Sarah E Melville

Sarah E Melville is responsible for the poster pic for Into the Desert. She is a writer, artist, photographer and filmmaker of obscene talent. Her latest book, Beautiful Things that happen to Ugly People, is an exquisite modern illuminated manuscript offering fragments of the life of Paulie, her alter-ego and ours.

Sarah’s art has adorned Year Zero anthology covers, and posters for Year Zero gigs, as well as book covers and, frequently, featuring in Gupter Puncher Magazine

Her poetry is absolutely extraordinary. This is one of her finest, whcih recently appeared on Year Zero.

p-the-p

the Ponyboy is made up of Reptile Triangles, all of them bones, all of which you can see at different points of the night, circulating in Basilisks and Butterflies around the room.

He will not kiss you, but he will take your muscles and slip them down his throat.

There is no word for what he wants to do to you.

He likes push boxes and push plugs.  It doesn’t matter what you have so long as you let him keep it for a while.

His hair is dark, short on the sides, long on top.  This is his mane, and he shakes it.  He is, after all, a pony.

He looks like a diseased thirteen-year-old.  Which disease? You can pick whatever you like, love.  It doesn’t matter so long as you don’t mind sharing.

His teeth are filed down to points, but you won’t notice this until he slides his black tongue over them and they glisten like cold cut diamonds.

He keeps an emerald in his navel, just in case.

He will probably try to put his hand down your throat.  He might put the other one up your anus.  Don’t mind this, just let him do it.  It hurts him more than it hurts you.

He will put three thousand notches in your bedpost with his seven rows of teeth.  He will whittle it down into about the size of a tooth pick and use it to clean his  teeth and toe nails.

He will not have sex with you.

He

will
he tells you while you fall asleep.  Don’t worry, he won’t do it.  He won’t.

not

do

it.

He whispers out acid and it foams at the corners of his mouth.  He slurps it back in, sharp hissing the air cold over countless cavities.

He is as silent as the grave as he vomits in your hair.  He hates it when you don’t let him vomit in your mouth.  You don’t like the taste of it? Well, he’ll put his toe fungus in your coffee the next morning.

Don’t let him make you coffee.

His hat has been hanging on your coat rack for three days now.  Time to go home.  Don’t tell him to go home.  Don’t tell him it’s time for him to get the fuck home, go home you shit cunt, I said go home.

Don’t say that.

He will call you Honey, Honey.  He will make you the Queen or King of something so he can bow down and prostrate himself without feeling stupid.  He will lick his lips. His eyes will get big.  His hands will get big.  He will put them on you somewhere special — somewhere special for just the two of you.

Just the two of you.

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