My name is Kenneth. I'm from the internet.

Please find enclosed in this here blog some of my writings. These range from poetry to flash fiction to short stories

I only ever post very rough first drafts of what I'm working on because I really like the idea of them existing somewhere other than just my hard-drive in raw form.

It is all personal. I am confused by all of it. I am, of course, Confused By Everything


they froze her because they felt like it

It had long since been discovered

that there was no medical advantage

to human cryogenics.

Death was, and would always be, death:

there was no halting terminal illness.

Freezing a living soul could not prolong

it’s life, it would end it entirely.

So why did they freeze her?

She was a young girl, averagely average

and not particularly striking. She had only

been loved once and, even then, not for

long. She liked to wear red a lot.

They found her in a nightclub, drunk,

pilled, and dancing on her own.

They led her to the lab and she fell asleep

and they never let her wake up. They

suspected they knew what would happen,

but they had to pull off those butterfly wings

anyway. A hypothesis is worthless when

there’s potential for evidence. But still,

it has to be said because it’s ultimately true:

they froze her because they felt like it.

Her, the fucking carousel.

Glancing down your Twitter feed

you’re as mental now as you were then.

It’s constantly the same old shit,

it only takes four days to loop round again.

So self-mythologising: you’re the Earth

and everyone else orbits like the moon,

but naw, you’re a fucking carousel

and I couldn’t get off too soon.

my own fleeting thought

I am my own fleeting thought,

the abstract picture in the back

of my own brain. I am the final

third of my final pint, the two

paracetamol and the glass of water

I down before bed. I am the books

I don’t finish and the songs I turn

off halfway through. I am more the

poems I don’t write than the poems

I do. I am my own fleeting thought.

I am more the future I never had

than the experiences I did. I am Tuesday,

not Monday. September, not May.

I am wrestling DVDs and broken

calculators. I am the doors I open and

the windows I close. I am less manufactured

than I am an accidental occurrence. I am

my own fleeting thought.

Man, it’s really hard to get a girl who you’ve been told is gay to confirm whether or not she’s a lesbian without directly asking.

Because, like, if it turns out she’s not I’d ask her out some time, but directly asking if someone is attracted to men or women or both seems rude somehow.

How can a lie be a lie, if you mean it?

Scroobius Pip, “Broken Promise”