They say that the best solution is to stay young of body as you grow old of mind. Stay young on the outside and grow on the inside. Settle down, learn life’s lessons and have experiences in a young person’s body. Rush headlong into life with a young person’s force. Because force, according to adults, is that rising slope of regenerating cells. At twenty-five, it’s the downward slope. At twenty-five, you hit the point of no return and start going backwards. The cells get lazy, start daydreaming. They’ve had enough of being good and keeping busy; they’re sick of desperately splitting into four. At twenty-five, it’s like the cells start missing roll call. They pop and sizzle like a slice of bacon shrivelling in a pan. That’s where the aging starts. That’s the decay, the degeneration. That’s what they say. Read more →

Two Poems by Hugo

Tomorrow, At Dawn (Demain dès l’aube, Les Contemplations, 1856) Tomorrow, at dawn, the hour in which the country whitens, I will leave. You see, I know that you wait for  [More…]


When I lean my head against the window of the school bus, I feel the vibrations buzzing my nostrils. The ultimate test is to resist rubbing my nose. No one has my self-control. Tickle me and I won’t even flinch. I’m a force of nature. Read more →


Engines are roaring on the freeways and streets,
while dawn’s haze makes halos around street lights.

That time, when bad dreams from late-night pizzas
swarm from the bellies of sleeping teenagers.
Red LEDs from their chargers and iPhones,
stare like small bleary eyes into the gloom;
the spirit flickers in weak imitation.
The morning air is thick with dissipation,
And some weary of acting, and others of whoring. Read more →

Selected poems from Hochelagurls

she was born with a dorsal malformation
worse than spina bifida

it’s all the fault of Ingres
who painted her with three extra vertebrae

the risk of falling is constant
she gets around with a cane
the fucking unthinkable pain
only solution:
Dilaudid three times a day and Beefeater Gin
like a redneck from Asbestos Read more →


I hope to be absolved.
I’m making a place for myself in the gutter.
All images exist.
I shed sizes and formats.
I cry over empty holes.
I’m ashamed from above.
My body quivers.
I’ve envied death.
There are colours for the months.
The yellow ones worry me.
At night, I embrace my knot. Read more →