sea, I heard meowing. Faint and small. I took a drink of Vodka and stepped over the wall. On the edge of the water was a bag and in the bag a cat. Small and delicate like a baby bird. I picked her up and carried her home. She grew quickly and had babies of her own. Took broken birds home most days. When I cried, she’d crawl into my coat and lick my chin. So I cried less and less everyday.

Like Gold

His eyes glittered golden, matching his freckles. He ended all his sentences in “eh”. “Moe eh?”. He asked how it was and I replied that it was great, spectacular, fantastic. I kissed his neck softly. We were in a field, in the darkness. The light poured from my house as my Mother shouted.
“You better run” I ushered to him, pushing him away. He tried to kiss me but I kicked him. He was hurt I could see it. I turned my back on him and put on my shirt. I signalled to my Mother, that I was indeed alive.


The things I did for you, my mistress, my guiding light. I did everything you asked, everything you declared . You sent shivers up my spine when I had you, melancholic bliss. All my friends left because I loved you. Others filled the space, ones who loved you as much as I. I did things I regret but god, you were beautiful. Little white pills,  everywhere. I stopped and lost everything that I had found. My friends crawled back in their holes, my euphoria dissipated, filled up again with cold. I wouldn’t go back but you were magical, darling, magical.


The school looms over me. The pain, they caused, ripe in my bones. Its dark and I pull up my hood. Jumping the gate and falling over the side onto the wet grass. I see the statue, Mary the Mother, my betrayer. Her judgement obvious in her cold stare. I look through my bag and take out the can. The spray paint, I grasp it and start my work. I go for her eyes and I give her a brand new accessory. A pair of black sunglasses and then I leave smiling. Maybe now, she’ll thinking twice before judging me.

Playing Games

Dragons and dwarves and witches, oh my. I keep losing myself to imaginary lands. Where I’m powerful, where the worries I have can be ignored. I sit on my bed and thumb the buttons. The characters moving in majestic and beautiful ways. I look at myself in the mirror afterwards and I want to redraw myself. Take all those pieces and fix them. A longer jaw, less full lips. My cheekbones are higher than I’d like. My amber eyes a little larger. I turn and play my games again and lose myself forgetting my insecurities and learning to live again.


Your name (Your message board name and the name you use to speak in OOC): Etch
Character's IRC handle/channel nickname: Sugar
Character's name: Sugar
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Hometown: Kirkwall

Physical Description: Standing at 5’8, Sugar is a sight to behold. Her clothes are made of black leather and covered in expertly placed tears, to give her customers a look at the wares before they buy. Long brown hair reaching far down her back and large blue eyes make her truly beautiful. But behind the hair, if you look closely you can see the slight point of her ears, matched with her rather pointed chin and tiny hands, you’d know she was half elf.

Sugar was born in an alley in Darktown, all she knows of her mother is that she abandoned her. But lucky for Sugar, her cry was loud and she was quickly picked up my an Elven apostate who’d been hiding in the sewers. The elf raised her, never telling her how she was found but only telling her what she needed to know, that her mother loved her but had died. That her Father was overseas and had never returned.
Sugar accepted this, becoming street smart at a young age as her carer had to work long hours as a potions maker in Lowtown. She learned how to use a sword from a man who lived in a hovel near hers, An ex templar who had fallen to bad times and now killed for money and lyrium.
One day when she was 15, her home was raided by the templars. Her surrogate mother dragged off to The Circle and Sugar left all alone. She quickly fled to the ex-templar, tears streaming down her face to tell him to get her surrogate mother out. When the man told her it was impossible that her Mother was gone, Sugar announced she was getting a boat to Rivain to search for her Father. It was then the man told her the truth, how she was abandoned in the dirt. Only across the way from her own home.
She left for Lowtown then, searching for a way to earn some money. She spent months begging for food and struggling to make enough money to survive at all. Every inch of baby fat was lost, and she looked years older than she was. The ex-templar had fed her but he died soon after of a lyrium overdose and she had cleared his home of all the food it contained, stepping over the dead body of her friend. She had tried to lift him onto the bed or take him out to bury him but she was too weak to move him, so he was left for the worms on the dirt floor of his hovel.
On her fifth month on the streets, she had not received any food for days and dragged herself up some steps into Hightown. Hoping a rich noble might take pity on her, none did. What she received were kicks and insults. She dragged herself through a brightly lit door, the house was filled with people. She walked as quickly as she could into a side room and curled up, exhausted, she went to sleep.
She woke up to a woman shaking her, “My name is Madam Lusine”. “What are you doing in The Blooming Rose?”. Lusine was about to throw the urchin back onto the streets but she saw worth in the girl. The high cheek bones and long legs could make a lot of money. Maker knew the girl needed the job. “Lets get you fed and washed” said the woman. Her eyes bright as her smile was fake. She dragged the girl to the kitchen and gave her a bowl of stew and a lump of bread. Sugar ate it all down, helping herself to seconds and thirds. Lusine then brought out a wash basin and cleaned the girl, putting her in new clothes.
“Oh you are beautiful” smiled Lusine. “Whats your name and where are you from?”
The girl looked up at the saviour and told her she was from Darktown, That her name was Amelia and all that had happened in the last few months. Lusine then offered her a job, not specifying the exact type of work she would be expected to do but before it was made clear, Sugar had signed the contract. “Food and Lodging for a twenty years in exchange for her beauty”. Lusine also gave her a new name, Sugar.
She was trained by Lusine, refusing on a number of occasions but the contract was waved in her face, If she left she was told she'd die, that the guards would arrest her so she stayed and worked but she still shivers every time she leads a new man upstairs.
Her dream is to find a way out, but Lusine makes sure that she doesn’t leave unless on an outside job. She thinks about life back in Darktown and tried many times to see her surrogate mother in The Gallows but to no avail.

On her rest day she is locked in her room. Her windows were glued shut because of other escape attempts and The Harbormaster at The Docks was warned to not let her on any ships. When she was 17, she climbed out her window and fled to a ship to Rivain unfortunately the ship captain had seen her in The Rose before. He tied her hands with rope and dragged her back to Lusine. When her room is cleaned, she is locked in another room so that her nimple fingers cannot steal a key.

Friday, 28 October 2011


The guilt in your eyes reeks
Sniffed by girls in paper skirts
Who wander aimlessly
And there
Looking for answers
When more questions are on the cards

A domino effect in your blood
Your pulse racing
Your breath through me
And out
You are the forgotten one
For not knowing who you are

Blue lies and green
Sonnets sung to a baroness
To teach your children
And Wrong
To mask your words
In the vile anger of denial

The Problem With Dragons

I think I have a problem, It may indeed warrant an intervention. I am obsessed with Dragon Age 2.

I have played the game eight times, I could do the quests without the map. I know all the words mentioned in the game of Qunari, Dalish and Arcanum. I could quote dialogue from nearly any quest. I role play online as a character in Dragon Age 2 that I made up. I wrote a poem from my character to a character who also doesn’t exist. I’ve completed the game on Hard Mode and it took me 84 hours. I am now playing on Nightmare which has already took me 40 hours and I’m not even half way through. I bought the game on PC just to see what modded characters look like. I bought a poster and displayed it over my bed, so that when I wake up in the morning the first thing I see is Dragon Age 2. I have deep connections with all the characters to the point that I did a play through where I was friends with everyone, which is really difficult because two of the characters have completely opposite viewpoints. I wear a red bandana round my wrist because my favourite character in the game wears one. I bought a chantry amulet online. I tried to dye my hair white. I have a play list on Itunes that has two songs for each companion character and two for the main character, Also one for each important NPC.  I’m going on a holiday with my friend to a city that’s named the same as the city in Dragon Age 2 and me and him are going to do quests dressed as our favourite characters. I read fan fiction all the time, I watch Dragon age 2 videos on YouTube. My interests on Facebook include Dragon Age 2, THREE TIMES. I’ve got a folder of about eighty odd pictures that are all Dragon Age 2 fan-art. I had a dream last night where I was in love with Varric (A dwarf in the game) and he was dying and I had to find a cure in a land filled with zombies.

There’s something seriously wrong with me.
Dragon Age 2, Festis bei umo canavarum.

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

For Meg

We are all made of cold
Glinting in the newly fallen snow
And the icicles dipped in gold
To melt us away
Our troubles laid down in the road
The road to somewhere better
That only the good ones find
So I will be destined to wander
Into the ever deepening dusk
Of my own stupidity and even tempered fate

And at the gates may I find
A girl like this
With grey eyes that have seen more sorrow than I
But in her eyes a need
To believe that one day
The world will be better
For the gifted and the meek
So she may grasp her happiness
With fingers drapped in silk

Saturday, 15 October 2011

Ethics and Russians

I keep expecting to wake up with worry lines painted onto my face by sleep. I spend too much time thinking, so much that I can feel myself ticking over. I’d much prefer to be a simpler soul and not debate with myself endlessly over mine and others ethics. My ethics are generally ever changing because they become more refined the more I mill over them.

Here’s a list -

To eat an animal that you have not killed yourself (in the wild like any other animal) is wrong.
The reason I came to this conclusion was because animals in essence are innocent. They can’t defend themselves, they can’t reason, they don’t hurt another simply for the sake. Animals are innocent because they lack everything that makes human beings evil. As beautiful as humans are with our poetry and music and stories, you look at that for long enough and all you can see is the mindless gossip, the senseless jealousy and The Daily Mail. Animals are a lot like newborn babies in my eyes. As innocent as them anyway.


This is something about myself which I am unsure whether is a flaw or a virtue.

Have loyalty deep in your bones for those you love and destroy with every fibre of your being the ones you hate.

The first part is a virtue in a way but a curse also. I would throw myself in front of a bus to save some people. This is because I see their lives as having more meaning than mine. Its almost like I can see the inner embodiment of just untainted beauty within them. When people hurt them, you have to take their side because with that flawlessness (of a kind) comes unspeakable naivety and trust. I’ve held few people to that status and every one of them has put their trust in most they meet, putting their neck on the chopping block and I feel that it is my place to drag them off it. But it is a testament to their beauty that they always trust.

On the second part when I talk about destruction, I don’t mean in terms of vengeance. I don’t think I’m driven by revenge. I think its to do with my old belief in karma. That eventually something bad enough should happen to them that they understand their wrongs. When I figured out that if you’re only horrible to one person or are clever enough to dodge trouble that you are exempt from the rule. I felt as though I had to make them suffer like I suffered as if I was following the laws of the universe.
I should question myself more on this, its ridiculous.


That’s all I’ll say on this, I’d like to say more but my brain hurts and I’ve got True Grit to watch.

I nearly am desperate to ask, why do my hidden followers. All 356 of you to be exact, come here at all? Maybe you’re doing an essay with the title “A Question Of Madness”. (I read that book about the Russians torture techniques when I was 13). Put that in your essay.

Thursday, 6 October 2011


I keep having these surreal thoughts. Especially when I’m on my own. Then I dwell on them for days because I feel like they’ve got some kind of hidden meaning. That I’m very close to having a philosophical epiphany.
One that is circulating in my head at them moment is about my brain. I’ve seen pictures and videos and stuff about how brains look. And I know if you get shot in the head that you will definitely die. But I feel like although I’ve been told this, that its somehow a lie. My brain is where my thoughts come from, the inner voice behind my ears and when I picture the place where the thoughts come from I picture some type of ethereal pulsating thing full of colours. The kind of thing that nothing could penetrate because its like light or is light. I understand how everything else kills you but head injuries I cant comprehend. Maybe I should study biology. If I got a deeper understanding of brain function then maybe I could accept it. Right now, I feel like I can’t.
When I picture what should be inside my head, I see a cartoon brain like in Futurama and when I actually think about it. The thing inside my head shouldn’t weigh anything or be attached to anything. Or should be something tiny and full of wires and chips.

Monday, 3 October 2011

The Day to Day Life of Today or Something

I decided to be a Blues Brother today. I used to do it when I had ingested noxious substances, most famously speed and still do it sober. For the benefit of an audience I am now wholly sure aren’t actually there. Am currently living in my Grandmother’s and she did not seem surprised by this. White shirt + black hat and the cinema’s 3D glasses and now I’m a Blues Brother. The glasses are only really needed to complete the look but I did expect a question from her such as “Why are you a Blues Brother?” But alas none came. Maybe it happened frequently when I was not aware of my surroundings. Maybe she thought I looked suave. I thought I looked suave.


There seems to be an insult that keeps cropping up against me. The insult is “you’re not very smart/clever”. It comes in a lot of varieties including my Mother’s now famous “You think you’re a smartarse” and “Do you think you’re smarter than me”. The answer to the first being “No, I’m not a smartarse because I don’t get into the habit of insulting myself” and the second being “Yes, Me being without a second level qualification does not make me stupid, It makes me a revolutionary (not really). I am smart though, I know that much. Generally it crops up when I’ve pissed someone off and my intention to make the peace is refuted with “You’re not clever”. Actually my attempt to not be a cockbag and tell you that I’m sorry and peacefully claim why you’re mistaken, that makes me clever. Maybe they think I’m trying to wriggle out of trouble but then they’re really putting themselves very low in my estimation of them. I’d only ever try and wriggle out of something if I

1. Wanted to receive more or some sexual favours in the future from them.

2. Had done something bad to someone too stupid for me to explain my motivations.

Generally weirdly enough, I actually tell people the truth unless the truth is wasted on them. I’m awesome, trust me on that.


A friend of mine/Youth worker of mine/ some guy called John and I keep having these long philosophical discussions. A question I have to pose to myself because of my reaction to some statement he made is “Am I internally homophobic?”. This is because well I basically said “If I was gay, I wouldn’t tell anyone, I’d be ashamed”. I’m not gay that much I know and I feel like I have to dignify that statement with a sentence about how much I love vagina. But I understand overcompensation and that dear Sir is overcompensation. I’ve always been very much for gay rights and thought that gay people were awesome, fighters for personal freedom and I love that kind of gig., always did.  I’ve been in The George (gay bar) way too many times and slept with men and had fun with it. But I still have that feeling that being gay would be shameful to me and I think the reason behind this is that because I’m out to my LGBT group as a big Tranny, I don’t want them to mix me in with the straight girls or the gay guys they know. I always hated the tag lesbian and I think that switching completely would be ridiculous. I do like women and I occasionally enjoy the company of men and I’m going to leave it as that.

Friday, 30 September 2011

The Destruction

I had a home once. It was an internet home. It was called /cd/.

Its was horrid. Full of trannier than thou, mean-spirited, angry, self pitying bullshit. But I liked it.
A cesspit but a cesspit I liked, a cesspit where I was liked.

It has now bowed down to Spardot. The tyrannical ruler of the website where /cd/ is. Forced Anon came into play, #cd was removed. All due to a simple insult on the subject field of the board. Perhaps Kirtaner will come back and restore order, maybe he will also be forced to bow to his bought and paid for vagina toy that is Spardot.

I will miss you /cd/
I will miss all of you

Chaotic and LIGHTS. Everyone, even tab (haha not really)

I have left now and may be back but at least I found Flutter. And maybe a few others afterwards. Find a new home. And I hope Flutter that perhaps we can make our own internet home and bring in all our adopted /cd/ folks.

I will miss you /cd/.
Gone but not forgotten

Saturday, 24 September 2011

Ovaric Son

There are men who’ll crush dead robins under their feet
Till their spindly necks snap
And feel a sense of satisfaction from this task
These men will wake their wives late at night
By pulling their lace and whistling
Pulling a dog by its collar
Slapping it on the head
These men who feel no remorse but their lives
Are what some women see as what men truly are

I have no real malice in me
I get by while getting by
Try not to impede on your life
Try not to tell tales of mine
Unless of humour or conquest
I keep what I feel to myself till I break
Then feel guilt for seeking help

But what kind of man am I?
With no want from love but just of simple comfort
A bus fare easily in my pocket
The sweet flood of toxic sweet smoke
A bed and no ties to this mortal realm
I was carelessly thrown into
No love for my Mother, no sign of my Father
A bastard ovaric son

So should I find my inner sociopath
Be cruel for the sake
Pro-create for the sake
Find a job at a desk for society
Or continue on the path and never know
What type of man I am

Thursday, 15 September 2011


Do you want me to tell you a story? A story about me. I haven’t much reason to live anymore and that’s the truth of it. I once had a conversation with my best friend and he and I came to the conclusion that living and dying are equal in importance. That the people we love would move on, that the people we know will find new people to think about loving. That in fact we are unimportant. That we contribute nothing. I am an artist in my way. A poet and playwright. A guy stuck in my own fetid husk of a body.
My story isn’t that fascinating and believing that anything I say or do has any meaning. Thinking that anything I write is important is a lie. It’ll all be forgotten eventually. Just like me. Just like every person in this world. As my sister said to me Who’s Shakespeare.

I find it so hard lately to find the pieces of me that keep me here. Certainly dying and being nothing at all would be better. The comfort of atheism is that I know that I have nothing to fear. I’m not afraid of being nothing. It would be worse to see my friends and family trying to piece themselves together after. Sit in my chalet in the clouds, surrounded by dogs and cats and parakeets. Watching my Mother pretend she cared, perhaps realise that everything is not my fault. See my Grandmother realise that I needed her and I never felt that I could tell her everything. See Ryan and Allie actually know me and care. Find it is not their fault at all but learn to live again, after a week. A month. A year. Its hard to measure who you are in other peoples eyes. But if connections are all we are in this life then certainly that’s all you can measure things by. If I measure myself in my own eyes I am either the greatest thing that ever existed or the worst thing that was ever put on this earth. Both as egotistical as they are false.

So maybe I should edit my play. Or write a poem about it. Or slit my wrists in the bath and have some type of singular blood orgy. All in all. Less in less.

Things will be better tomorrow.

Friday, 2 September 2011

Brothers, Sisters, Fathers, Sons

Hiding things has always been difficult for me. Not keeping secrets but personal things. I managed to keep a few things sacred but eventually they all came out. For a period of about a month I had no secrets and now I have developed a new secret and its eating me up. It shouldn’t be, it seems the logical conclusion to the problem, to bury it, to hide it. Not because its nasty or going to crawl out and eat me but because it makes so little sense to me and it’ll make so little sense to anyone I tell it to that I cant possibly expect good advice.
What is advice anyway? Its only someone else’s opinion. Those are not golden and are often marred by experience, Clarity is what we look for with advice. I want to hear one sentence that will turn my world around and make me not feel this way, so that I recognise the reasons behind it and no longer feel the need, to tell someone else to look for the same clarity. It’s a fools journey.

I want to surround myself in material possessions because that is what I’m told happiness is sometimes. But then again “true” love is said to be happiness. But what is love but an instinctual need to reproduce. In those terms what am I looking for at all?
I want comfort. Just constant comfort. Even if life is hard I want to be able to come back to something comforting, that brightens my eyes and lightens up my day. I believe I found a path to that but I’ve done so before. Twice I’ve chased that comfort and twice I’ve ended up dragging myself out of it, finding out that the thing I was chasing could not find comfort in me.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Evil and Others

Ftmark1 on youtube, here’s his video, he asked the questions in Check him out seriously he asked a couple of questions in his latest video.
He asked is there ever someone truly evil and what do people think of “othering”?

On evil, Nobody is truly evil in my opinion because everyone in there own heads is doing something they believe to be good. It may not be good to everyone else but to them they see “a greater plan”.
No one wants to do evil for the sake of it unless they’re psychologically disturbed. By that I don’t mean consensual emotional and sexual sadism, I mean sadist at the base of the definition. People who get their kicks out of hurting people and don’t give a shit about the consequences. Human beings are inbuilt to think about the consequences. Whether that’s nature or nurture, I do not know. True comic book evil does not exist because people are individually too unique for a one size fits all statement such as evil.

“Othering” which I think Mark meant as either
1. That only happens to other people (othering)
2. Putting people in boxes so as to identify people easier.

1, As I think most people know, the fallacy that something only happens to people you don’t know is a stupid one. I think everyone is pre built to know that bad things happen to everyone but try and logically figure out a way to get out of being responsible. It saves people putting on their seatbelt and is probably a lot of laziness in a lot of cases but and this is a big but. If you didn’t think this at all would you be paranoid all the time of possible death by accidental purposes. There is a thing of being too vigilant. My sister checks every door in my house before she goes to sleep and locks inner doors as well as outer ones and is still scared of getting murdered in  her sleep.

2. My simple explanation is that there are too many grey areas for boxes. Everyone is different (that’s been told to us enough but do we listen?). No one needs a group or a person to accept them so they can be themselves. You have to truly believe in yourself to be free.

I had a really hard time accepting myself initially because I’m a Guy but I’m a femme guy. But I don’t care what people think of that. Because the concept of femme attached to the word guy is just another way for people to fit me in a box. I am a guy like any other. We are all different.


If my concept of beauty is completely wrapped up in the medias portrayal of what beauty is, then if I find someone beautiful who everyone thinks is beautiful. Is that just the media? Is it possible to truly get over that version of beauty in your head? Could I one day see personalities as beauty and not care about the physical?
What is It that made the thin blonde big boobed bimbo, the epitome of beauty anyway? Is it that its seen as wealth to be able to take care of yourself to that extent and weight is seen as poverty?

I don’t have the answers anyway.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Another, Another Mysterious Tale

Once upon a time, deep in the forests of Ravensdale. There lived a man, a cat and some mysterious occurances. Obviously the occurances didnt live there but for the sake of the phrasing, they metaphorically did. The man was handsome and beautiful, smart and cunning, devious and lovely and his name was Morgan. Now you may think that his description was exaggerated but I promise you, I am nothing if not modest.
Now to the story, one day as he sat in his throne room. He heard a noise in the kitchen. It sounded like someone pouring cereal on the floor and making words with it. "Molly" exclaimed Morgan. Morgan got up from his throne lazily and walked into the kitchen, Molly was sitting in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by cereal. Morgans spidey senses were indeed correct. "you dont even like cereal, Miss Mollz. why'd you do this" Molly replied by meowing in a confused manner."I know it was you! Now confeeesssss!". Molly stretched herself out and jumped up on the table "Morgan as you know" said Molly "although I do enjoy my petty vandalism, this is too petty for me. Especially too petty when theres arson to be had".
"Then who was it Mollz?" replied Morgan. "It was a ghost!!!" answered Molly. Molly then ran outside to start fires and eat some children.
Morgan decided to call his friends for some outside help. Maybe Anders might know of this thought Morgan.
Declan arrived first on a white stallion and exclaimed "Why in Gods name did you convert your bathroom into a throne room?"
Then came Ryan and Anders and a new friend of Ryans. "Is that Fenris Ryan?"  cried Morgan. "can I keep him, oh can I keep him. pleeeaaassseee?"
"sure" said Ryan.
"Fenris come with me" whispered Morgan "We're going to go .. eh.. look in my bedroom for.. eh.. something"

Three hours later Morgan and Fenris exited said room and Mollz was the first to exclaim "So how was the mastubatory daydream?". Morgan was delighted but failed to say anything.
"Now ladies and gentlefolk, I have a ghost and I called you here to get rid of it, anyone hane any ideas?" Asked Morgan.
Well Anders then stood up and exclaimed "I can bring it back to life and chop its head off with an axe!, It feels like a small spirit to my otherworldly senses"
"ANDERS IS A TRADEMARK OF BIOWARE ENTERTAINMENT" said a voice from behind the curtains.

As the all crowded round the scattered remains of many a cheerio, Anders started talking some made up language and a ghost appeared. The ghost let out a cry and ran around the kitchen clucking.
"It seems Morgan" Anders turned around to the rest of the group and took off his black sunglasses "You have a poultrygeist"

Another Mysterious Tale

Once upon a time, In a land not far from here. In the land of Dundalk which is actually here. There was a man, a good man, an honest man named Niall Phelan. His purpose on this fine evening was to call his friends to his house as he had a secret to share. A colourful secret, a beautiful secret. He could not hold it in any longer, and like a homeless man after a litre of vodka. He needed to let it out.
He invited many a friend down to his mansion. Which housed rare antiques and a large wolverine on a leash at the top of the stairs. This did not serve a purpose although his love of Xmen did play a part. As a crowd gathered on in the main sitting room. Morgan Matthews and Ryan Dullaghan entered. Following Ryan Dullaghan was a red haired man who was introduced to the group. His outfit was elaborate and adorned with black feathers. As Morgan dragged a large seat to the fire so he could sit above everyone and pass judgements, he exclaimed "why thats Anders, Hes imaginary dont take any notice of him" . As he said this a man jumped out from behind the sofa and shouted "ANDERS IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF BIOWARE ENTERTAINMENT!". Ryan Dullaghan looking disapointed said " he just says the same things over and over again anyway".
As everyone sat and admired Ryan Dullaghans new boyfriend, Niall Phelan entered. He was wearing a sleeping bag and was jumping across the room. Noone said anything as this was not uncommon for the group. After Samantha Kings attempt to take over the world, Ryans imaginary boyfriend and sightings of the Floating Head Doctor getting more and more common, Noone was shocked.
"I called you all here for a reason"  exclaimed Niall Phelan "Theres been something Ive been meaning to tell everyone and Ive kept it in so long that I dont know how to say it". "Spit it out" said Morgan Matthews from his throne.
Then Niall Phelan dropped the sleeping bag and Ryan expecting a floating head closed his eyes and cried out in horror. But this was not the case. Niall Phelan did indeed have a body and attached to the back of this body were a pair of BUTTERFLY WINGS.

A Mysterious Tale

Once upon a time. There was a man with a mystery. The mystery was that he liked doctors. It was a mystery to noone and yet still in fact a mystery as it was mysterious. His name was Ryan Dullaghan, a man of mystery and charm. By charm I mean sophistication and by sophistication I mean he had none of either.
One day in late September in the dark Winter of August, he set out on a journey. A journey to the doctor as he kept throwing up in public spaces and falling over in his place of work. Which made many a sane man say "TIMBER". His disgust came to head when he fell on a very attractive man called Samantha King who was actually a woman and not a man at all except for a Hitler haircut which she wore with both style and grace.A haircut which would eventually change the world and not kill any jews at all except for that one she reversed over in a tank. But that Ladies and Gentlemen is another story.
Ryan Dullaghan put on his walking shoes, shoes that he could no longer see due to his height and walked gracefully and skipped merrily to the doctors to find out once and for all what the mysterious ticking noise was (ailment he was suffering).
As he walked into the surgery, an attractive doctor came out and greeted him with both candy and a straw hat. And after 65 hours of waiting the Doctor ushered him into a van behind the surgery. "I bring all my male patients here" the doctor explained. As Ryan Dullaghan climbed into the back of the van, he wondered "what indeed was this doctor going to do? Would it be sexual or just a routine examination?".
The doctor then put his hands upon Ryan Dullaghans shoulders and exclaimed "We have known each other a long time and I feel I have something I need to get out in the open". Ryan Dullaghan was perplexed by this as he did not know this doctor and unless he had met him before he had his memory stripped by the demon pomaranian, he did not know what on earth or beyond this doctor was talking about. The doctor started to slowly unbutton his labcoat. Ryan Dullaghan wondered silently about whether like him the doctor had a third nipple and they then could become third nipple brothers and scare random strangers on the street. The doctor unbuttoned the last button and flung his coat open. Ryan was in awe. Because THE DOCTOR HAD NO BODY. He was just a floating head.

Is this Blog now Pink?

Ah, new blog. New day. Or new Thursday if It actually is Thursday. Im such a bum I wouldnt know.

Anyway Darlings, Im Etch. I live in a shit flat in a shit town and hey The Internet is here might as well do something with it.
This is Nocturnal Radio where I talk about crap. So listen or go read about baking or something similar. So many blogs about baking on this damn site.
This is For Flutter, she knows who she is.