It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

free writing #7 | open mic: Misaki, the japanese sex doll

an upstanding sex doll
i see the irony, too
you don’t get to laugh though
some people like it standing up

let’s talk a little more about irony
you find a contemplative sex doll strange
but isn’t it weird how i’m made to service people
and you had to blow me first

or that we still need rubber to have sex
that you just want an unemotional bang
but I’m full of hot air
now, I’m not here to judge

but i have feelings too. last week,
when you were hosing me down
you missed a cavity
there are only three cavities

yeah that really hurt my feelings
and it wouldn’t matter and it doesn’t.
time is different for me anyway,
i’m not the sentimental type

every day you divide your lives into
compartments of time. a first kiss. 20 seconds.
a last track at a party. 4 minutes. a sunset. 7.
but i don’t see it that way

and don’t get me wrong, i’m fine with that
but yesterday you came up to me
and your eyes were clear
you held my face, intertwined our fingers

flesh and silicone indistinguishable
you tilted your face to kiss me
and i counted 20 seconds
before pulling away

writing prompt Denial




And the nice lyrics will not be written out in a lazy quote bar, no. This time, as evidence of my complete obsession with this song, we have a hastily drawn typography thingum to gawk at:


westworld fanart



I attribute the shabbiness of this final product to: 1) my photoshop trial’s expiration 2) lack of photoshop prowess to maximise said trial 3) refusal to butcher the robot neck

Nonetheless, I’m pretty proud of the finished product. More to come hopefully!

goodbye yellow brick road (cover)

Maybe you’ll get a replacement
There’s plenty like me to be found
Mongrels who ain’t got a penny
Sniffing for tidbits like you on the ground

dance with somebody

add a gospel choir and you can do no wrong

veggie woes





selling as a graphic tee on carousell

slow motion

Heavy is my sleeping, terror is my dreaming
While you are pretty through the night
You may taste the salt that rolls off my cheekbone
But you don’t know why I cry