If I Were A Rose If I were a rose I’d probably want redder petals And a lover to rub the thorn from my side If I were a rose I’d probably want the rain wetter And a personal patch of breeze to keep me dry If I were a rose I’d probably expect my stem to stay wilt-free And for my life certainly not to end in a petrol station *Image by Zoe Buckman

Say It You want me to say it's what I want to do you want me to love it so that it takes me nearer to loving you I say this is what I want to do I say I love falling in love every night as I am with you. *Image by Zoe Buckman

? A Working Week Wednesday: Heard a laugh that I thought was yours and it sent chills down my body to my exposed toes. I sat and sipped my gin, but the sound echoed louder than the stage-call and I missed my slot. Saturday: Wore my hair in pig-tails and played cards in the changing-room, laughing that my poker face was useful in bed. Won enough money to stay away from the velvet-covered chairs and went home alone. Monday: A slow start to the week, weaved in and out of the other girls and their gossip until I’d made holes everywhere and fell through one. Lucky me, I lap-landed on a business-not-pleasure box ticker with a company card. Thursday: Another day, another fine. £20 gone from my garter just for a late stage arrival. The manager shouts at me half-heartedly with eyes that flash ‘I want to fuck you’ every time he blinks. He has a twitch. Friday: Kenya - the girl, not the country – was scooted off to A&E tonight, right under the lights as she sank from the stage, eyeballs bulging but eyelids closed, tightly stretched all strangely. I never liked her much, but I hope she’s... (read more)

? First Night ‘Ere darlin’, I ain’t seen a body that tight in a while. Really? Thanks. A crooked tooth through an angel smile the teasing tassels get caught in the red velvet chair, she distracts him by thrashing her hair in his face he got a taste he likes it doesn’t he? So he should he’s not getting this for free. How much? What?? I didn’t even get to touch. This has got to be a joke, some eastern block chick would at least let me have a poke for that kind of cash. I mean I might look flash, but I’m jus an ordinary bloke who likes to do a bitta coke, ‘ave a laugh – I deserve it after all my hard graft. Missus might not agree but then she ain’t here to see so who gives a shit. Fuck it, tell me how you’d like to suck it. Yeh, yeh I’ll give you my card charge what you want just keep me this hard. is this hard? doing this? creating bliss? making them all think it’s you they just can’t afford to miss? Miss men?… He was only good for the occasional ten… bag of weed…... (read more)

? Say It   You want me to say it’s what I want to do   You want me to love it so that it takes me nearer to loving you   I say this is what I want to do   I say I love falling in love every night, as I am with you

? Dreaming of Tin     Looking up at the shaky, shook chandelier rain tapping tilted tin as my toes touch over your head -   your single bed permanently parked in a double space.   My mum told me to stay away from pikeys:   Mad. Dangerous, she said Live in bloody caravans, she said Can’t read nor write and look a bleeding sight, she said   But she didn’t tell me   how your brown face crackled kindly like parcel paper how your tattooed hands calmed a calor gas fire how your dirty laugh made days seem minutes later how your cosy metal box would make me a rosy gold-ringed liar.

? The 213 Bus   is busy with boys tuning us roll-up roll-up skirted girls into their guarded world with the share of half a headphone.   Sherbert-sticky shouts reach up and out to the dented steel above to the steamy scratched windows thrown next to your cheek.   I look at your feet, safe under the seat in their thick rubber soles, shifting in their clumsy, quick-tied laces - an uncomfortable bow.   You push the button for the bell and we all know it’s your stop. Nut-heavy Snicker wrappers surf past your ear rusty pennies print the Queen onto your head   held high, you never said goodbye.

? Piccadilly   She ties her sister’s scarf back around her hair - not too tight.   Shaking sand from her voice the third asks a passing suit excuse me, what is this shop here?   The clock above counts eight hours late.   He stops. Smiles. Looks up. He passes it every day he bought his Gran some Assam tea from there last Christmas, God rest her soul.   Fortnum and Mason that is, luv. It’s bit like ‘arrods.

? The Divide   I think we might argue more if you move to North London it’s just, y’know, so far. Break up even, it is a possibility there are so many tube stops to make me stop and think along the way, that’s all.   And the trees just seem a bit grey all that way out there - even though I’m sure they’re not really. In fact I heard Hampstead Heath is lovely in the summer.