Steve the Suicidal Slug


There was once a slug
His name was Steve
He was not a bug
That could even perceive
What it’s like to hug
Only knows how to grieve

He decided being alive
Just wasn’t for him
So he took a drive
On a bit of a whim
Got to the cafe at five
When the sky was dim

He found on a table
A shaker of salt
Be he was unable
To lift up the vault
And like a fable
It wasn’t his fault

So he slithered away
Out of the door
The sky wasn’t grey
Or even grim anymore
He was glad that today
He wanted death no more

But he heard a sound
Made him feel like crying
And he turned around
To see the salt flying
Covering the ground
Until he was dying

Dissolving into a puddle
On the busy street
His mind was a muddle
Thinking quite a feat
He just wanted a cuddle
Really rather sweet




She can’t go a day without spending
If it’s expensive or attractive, it’s hers
She won’t even think about lending
If it’s not for her, it stays in her purse
She lets her life be controlled
By the possessions that she owns
Her whole persona will mould
So much money with zero loans
As long as her balance is high
And her rooms are full to the brim
She can continue to live a lie
That covers a truth so grim
She knows that without it all
Nothing else could give her enough
Because she would never fall
Into that mythical thing called love
So she’ll keep making money to spend
On jewellery and clothes of fine threads
In the hopes that it will not end
With the loneliness that she dreads



She eats in excess every day
There can’t be a space on a plate
If there’s food she will stay
Somehow she doesn’t gain weight
It doesn’t matter what it is
Savoury or sweet, fruit or meat
She just knows it’s bliss
If it’s something she can eat
And as long as her mouth is full
A constant rainbow of taste
The reason behind it can’t pull
And reveal itself in haste
Because when she isn’t eating
Ghosts of the past start to shove
An empty house with no heating
No one to feed or give love
So she’ll continue stuffing her face
Licking her fingers, smacking her mouth
Leave the past without a trace
Keep going north, don’t look south



People say she’s a fiery soul
It doesn’t take much to happen
Her anger is like a black hole
Any other emotion sucked in
And it’s like a wall of red
As her voice echoes around
Screaming so loud that her head
Empties, nothing else to be found
If she keeps her mind hostile
And the madness looking real
She can act for a while
That there’s nothing else she can feel
When she’s weak, the mask slides
She can’t expect to make it last
Behind all the anger, fear hides
A deep sense of dread from her past
So she’ll keep her temper short
Scowl her eyes, constantly frown
As long as she doesn’t get caught
Her fear can’t make her drown



She is the original narcissist
Unable to pass a mirror unlooked
With her reflection she couldn’t resist
Checking her locks of hair are tucked
Pouting her lips to add a deep red
Then smiling to show off teeth so white
And following with a nod of her head
That really makes her eyes look bright
If she keeps herself beautiful always
And makes sure her wardrobe is full
She can keep up that pretty haze
Stopping the truth making it dull
For what did she have without looks?
What else could bring her attention?
She doesn’t study or read books
She has nothing to offer or mention
So she’ll make her eyelashes flutter
And swing her hips, flick her hair
With a body to make a man stutter
She’ll pretend that she doesn’t care

The Undead Leg of Octopus Meg


Octopus Meg
Was a sad little creature
Because of her leg
She was a freak of nature

When she was born
Her parents did cry
They couldn’t keep her
They didn’t bother to try

So they ditched her in the sea
And she hid amongst the reeds
She tried to get one free
They’re the sharpest of the weeds

She held the leg on top
The one all rotten and red
And she began to chop
The leg that was undead

But as she cut in deep
To that awful looking thing
It seemed to start to weep
And hesitation it did bring

In that regrettable moment
Poor Meg had lost already
The undead leg had bent
And held her neck steady

The last thing she spied
Was the leg crawling away
And as she quietly died
It searched for more prey

Buttonhead Sue


Meet my pal Buttonhead Sue
Oh whatever can she do?
She has a hole for each eye
Which means she can’t even cry!

She doesn’t have a mouth
And she can’t look South
Without the weight of her head
Making her fall off her bed

Then a needle through her eyes
Pulling thread and making ties
Sewing her to a strangers shirt
Luckily, plastic can’t be hurt

She was quite happy there
Lots of buttons without a care
Until her stitching got pulled loose
And hung her, like a noose

Sir Kitty Winklepicker


Sir Kitty Winklepicker
was a very posh cat.
His ‘tash couldn’t be thicker
and he sported a top hat!

He wore a monocle with pride,
held in place with his frown.
He didn’t even try to hide,
he was the coolest puss in town.

He drank nothing but Earl Grey
and soft jazz was his music.
He enjoyed a pipe a day
as he read a good classic.

Oh, poor old Sir Kitty,
he could never run far
and it was really a pity,
that he didn’t see the car.

Punk Rock’s Romeo and Juliet


Being a huge Shakespeare fan myself…and by huge I mean words-can’t-describe-my-infatuation-for-someone-that-died-centuries-before-I-was-even-born kind of huge (if there was any possible way I could invent, or come to own a time machine, I would dedicate the remaining years that I have to becoming his mistress. And by god what a mistress I would be!) but anyway…I’m getting off subject here…

Where was I…?

Ah yes, usually when people reference Shakespeare’s works or compare more recent things to him/them, I get a kind of rage within me at the ignorance of them believing anything in the world deserves to be used in the same sentence as him! But I stay quiet and keep a calm facade because I realise my unnatural obsession with this deceased genius is not easily understood by others.

However, in the case of Sid and Nancy, I find a blind spot. I quite like the resemblance even though there are still a high number of differences. I don’t know whether this is the romantic within me, or just the fact that my boyfriend is passionately a fan of the punk pair.

Either way, I see any kind of tragic love story as beautiful. Drugs or no drugs.

(The painting is one I did for said boyfriend, and it resides happily on his bookcase)



It starts with a silent, numbing, overwhelming nothingness
Confusion clouds my mind and I can’t seem to clear it
A thousand questions flood through my subconscious
But I can’t concentrate, why doesn’t anything fit?
Then the pain begins to blossom deep in my heart
An indescribable, torturous, soul-wrenching feeling
Stretching it’s venomous vines along my nerves
Reaching my extremities with such force that I’m reeling
The ground falls away beneath me and I’m falling
Into the black, seemingly bottomless pit of pure despair
It doesn’t matter how tightly I curl my body up
Hugging my knees to my chest while I gasp for air
Tears that I don’t remember crying staining my cheeks
The vicious bites of my fingernails making my palms red
A hopeless, unbearable emptiness seems to drown me
I give up trying to breathe, this water is just too hard to tread.