Little Death
By Ian Johnson


I want to move your hair;
to clout you sharply on the moors,
leaving canine contours at the foot of your throat,
a dog mawing the marrow,
sticky sore and ashamed of
a picked-clean ribcage
on cooing windowsills.


I want to burst your banks;
float by like detritus
and cloy to your oar’s thick end,
over and over.
Praise with faint damns.
Drown in them,
roll in them,
bask in them,
bake in them,
dive in and miss and hit sticky-up bits.
Cracked, like fine wine.


I want pills & booze,
traversing what’s decent,
like the octopus tree
feeling your terrace, head bowed, where
old flames decay attics,
skylights pulsing
blue and black,
mistaking my arse for your elbow.
Never knowing when to please
stop
doing that.


Ian Johnson is an emerging writer from North East England. His words appear in Trash Cat Lit, Product, Blood + Honey, Apricot Press, Pistol Pete, Literary Garage and Free Flash Fiction. He is a 2026 ‘Best of the Net’ nominee.

Bluesky - @youcanandyouwill
X - @10kandalatte