Tuesday, 19 April 2022

W6 9HA


Now then, now then guys and gals...don't those eyes look a little familiar?

I'm on the inside, looking in

on where I keep the me-in-me

and seeing someone else within.

Somebody I knew I might see:

I knew about the tracksuit and

what happened isn't news to me.

I knew about the consequences 

back when I first made the deal,

the same one he did: easy access

and deniability

in return for handing over 

that unfungibility 

that some will say we know from birth

and some will say we strive to be:

the signature, the fingerprint,

the you-in-you, the me-in-me.

We give it up so easily.

So I watch my sorority's 

photo opportunity 

give him the publicity

he hungers for eternally

anew. Adieu. To secrecy.

Tuesday, 5 April 2022

The Tracksuit


They keep it in a vitrine in a hidden room

on Matthew Parker Street. They burn

cigars before it daily, read his wishes in

the shuffle of recordings: TV, radio, his DJ

sets and interviews, his patter randomised,

things set out in his second, secret, will:

his wish to fuck the Baroness

post-mortem, for example. Take instruction 

from a ghost, Burke's partner literalised

in Hinton's neverending now. The ace

of shades who fixed it for them after

2010's dumb luck, who modelled how

to play at sainthood while alluding

to desires left unspoken. The man who

knew what gets the British going

is bacon rolls and doubletalk and stunts

and plastic flags, and creeping worship

of Britannia's corpse's cunt. 

Tuesday, 22 March 2022

Hale and Hearty?


The Leader’s healthy as the Land!

Just watch him running down this strand!

Don’t ask why the second shot

is just the first, recut

and zoomed as if to hide a lack of spoons,

or why, elsewhere, he sits in rooms

with empty eyes and shoulders sagging,

a new bug post a heavy fagging,

or why, upright, he grips the lectern

as maskless yanks clutch ivermectin:

just smile and watch him mangle Ovid,

and don’t suggest he has long covid.  

Thursday, 24 February 2022

Trespasses for Texas


This here is my novella, Incidents of Trespass. I self-published it via Amazon a few years ago and then, a few months after doing so, I read an article about Amazon's labour practices and delisted it as a futile act of protest.  Currently it only exists in the form of less than fifty hard copies which are currently cluttering up my flat. 


You may have seen the news coming out of Texas, where that state's excuse for a governor, Greg Abbott, has directed Child Protective Services to prosecute parents who provide their trans children with trans affirming care, and to remove said trans children into foster care. There are no two ways about this: this is state-sponsored child abuse on a massive scale. I have always said, and will continue to say until such time as I am silenced with extreme prejudice, that anti-trans bigots are largely motivated by a grotesque sexual pathology, in which they get off on abusing and exploiting women and children. They get a sick thrill from denying people bodily autonomy, forcing trans people to endure a traumatic puberty developing as the wrong gender, and then attacking our bodies in grotesque, sexualised ways for the scars they display as a result. We saw this demonstrated earlier today when it was revealed that anti-trans bigots had been sending sexually explicit images to the mother of Grace Lavery, as 'punishment' for her withdrawing from a debate with penis-obsessed weirdo Helen Staniland which was to be hosted by a website which frequently and approvingly platforms fascists. 

I call these people not TERFs (which they claim is a slur), but TERVERTS. Because these people do not have a political position. They have a paraphilia. And it happens that, among other things, one of the things Incidents of Trespass does is explore that paraphilia. 


If you can provide proof of having made a donation, of any amount, to any of the links below, I will send you one of the last surviving copies of Incidents of Trespass. Help me declutter my flat, get your hands on exclusive, ultra-rare AJ McKenna content AND help desperate trans people in the Lone Star State! If you make an especially big donation I might throw in some more stuff while I'm at it. 

The links: 

The Transgender Education Network of Texas: https://www.transtexas.org/ 

Transequality: Texas Action Centre: https://transequality.org/texasactioncenter 

Texas Trans Kids: https://www.txtranskids.org/

Central Texas Transgender Health Coalition: https://txtranshealth.org/

Trans Kids and Families of Texas: https://www.northtexasgivingday.org/transkidsandfamiliesoftexas

And finally, May Leitz, one of my favourite YouTube creators, who is currently trapped in Texas while trans and desperate to get out. I contribute to May's Patreon https://www.patreon.com/nyxfears but she also has a PayPal link for one-off donations which you can donate to: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/nyxfears 

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please donate, and do what you can to oppose this disgusting decision. 

Wednesday, 9 February 2022

A lens behind a mirror

St Francis of Assisi, and if the hangover

was all that would be bad enough. He

knows he's being recognised, he sees

the questions in their eyes, he hopes

he can disguise the way he's walking,

that he won't give himself away 

by flinching when he sits. He hopes

no-one took photos: knows that phones

were surrendered on entry, but also

knows Evgeny is the type to hide

a lens behind a mirror. Midnight Climax.

Kompromat. He must assume the photos.

Yet more dirt. Humiliation. His whole body

aching, joints especially. And arse,

of course. A different kind of pain there.

Thought he left all that behind with Fives.

And even then at least it was organic.

Rubber's new to him. Cold. How was he

to know? She was presented as a 

present. Well done, good and faithful, 

Ev knows what you like, B, time to shine

in use… Some of them knew. What he 

was in for. That she wasn't like the girls

he used to bully at the Speccy. 

They were laughing. Jeering. Cheered

her on. Threw things that hit him. 

Couldn't meet their eyes that morning.

Keeps his head down as he shows

his passport. Finds a corner. Closes 

eyes to hide from conversation. 

The whole room saw her fucking him.

That's just as bad as photos. 

People in Ev's line do not forget.

Friday, 7 January 2022

Mr Inverness is tired,


but at least he sweats alone, 

no-one around to catch him out

by tweeting pics of sodden shirts,

no-one to tell him how the case is going,

which papers today have decided 

he should be cut loose. He turns on

the telly, forgets it was tuned to the news:

sees a protesters' cavalry clashing with

police in a country whose ruler's

son bought one of his houses, 

throwing an extra three million in 

for a few of Jeff's signature sweeteners. 

He switches it off. He doesn't want all

these reminders of the way his world

has started shrinking. Pours more whiskey,

thinks about the better times: 

late nights at Haviland, with the man

whose statue he unveiled, one island over

from the place where one masked monster

took a fall to keep the other faces hidden.

Masks: they used to joke about them, 

safe in their unhooded anonymity,

their Very Kubrick Christmas parties.

'It doesn't need to be a costume…'

What else has he ever worn? 

Inspired by the information about Mr Inverness (whose security detail, according to Popbitch, had a much more amusing codename for him) contained in this episode of Podcasting is Praxis, and its sources

Thursday, 23 December 2021

That the city, after this enormity, may be renewed

 So I saw a tweet asking...


That the city, after this enormity, may be renewed 

They told me that my sex drive would be

'ruined' - the exact word that they chose,

as if the hormones were a bomb

that would destroy the proud erections

of an engineered city.

What they didn't realise

was that my metropolis

already lay in ruins:

behind the neoclassical facades

of banks, the people gathered

'round the fires that burned in drums,

bartered shoddy goods under the tarps

slung far beneath the shattered skylights

of the covered market;

that taps gasped air and dirt

in sailors' bars beside the silted harbour:

and here, hormones came as wrecking ball

and blueprint for renewal, as mortar

in the sense of both explosive and cement,

as the new broom in City Hall,

and that, where once I had a Miesian libido,

gridded and predictable, what sprang up in its place

is more like Gehry: complicatedly

amazing; twisted and baroque,

always apparently about to

tumble in upon itself, but stronger

than the mess it seems to be.

Where once I was the New York Subway,

now I'm Harry Beck's map of the Tube

reimagined as a rollercoaster

(though I happily will go

South of the River):

complicated, multi-coloured, centripetally

alive in all directions, and I know

that cut-and-cover, and the pounding

of the tunneling machines

can look like demolition

but they aren't. I'm not in ruins:

this chaos that you hear and see

is not a war:

 it's just my future,