“It’s a bar, and it’s an alternative art gallery. I love this concept. It’s. So. Now.”


“New year, new me. Right?”

“I fkn h8 u.”


“I love art. What’s your cheapest drink? Will you stock my zine? It’s like queer themed poetry, with a sprinkling of outsider art throughout. I don’t know what outsider art is, I just love that term. No, I’m not gay, but I love that concept.”





Fucked up on red wine,
barely a familiar face in sight,
we were at that party on that October night.

I lost my will, I lost my mentality,
when I looked across the room
and i saw your eyes.

I remember your smile,
so smug, so sly.
That look across your face, after you made me and that feminist cry.

Despite the things you did,
despite the things you said,
I’ll always fall for the guy who makes me question my mind.

When the hipsters paired off.
When the stoners fell asleep.
I walked you home, not long after midnight.

On an empty street,
we walked among the silence.
Just you and I, and the fucking moonlight.

Without a single word,
without a hint of sanity,
without a single breath, I took the dive.

I took you by the hand.
You took me by the throat.
You made me feel like nothing, yet I came alive.

Why’d you have to go?
Why’d you have to lie?
My pants around my ankles, as I watched the sun rise.



“Man your extremely hot looking guy keen to meet you be to old for you love massage you All over your hot body and tease you”

The first in a series of luv notes I have received online from creepy, anonymous men.