How to Develop an Obsession With a Pornstar…

Step one: If possible, Be achingly,cripplingly, alone.

Step two: Forgo human contact, avoid friends, family, loved ones and if possible be unemployed so social engagements, requirements, expectations, and standards are far easier to not be met,

Step three: if possible relapse on your recovery, this is far easier if you ostracize yourself as you can convince yourself no one gives a fuck. Get drunk, start smoking again - enjoy coffee

Step Four: live vicariously through the internet - only get information and appreciation via social media.

Step five: Turn your attentions to pornography. If you’ve followed steps one through four correctly you will feel so alienated that just the flash of flesh in a page three titty shot will be sufficent to get you off.

Repeat and increase intensity and exposure to pornography until you become inured and immune and desensitized that, if possible the more explicit the material the better.

Step six: (optional) if possible, Via trial or error, obtain acquire or procure a niche or fetish.

Step seven: be specific about the actors/actresses involved. If possible use, graphs, charts, statitistics images and even focus groups. If possible match similarities with exes. Venn diagrams are especially helpful in this instance

Eg: for every ex with green eyes, match their appearance with every performer with green eyes. Accordingly, match every group then via hair colour, style is often a good third point as colour is often a porn star’s calling card.

At this point patterns should start to emerge.

Step eight: by this point you should have seen through the purpose of this exercize. Scrap every porn star that doesn’t remind you of your most intensely loved ex, you know that one that gets under your skin, no matter how hard you scrub.

Your venn diagrams should have a lot of overlapping performers. If possible write off the performers who don’t have quite the same cheekbones as your ex.

Step nine: by now you should have a fairly clear contender for the performer you will inevitably wish to obsess over. If possible chose one who has since moved on in their career to add bittersweet finality and sense of the finite to your doomed delirous soon to be obsession.

Step Ten: Hoard.

Seriously, if possible subscribe to every last output your performer has. Give credit card details to every spurious porno website you can. If possible, be free and click all the ads.
Dedicate a hard drive to their bleach blonde, blue eyed, buxom, skinny, androgynous, curvy, hazel eyed, pale or ebony skin.

If possible, and it is recommended, dedicate a second hard drive to anti virus software.

Step ten: horde

Step ten: whored

Step eleven: relax, enjoy, masturbate. Seriously, if possible pleasure yourself to the point of pentience. If possible jack off till you develop sores, till you get friction burns, till you get muscle cramp. If possible don’t stop. If possible lose muscle mass, if possible lose muscluature control, develop bedsores, develop sclera of the eyes from staring at a screen, develop callouses on the hands and genitallia, develop a complex.

Develop stains on your sheets like photographs of your misery. Have stains like the turin shroud, have stains like Ghandi’s loincloth, have stains like the Bayeaux Tapestry of your fucking misery and deprivation and obsession.

Step Twelve: sit there in your filth and matted hair…or lack thereof and allow you eyes to focus

Step Twelve: realise that this will never match up to the unsexualised, unseen and soft and curved and cellulite and human version of the direction of your obsession.

Step twelve: realise that just because you’ve implied them into implications of obsession born of aesthetic. Their curves were never so mathematically thought out and that by their lack of high definition, soft focus, poor thought out, shit directed and most importantly fucking acted

Step Twelve: if possible remember where your obsession derived from. And those acts the performer committed were only omitted cos you weren’t committed.

Step Thirteen (optional): if possible…recover. 29th September, MondayReblog

Oh waking, that you provide such a poor attempt at an alternative
That you should be given a prize for most poorly thought out
Half-cocked, worst idea this side of the sunrise.
Like even without my head pounding beyond the point of reprisal
I can’t see a reason from rising from sea of duvets
Half content to drown among comfort and eiderdown
To roll among the tide of sleep, waterboard myself beneath
The surf of dreams and the waves of unconsciousness come crashing down
The gravity of waking and the slow ebb of dehydration from arid lands
Responsibility droughts and intents of making something
My bed ship has run aground

29th September, MondayReblog
Flirting with Danger…

Nothing interests me more than the chase,
when you’re nervously flirting,
talking slowly and planting ideas, learning someone,
Gauging one anothers feelings for one another,
Lingering touches,
agonizing over whether or not to make the first move.
The fear of reciprocity and rejection.
But if the chase ends with success
And the game is won
Where then is the fun?
Because if we talk of vision and perception,
Your years of loneliness painted
A masterpiece in misconception.
You saw what you wanted because you needed to see someone that you could force into your worldview.
Not because you noticed the edges of them would fit into the holes held up by sinews thats all thats left of your heart the thrill of the chase is not as good as the prize

Oh give me a girl whos a mystery,
Fully dressed and dress just off her shoulder
Revealing where she carries the weight of her world
But not what that weight consists of.
I want to find her scars over years of building up trust and a promise to heal those with these far-from-surgeons hands or to accept that some will never heal.
For her to find mine through knowing me.
From me allowing her to know me
From her not drawing conclusions from my scars

29th September, MondayReblog
The murder poet

With skin of greenery and leaves in bloom
And a noose hanging from a mossy neck
Like vines that bedraggle and betray
His time as mother earths protector against the decay
The green man
Oh spirit of the woods, where autumn comes your cloak of foliage
turn gold and rust, orange and red as flame
Your roots arthritic and insipid gnarled
hanging gangling and wrung as fingers wrapped in guilt
your chlorophyll has choked it’s fill
Carbon dioxide breaths
Your anatomy a dichotomy of growth
YOu seeded the world and watched cruel blooms
Choke the path with vines of sinew and root

Leaf mold formed in your foot steps, pooled in mildew
What blossomed where you walked, the earth felt your hand 
greenfingers and gardener strong
the growth seeded anew and a green land grew
Where principals of the red angry earth created by man
Your bloodless chloroplasts spilled from slit veins
In essence a forest of whispered promises 
"We will from the rot of our own bodies grow again"
A parliament of trees who whispered policies took root
you painted with alagae on barren rocks
and said heree we still cling to life
In this barren green kingdom

No mention of contention whispered among the soils nutrients
Your green world acts in slow motion to the harbouring of blooded animals
but we all return to ashes and ashes and dust
And in our absence we nurture your children to grow and grow again.

Your skin of rough bark, splinters each day and turns in time with the sun
Photosynthesizing , proselytising the turf to your faith
like “hear me green grass of home, I whisper your roots into existence
YOu as lawn soft carpet underfoot connected as a lifeweb to all that grows and grows again

29th September, MondayReblog
An Unapologetically Honest Open Letter To My Ex Best Friend…

Hey Bex,

It’s been a while,
Oh it sure as hell as been a while,
see we spoke a bit when Meryl passed
Consoling each other in empty words and comisserations
and hell i wanted to say something to you after the funeral
but how to start, see I had my mum drive me from the crematorium
straight to the funereal chapel, via the fucking pub because my Gods,
Losing a good friend, and selfishly self aware, my last link to you
In one fell swoop was too much of a cross to bear
and as much as I have been a martyr, and Gods’ know you know how I martyr myself
I couldn’t bring myself to start a fucking conversation
Over the corpse and loss of our longest friend
And I made myself a promise,
when I was 16…and I hate it now
but honour and stubborn necessity has made it stick
and that is that I would never use the death of anyone to my advantage
whether work absenteeism, apologetic sympathy or genuine empathy
I suffer alone and that’s how I deal and, deserve to deal.
So how you can see these old hands o’ mine stubborn torn tied by decade decisions
can decayed stand by their support and strength and necessity
and i knew that talking to you, was nothing but strength for me.
And I wouldn’t use her like that.
So I sat amongst teachers,
who did not recognise me despite
years of imparted wisdom from them in my youth
And I grieved alone.
But she came up today. In conversation I mean
Or possibly in music I don’t remember which first
But i had my heart set on sending you a sentence or two
in that obligatoryily sarcastic and self deprecating way of mine
saying here, thought of us today (as if any other day is any damn different)
thought of our friend and thought of this song from this album that was
For us,
A teenage staple
like it held the pages of at least quite a few months
of our friendship together
but perhaps it was more
a childish footnote, but still
the violin kicked in
And I thought, I sure as hell hope the view from heaven
looks better than from down here

And as I sat and the music played
As I sat with friends
Whose scars make the road map of my own body
seem more local ordinance and less atlas by comparision
And as I sat with friends I thought of you
and iwondered about your voice
and i rememered how different it sounded the last time we spoke
caved in by acres of indifference and miles of distance
and of fucking years
and i wondered about your hands
and how if they ever sought mine
Or your name, and how to me its become a morning mantra
Or if you ever followed
Our old footsteps, and ghostlike haunted our old haunts

and holy hell i remembered that you remember
the stampede of my feet, and the full throttle of my hands
as if nothing else before or since
and i don’t deserve the speed, heroin, nicotine touch addict smile simile of you
since that moment that the stumbling stutter of my tongue
and twisted mouth face evil met the reality of narcissim and teenage angst
and could never beget the way I stopped the words spilling from your tongue
all the words but stop

See, you had me to forget.
and that night will stay painfully burned in your memory
and i hate myself for that
But you had me to forget, and distance of distace to forget me for
but i never allowed myself to disremember you
I was something to forget and you were something to never stop
thinking about, like I have blood on my hands
and if i ever stop, macbeth, to wash it off then it won’t matter
or mean something
so every morning mantra like i whisper your name and thats
That’s why I didnt write you this message

But holy hell I wish i could just speak to you
Like say yeah, yeah that song works and sucks
on all the right levels
and like hell hell you would love my new housemate
she reminds me of you
and her kindness scares me like scars of indifference
and i try to shrug the comparisions off
but hell you would love her
You’d see yourself in those
I keep close, or maybe not
but I sure as fuck do
but no one is the same as shit as we were
see i wanna talk and explain and apologise and make it up to you
every damn day
do you know how fucking annoying it is, to have you as
a prayer that betrays my lips with each nicotine inhalation
(a habit i inherited insolently from you, my cancerous lungs thank you)
and bitter caffeine swig

Oh I don’t sleep around so much anymore
so much as pass out
and you should know, I’ve been told my hands
are still as intrigued as they ever were,
perhaps you will get that reference.

Every so often i visit every place that was us
Once i even made it so far as your door
But I know I’m as welcome as cancer
And I didnt test your locks to see if it was
well unlocked
I miss you and toast and butter and spooning
and shed times and make up on your floor
and too much damn mascara
and your mother leaving condoms outside your door
when i first ran away from home
and I miss the park and smoking
and your damn sofa bed
(a habit I’ve held since then till two months ago)
And our sense and sensibiilities
And i owe you far more than I can ever repay
despite four years of friendship and
eight years of absence
my debt outweighs the weight of the world
atlas like on my shoulders

And of all the things I could have written
in this letter to you
and all i want to ask is
"Hey Bex, you for coffee?"

28th September, SundayReblog
I dislike shameless self promotion and things like that but equally storytelling is something I wholeheartedly am behind.

So I’m doing a thing amongst friends and creative folks which is to create a book combining talented writers with awesome artists…illustrated bedtime stories for adults who should know better and what not and I need contributors.

At present I am funding this all myself and am working out the boring side of it as we go along (depends on exposure and work contributed etc) but in the meantime, to measure interest and to see if this has any fucking traction I am being one of those horrible people who fill your feed with occasional stuff like this.
If you’re interested in contributing a story or a poem or if you want to illustrate one, hit me up at

I dislike shameless self promotion and things like that but equally storytelling is something I wholeheartedly am behind.

So I’m doing a thing amongst friends and creative folks which is to create a book combining talented writers with awesome artists…illustrated bedtime stories for adults who should know better and what not and I need contributors.

At present I am funding this all myself and am working out the boring side of it as we go along (depends on exposure and work contributed etc) but in the meantime, to measure interest and to see if this has any fucking traction I am being one of those horrible people who fill your feed with occasional stuff like this.

If you’re interested in contributing a story or a poem or if you want to illustrate one, hit me up at

26th September, FridayReblog

From the pages of the morning,
Were you mentioned;
“You’re worthless to me.”


22nd September, MondayReblog

People of Bristol, come along to Open Mic night at the Art’s House and see my own brand of self deprecating miserabilism masquerading as spoken word tomorrow night with a host of other more talented individuals.

18th September, ThursdayReblog
Anonymous asked: You are brave, even on the days your body cracks with fear. You are strong, even on the days that your hands feel weak. Let validation, warmth and "you did good" fill the cracks between your fingers. You're gonna be okay.

Thank you.

12th September, FridayReblog

Like History…

Like I’ve said before
It entrances and entices
And entrances to interior anxiety ridden memories open
Creaky doors to haunting corridors
I remember like them weren’t your bones
The same way I remember paeleontology lessons
What ossifies and fossilizes
Into jigsaw pieces of a stories
I theorize
Studies dripping fron tales that told them damn selves
Dinosaurs, your ideals are dinosaurs.
Ancient and incorrect.

If archaeology is an artifice
Controlled by scholars
Not history - written by the victors.
Then I doubt the jurrasic period
I doubt the discovery of iron age bravery

What discovery buried will be found
beneath the strata of detritus of every impermanence we surround ourselves with?
What lessons learned of all fossilized remains will remain.
What will stick?
If each new trend and lovers and group of friends is tree bark that concentric grows

A mineralization and a study in woodgrain the years replaced, capturedspiraling In manganese and quartz To be discovered and polished aeons hence. Oh hell it’s all a metaphor The structure of your so fucking soft organic material that matches your form Crystalized as memories and each facet fossilized Each damn angle glinting refraction histories and prisms No i don’t believe in the damn iron age of us It’s all fucked into dreams and dust If our time remains fossilized as memory the iron oxidizes and rusts. 10th September, WednesdayReblog

Well drunks meet in Churches
And take steps towards making it the whole way.
As if such a small amount of preparation and trainin
Self defeating slogans, back patting and “me too”isms could ever
Make them ready for the remainder of the race
Marathons of moving mountains called the struggle of sober living

I would only ever frequent an AA Meeting
With the same regularity as I attended my normal Church of the Holy fucking Spirit
For the prospect of 13th stepping
The irony has not escaped me
That the props I built to stop being a prop to the bar were edificed
In black out drunk architecture and foundations

Like the reason I drink is because I am alone
And the only way to obtain the cure is to drown my sins,
A single malt baptism
And with professing my wrongs
At the font of pentience and potential of pissed up hangovers
I gain that European courage to initiate conversation

Oh help me father for I have sinned and oh where to begin?
Provide me a bosom to bury my head in
As the room stops to spin
And comfort of blankets and someone elses skin
Can take the shivering of withdrawal from my crooked limbs.

Call her my sacrificial lamb to slaughter is what you oughta
Call her my death bed conversion despite a drowning lifetime of immersion
Call her my saviour my penance my grace
Call her my castle to recover in and make my heart race.

10th September, WednesdayReblog

Your hat offers me solace
Like a cauldron of words
Upturned upon my head
A bitter bier of molten lead
Worn upon my crown
Like your kisses used to wreathe my thornes
They call it talisman and I beg fetish
But calm like warmth descends upon
Me and I bestow wisdom
Bequeathed from you

10th September, WednesdayReblog

I got the shakin’ sickness
Like gimme those skeletal remains
Ain’t the ghost of desire
The minutes still stand
Amongst square kilometres of distance squared
Time and space is a fucking illusion honey
Bated breath waits in anticipation
Adoration and apprehension
Left at the door begging for more
It’s more that I can do darlin’
And that ain’t all
And that ain’t all over now.

10th September, WednesdayReblog

10th September, WednesdayReblog


Artist: Joan Baez
Track: Diamonds And Rust
Album: 45 rpm single
Year: 1975
Theme: Remembering

48 listens (download link)

10th September, WednesdayReblog