The Alien Hitchhiker I picked up at a Vintage Bookstore in Manchester


I wasn’t sure exactly what I was reading. Were these simply the chants and mantras of a fanatical cult leader who found meaning in abstract nonsense and coincidences?

Or had an alien from some extra-terrestrial realm attempted to contact me nearly two years prior to my discovery, leaving clues and hints of an impending invasion hidden within the pages of ‘The UFO Report 1990’?


These were the questions I asked myself as I reflected back to that rainy, Saturday afternoon in March 2017.

Wandering the streets and alleyways of Manchester’s Northern Quarter, I happened upon the ‘Manchester BookBuyers’ shop on Church Street. The sign above the entrance promising ‘2nd Hand & Rare Books’ beckoned me to visit. My eyes, curious as ever, could not refuse.


As a fan of all things  personal and inter-galactic space, ‘The UFO Report 1990’, with its torn cover and retro images containing an array of astronomical phenomena quickly found its way into my handbag in exchange for a tidy sum.

Unfortunately, however, I am also a hoarder and procrastinator. Upon returning to my house in Whitefield, the book was soon lost in a pile of other literary works and promptly forgotten for two years.

One night, after a hasty house move and hours of unpacking, I sat alone drinking wine in my new living room. My eyes drifted towards the bookshelf, where ‘The UFO Report 1990’ jumped out to remind me of its presence.


I cracked it open and discovered an array of interesting, curious, and peculiar doodles scribbled across the margins and blank opening pages. Within the heart of the book itself were scribbles of messages and captions, along with decimals and illegible mathematical equations.

At first, it felt as though I was intruding into the intimate and private life of a cult leader or UFO conspiracy theorist gone mad. But as I ventured deeper into the heart of the book, I wondered whether an alien was attempting to integrate with society. Leaving messages specifically for me, where no one else would ever suspect they existed – in a vintage bookshop in Manchester.

But what did this hitchhiker mean by leaving eccentric and repetitive texts hidden within the pages for my eyes only? I have some theories…

The first theory starts with the year the UFO sightings were reported and documented – 1990, exactly one year before I was born. I believe an alien descended upon the earth in a UFO, abandoned in West Yorkshire due to its curiosity for all things human connection.

His name was Xolphex. His downfall was his integration with humanity.

A Tree in Winter


Xolphex was abandoned in the winter, upon the moors surrounding the Astronomy Centre in Todmorden, Huddersfield. An amateur astronomer, drunk from exhaustion and one too many nightcaps, had carelessly left a copy of ‘The UFO Report 1990’ laying next to a Horse Chestnut tree.

Xolphex snatched up the in his slimy hands and studied the tree bark before him. Engraved were the words: ‘A tree in Winter’. Was such a label to be taken literally given the season?

Or was there a deeper meaning etched into the rough flesh of endangered perennial plant life? One which stood defiantly in the cold, dark  winter’s night, despite being stripped of the splendour of its green leaves? Despite its siblings being mercilessly butchered by the hundreds each year?

Not finding the answer to his questions in the cold of night, Xolphex clutched the book to his chest and ran swiftly into the night. Better the tree be the only victim of injury inflicted by a species that was fast proving to be both thoughtless and inconsiderate.

A British Perspective


Xolphex moved to Manchester, where he explored the concept of numbers and tested his knowledge of algebra. Although he knew a great many things about ecosystems and living organisms, he was not a numerical expert by any means. And so he sought to apply the order of mathematical logic to his rather illogical life.

However, he soon grew bored of such study, and directed his attention elsewhere – the exploration of human nature.

Clapping Is So Stupid


Xolphex also learned that clapping his slimy hands together made a very peculiar sound. One which drew hostile attention toward himself. He already felt self-conscious that he had to conceal his scaly body beneath the cloak of darkness, or in daylight, a suit and a top hat.

The pickle he found himself in, however, was that the only way he could feel happiness (on this stupid planet he now called home) was to clap his hands. And so it was, that in his continuous pursuit for happiness, he was always clapping, always subsequently beaten, and always profoundly embarrassed.

Clapping is so stupid!

The Soviet Union Of Lovers


Xolphex liked to read, and the ‘The Soviet Scene’ in the ‘The UFO Report 1990’ sparked a memory from long, long ago. He remembered lovers torn apart. Those careless creatures who foolishly anticipated each other’s embrace, only to be blinded by the light of alien invaders.

They were not featured in the book documenting UFO sightings, so Xolphex added the largely unknown, ye somewhat catastrophic historical event to the record.

He did not document the moment that came next…lovers fleeing blindly into the sea, never to find each other again.

UFO – So Many Faces


“Beware, they will come again, bringing with them Michael Jackson and an elephant they abducted many lifetimes ago.” – The faces on the page cry out to me.


Who else have they taken? You father, mother, brother, or sister? What has become of the people we once knew. Those we held so near and dear to our hearts? Have they been murdered, or have they been transformed?

Know God. Know love.

No God. No love.

They are coming for us all, because we refused to know them as they are now.

Whatever became of Xolphex the alien?

I am still waiting to hear a word from him since I unraveled his clumsy communications scribbled into the book I purchased at a secondhand, Manchester bookstore. I wonder if he will visit me in my sleep and clap his hands over my head to get my attention.

I wonder whether he will invade my office in a magnificent starship and whisk me off to galaxies unknown. I have since moved to Portugal – one year after I began writing this strange, strange tale.

I look for messages in the stars. I write messages in my own heart.  Astronomical space. Personal space. But he is always watching.

Someday, he will come for me.


The Aphrodisiac of Infidelity

To be honest…

You arouse me


But you have made yourself

The guarded property

Of someone else,

And I am trying

As hard as the parts of your body

To be a good girl

For a change.

– The words that launched a thousand illicit ejaculations

What drives us to caution those who want us, but are prohibited from having us?

Is it an act of moral conscience, or manipulation motivated by lust?

We all want to be exempt from accountability…

Try as I might to live by a strict code of consideration for the deluded souls who enter relationships believing in a happily ever after whereby their partners fuck them and only them for all eternity, experience has taught me that infidelity is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

I remember, his hand on my knee as he whispered a bitter protest in my ear. Earnestly, he insisted that in another life he would have pushed me up against walls and induced tremors through the earth of my flesh by way of his tongue slicing through the jungle…

Making me sing symphonies, loud and fierce, past the point of no return.

“No, I’m not a home-wrecker.” – The biggest lie I ever told. Subconsciously, I always knew this to be true…even as I begged him not to touch me.

This is where lines begin to blur, for what is the point of consent when we are forced to belong to someone else by the union of ‘true love’?

I am no longer ashamed of the supposed sins I commit, nor will I deny myself pleasure.

Life is too short to regret our indulgences.

PS. And I think secretly, we all get off to the idea of a really magnetic soul leaving their significant other (even if just for a moment) to hungrily devour us inch by inch, top to bottom.

Sex Stories

I have so many sex stories.

I have fucked a mechanical bull once,

No really, he was a Taurus,

An algorithm,

Operating on the data

Of far too many porn films.


I’ve had hate sex,

Those sessions are always fun.

A perfect storm of strangling, choking,

Biting, clawing at lightening bolts,

Of revenge,


In ecstasy.


I have made a man whimper,

The star was born…

Announcing his arrival

In 3, 2, 1 format…

Exploding all over the stage

In clumsy abandon.


There was passion in Porto.

I’m sorry Paris,

Maybe someday,

I will set your streets ablaze

Allow roots to grow in my heart.

But the volcano erupted,


In Porto.


Oh how we fucked

Dancing, intertwining

Watching our bodies burn,

From our reflection in the mirror,

Kissing every inch of my flesh,

Worshipping me.


I am writing a book. I cannot promise it will be completed in a year, or even a lifetime. That being said, I am baked, and I am shooting to profit from the universe of my infinite imagination.

Not to mention, I think society could benefit from these tales of vulnerability and desire. I have learned so much from my encounters, and being in the presence of naked women and men. The human nature is as evil as it is ridiculous, and one can act wisely with resilience to withstand the consequences of their own honesty, both with themselves and those around them. Others foolishly bulldoze their way to the destruction of the planet, and all living beings.

I am so fortunate. So very, very blessed to have acquired this insight into the psychological makeup of humans in their most raw and honest form.

To be continued, maybe…

Subject of my lust

Now who was this poem written about? I wonder…

A page from a chapter in my life. One which evidentally had an impact on my loins at the time, yet fails my memory in the present.

I’ve been writing my own story since I was 11. Personal growth is a fascinating subject to observe and document. Even when the spaces between remain unseen.

I have become fairly adept in the art of mindfulness, and have learned how to calm the physical and emotional symptoms of my anxieties.

Blank spots in my history continue to remind me of how important it is to remain rooted and steadfast in the present. How crucial it is to be aware of every waking moment, every sensation, every stimulation of the soul, the lips, the tongue, the eyes, the contours and curves of my body.

Every scent, and every taste.

Savour it. The present moment is only lived once.

In dedication to a force of nature

Nude male photography by @uncorps

This poem was inspired by the one and only @Un.corps on instagram. His abstract close-ups and full bodied self portraits (both censored and uncensored) display the best of the male anatomy whilst expressing the most earnest and passionate of emotions. Most notable however, is that his face is never revealed in his work.

His manner and mystery evoke the most intense pangs of lust driven by curiosity towards the enigmatic and the unseen. Whether it’s faith in eternity, electricity pulsating through the body or the howling winds of nature, we are all driven and moved by a force which cannot be entirely recognised. For this reason, my words could not be contained.

The citation to Frida Khalo is a nod to the works published in her once secret diary, which have undoubtedly influenced the overall literary flow and style of this piece. I wanted to keep the emotion as raw as possible, which means the lines do not follow a set or predictable structure, and the words – compulsive and uncontrollable – ryhme at random.

On short, these words convey the anticipation and adrenaline that accompanies everything we desperately want, yet cannot see in entirety.


I want to swim in your veins

As the tides rise.

He is faceless,

Yet I can feel his hands.

My hair stands at attention,

He is inside me

All over me.

“He is me.

I am him.” – Frida Khalo


Keep me on the edge of darkness,

I don’t want to be illuminated by your eyes.

I want to watch the rainbow of you,

Dancing across the sky in flamingo motion.

Movement. Dance. Emotion.

An eruption of Cumulonimbus clouds

Oozing from the sky.


I observe you.

I want you.

I cannot see you.

But I can feel you.

The electricity.




A tree sprouting from the earth.

Hands guiding me to dance

Upon the fields beneath the heavens.

Spring is here,

Guiding me to feel the petals

Caressing my fingers

Kissing my face.



Rush hour.

A journey through time

And space.

All the dimensions,

I want to feel you.

More than I want to see you.

You’re giving me life,

Yet depriving me of sight.


You are life’s greatest mystery.


The unanswered questions

Lay in the abyss of your face.

One can hold out in faith

In the hopes that they

Will be welcomed into heaven when they die.

In you,

I find the hope of everlasting life.

Over, and over again

As I summon the angels

To fuck me in the dark.

You are the angel…

A faceless angel.


You are energy.

Life force.


Unseen concepts.

You are love.

You are life.


Feelings do not have a face,

Neither do orgasms.


You are the footsteps approaching,

From down the hall.


The ocean churning

In the depths

Of my orchid blossom.

Rising in ecstasy,

Collapsing in spent


Rocks breaking my fall.


Vibrations abound.


Your frequency rises

When the sun goes down.

Your colours glide like rainbows.


The universe.


Touch me.

Guide my face to the night.

I want to feel you.


You are hope in infancy,

An embryo in the womb.

I swim in murky depths

To find peace with you there.

Before life matures us.


Your moods are as ambiguous

As the darkness which conceals

Your face.


Your blood is my blood,

Coursing through my veins.

Crimson tides on a canvas.

If your rivers,

Ever run dry,


Will most surely die.


You are

My eyes wide shut,

Shielded in leather


For your fingers around my throat

Fire blazing down my neck

Kissing my back.



Over, and over again.

I am you.

You are me.


He represents,

The very length of this poem.

And the words,

My words,

They keep flowing out of my mouth,

In rapturous abandon.

Surrendering to oxygen.

Breaking against river banks.

Quivering with pleasure.

I cannot stop,

Like a waterfall descending,

Climaxing against the earth’s firm flesh.





You are fire.

So warm, yet so dangerous.


A silhouette against the open window,

Making love to the sunrise,


A powerful entity…


I am you,

You are me.