'Floury Potatoes'. This is a bit sexual.

She will taste of floury potatoes. My mum would make them on a weeknight, intermittently. They would lie there tasting the gravy, sucking on it, but not taking it on. The girl, she will have a floury flowery mouth. And would a mushroom lie under her tongue? Waiting, large and round, for me to find it. This is what I imagine.

My old lover has a new lover. I only have tools I don’t remember how to use properly. However, when I push towards her through the others, she understands.

In your nightmare, look down at your pretty feet. The green-grey water under them swirls into a black black hole. Fucking sure, you’ll be disturbed. You’re never alone even when you’re the only person in a room, - sure you’re made to be looked at. Rings on your fingers, rings on your toes. The fat man approaches she. He addresses her in the shower. She crouches down to avoid him, stoops right down into herself. Still he addresses her ‘Yougirl’.

He carries a child. A cherubic fleshbundle, you see? And he addresses her with staccato propositions; S’s and F’s, harsh like German.

And where are you pregnant?
-Why, in your woman’s body.

She will taste of potatoes. Good and homely. Round and dry. And when she sneeze; pretty mucus bloodclots. When she dance; like a washing machine. The song proclaims:’ Seems like you’re everywhere, it’s true’- she suffers from paranoia. She sings ‘boy, I try to catch myself, but I’m out of control’- the girl has schizophrenia. Poor deranged voice, millions relate to her: ‘I’ve worked in this business for years and I’ve never seen an ass that big before’.

Millions suffer the disease of love which is ‘merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will’, my teacher may well hope I don’t believe that at the tender age of 17. The man sings: ‘I can sell a mil’ saying nothing on the track’.


Mascara is spidery on her face and her eyes are far away and sad like I like them. Mostly, she has a good body, shiny clothes.

I tell her ‘You better make work like you want to go home. Fuck like you want them to come and be finished. You better go and sit in the dark on a hill in the rain with a bottle in your hand howling into the wind.’

She says ‘What a bloody joke’
I say ‘What?’
She says ‘Why did the chicken cross the road.’


See ya kids, I’m off to New York. I’m running away. And I drank one bottle of wine last night, 4 pints, 3 shots, a vodka and coke…

I’m a good kid, so I make sure I lie to her as much as possible. We touch lips and leave each other, my affection run out.