craig broad

CRAIG: That’s a broad fucking question.
STAN: Better to start off with something less specific, right?
CRAIG: Whatever.
CRAIG: It’s your weirdass blog.
CRAIG: Neutral.
CRAIG: I feel neutral.

STAN: That’s it?
CRAIG: I get a broad question, they get a broad answer.
CRAIG: You don’t own me.
STAN: That doesn’t sound neutral to me.
CRAIG: Fuck off.

Leisure Time

Often when I isolate characters they can come across in a lonely way. I don’t think there is a sense of this here but she is sharing a moment with someone swimming, you just can’t see the character she is sharing a moment with.

After looking at this photograph afterwards, I realised it reminded me of my mum when I was younger. Whenever my sister and I would go to the leisure centre she would always refuse to swim. We always assumed this was because she didn’t want to get her hair wet.

The Dentist

A guy smiles eight times a day on average
but I’m sure you could get some more out of me.

You’re a masterpiece I’m sitting on, not sharing,
hoping it won’t break because
nothing should be this perfect.

Please, smash in my face
and rebuild it with porcelain plated teeth
then listen to me shake
every time you walk through the door.

You’re a Russian doll -
it doesn’t matter how many layers of clinical blue fabric
I peel off with eyes,
you’ll still look the same; flawless.

‘A guy smiles eight times a day on average’
I tell you with your hand so far into my mouth
I’ll be tasting knuckle for the next week.
'I’ve only seen you smile once’ she replies.

I remember with her, it’s always pulling teeth.

Some people naturally like to be directed when in front of a camera. While I intended this to be a natural shoot, there were elements of the posed in it. For this shot I just asked Tiberius to put his hands over his face, and this was what he did.

I Am Not Steve Buscemi

I do not have Steve Buscemi’s eyes; mine are worse, 
unrecognisable. My teeth, like his,
are crooked and still you don’t see me 
making cameos in the Hollywood movies.

Ugliness is subjective, 
all relative to the scene,
the character, the fiction 
that we were born to create.

I am not Steve Buscemi
because despite our similar appearance
my fiction is unimportant, unnecessary 
and undeserving of its creation.


She tells me that she has this thing
where even after she has let go of an object
she can still feel it on her fingertips
as if it were still pressed within her palms,

she tells me that it’s not very common 
asks if I know what she’s talking about and if it happens to me.
‘Can you roll your tongue,’ I ask her
'because damn, I can’t even roll my tongue
so what hope do I have in being uncommon?’

She looks at me and rolls her tongue.
'I can lick my nose,’ I tell her
trying to compete, 'but who wants to
in a British summer when all you get is colds?’

That night we held each other close
our hands hovering over the ravines of each others spine
a place we had never ventured before,
all I could think about
was that the moment she left, for me she was gone
but for her, even if it was just on her skin, I had made an impression.