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Quite a lot of questionable poetry, poor pictures, and degrading doodles as preformed by the delightfully mediocre and possibly deranged Maya-Roisin Slater.

Some snaps taken during my interview with the one and only Johnny de Courcy for BeatRoute’s October cover, read the article here:

Healthy eating is for pussies!

Healthy eating is for pussies!

He’s probably thinking about nothing

He’s probably thinking about nothing

Big things & Little things

Enroute to Palm Beach 

Enroute to Palm Beach 

Your dingy garage…

Young Love

Young Money

The Kind Thing To Do Is Hope Not

In the dark room with the uncovered duvet.
On the streets at night on a Thursday.
In the mirror with my light brown hair.

I can hear the rhythm section clearer now,
The scaffolding of these songs is illuminated,
Behind the noise is laughter.

I want to laugh!

Contradictory to what my body is telling me,
Go to sleep,
Enjoy your complicated thoughts simple girl.

I long for simplicity!

How I wish the rain would roll right off my shoulders,
Instead of making my hair wet,
And my cheeks dewy.

This rain which soaks through to the decisions,
Making mud,
Building floods.

I’m tired of impulsive decisions!

I suppose I can blame it all on the little years,
I’ve had to learn to think things through,
I can blame it on my unfair advantage,
Blame it on the bad weather.

No more advice please!

I’m making mistakes for the first time,
My only formal education,
This damp mind becoming sedation.

My god, I need a vacation!

Helping others think for themselves,
It’s making my throat swell,
Killing with kindness,
Is giving me blisters,
You on my mind,
I think I have a headache.

Why am I writing this down?

As if you need to know about how I’m slipping
On all these puddles,
I have the audacity to think metaphors will invoke
The perfect amount of pity,
Comforting and productive.

It’s exhausting being foolish!

But minds will do as they please,
A broken water filtration system
Cannot sift out pebbles.

Is anybody listening to the stupid things I say?

The kind thing to do is hope not,
But I’m beginning to realize,
They’re the only pretty things I’ve got.

I read a book once that told me when to take deep breaths,
And all that other bullshit.


In the morning I take out the garbage

Three doors, one corridor, and a bin on my back spilling with rotten greenery.

To the ally where the dumpster lies, myself the subject of blood shot eyes.

Some shout my name behind bright “hellos!”

Morning after morning I wave and wish well

When the load I bear looks particularly cumbersome, a stranger sitting next to the dumpster may lay down his pipe and lend a hand.

On some mornings others will mistake me for one of them “are you working?” they will croon.

Other days are darker still,
When no one even bats an eye,
My garbage cannot disturb the high.

On these Wednesdays at the end of every month I can see life in profound simplicity

Existence can be summed up in two parts

Having and not having

Back in the primal state of hunger and the hunt.

My pock marked ally companions subscribe to something more, addiction beyond reality.

When they call my name we feel the same, strange little humans on a path for connection

But this morning as I stand next to this group of lovely people now wailing and with blood pouring from their veins yelling despair in free refrain

I am guilty to find I feel we are something different.

Possessed by a poppy, some draino, a rock

These beautiful creatures roulette with the clock.




She writhes on the cement.

In the morning, with my garbage, for my friends I lament.