My fur bristles

At the thought of you

My muscles swell

Beneath your light

My gums ache as new anatomy emerges

I am transformed by your beauty

Made ferocious by the alchemy

Capable of tearing you to pieces

With the gravity of my lust

Licking you all over in rasping, gentle strokes

Let me kiss the curse of thought

Away. Here in the earth

We roll around,

Cover one another in our filth

Play without shame or concern

For anything beyond kindling the bright, delicious fire

Of our want

Come at me, hold nothing back

In my transformation,

I am strong enough to handle you

Your emotions are a breeze on the water

To me, a turbulent ocean to

Others who battle without understanding them

No, here I rest

Beneath such light

I inhale your scent

Follow it through darkness

Into the deepest parts

Of you

Kisses going off

Like fireworks in the sky

Inside

A model of restraint

Teased into brutality

My merciless fingers

Grazing against damp, tender

flesh

Your attention bones to the

Brushing touches

Dancing to call spirits

In your kitchen

Taste of good gin

On our lips

Here, you surrender

And won a state of perpetual grace

Softened and expanded

Like a bright, burning star.

Synopsis:

‘It’s about the terror, isn’t it?’
‘The terror of what?’ I said.
‘The terror of being found out.’

For the past three years, Jon Ronson has travelled the world meeting recipients of high-profile public shamings. The shamed are people like us – people who, say, made a joke on social media that came out badly, or made a mistake at work. Once their transgression is revealed, collective outrage circles with the force of a hurricane and the next thing they know they’re being torn apart by an angry mob, jeered at, demonized, sometimes even fired from their job.

A great renaissance of public shaming is sweeping our land. Justice has been democratized. The silent majority are getting a voice. But what are we doing with our voice? We are mercilessly finding people’s faults. We are defining the boundaries of normality by ruining the lives of those outside it. We…

…There are schools of thought which maintain the excessive use of cosmetics fulfils a role similar to war paint but Houston and Dennis maintain the regular palate of aposematic colours is an evolutionary adaptation.

A primal intuition of threat is the lips are drawn back and teeth parted, in preparation to bite. Smiles are not performed in isolation, which is how they communicate friendliness and warmth. Clowns smile like politicians. It never reaches their eyes or it engulfs them whole.

Hobo Clowns are the most dangerous because they are always hungry.

Vampire Clowns have found social acceptance in the Quebecois burlesque community. Trudeau knows this presents issues but cannot speak out against them, for fear of being accused of discrimination.

Florida Man is a regional evolution of the Hobo clown, based on the climate and food sources. Although undeveloped amygdala are common in the clown clade, Florida Man has increased aggression…

The reclusive author was something of a trope for me until I took on Agatha Reeve as a client. JD Salinger, Thomas Pynchon, Harper Lee and Elena Ferrante were the names that I knew but landing one as an actual client had been an uneasy blessing.

She enquired by letter. She sent her first book along with it, a romantic thriller called Control and I had grimaced at it before idly flipping the first page over and reading her work. It had a crisp, disciplined strut to it. The language was simple and trusted the reader to do the work of the book, sometimes approaching a poetic lilt in places. Underneath that though, seethed an engine of sex and violence which made the blood rise in my cheeks.

It was a new experience reading something  that sung to me as I read it.

She wrote back when I sent her…