Would You Like To Keep The Receipt?

It emerges from cocoon, a growing collection of receipts,
an origami insect folded into flight,
a broken record, a tedious list of all it has eaten,
a buffet spread of life’s delights, audited with every bite.

It is what it ate, yet it hates what it is,
it thinks on its hate and eats more to forget,
but the more that it eats, the less that it is,
lost in the labyrinth of list it begets.
It flutters its wings ‘til its folds fall apart,
it plummets then halts and hits the ground hard.
Its little soul screams to escape, to depart,
to unthink, to cease, but the list is unmarred. 

Contorting and buckling, unfolding its scores,
consuming its self and the being it abhors.

– Max Thomas (2021)

My thanks go to Tara and her team at Overthink Zine for publishing this in their first ever issue on the theme of Existentialism. Check out the zine and many other artists’ incredible works here.

Illustration by Joseph Perkins.

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I Don’t Want Your Momma At My Party

After much thought and deliberation, we politely request that your mother not be invited to our post-COVID party. Please note, no mums were harmed in the making of this song.

P.S. We hope this brings some joy into the current monotony of everyone’s lives.

Featuring Max Thomas, Molly Toolan-Kerr & Charlie Perry.

Mix and Master by Benoit Andre.

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rasputin’s retribution

– Max Thomas (2021)

P.S. My housemate was playing some video games, so I transformed his somewhat haunting dialogue into this rupi kaur-esque poem.

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Molly from Manchester (Explicit)

One of the few benefits of lockdown has been having time to listen to the entire Beatles back catalogue. After digesting it all, I came up with this rather melancholy tune. If you have a spare 4 minutes and 9 seconds, why not take a listen!


Molly from Manchester felt quite possessed to go down to the pub for a drink,
she asked the barman can you make me something that’ll make it much harder to think.
And he says “drink this, down that, and your troubles will all flow away.”
“They’ll all return when the sun starts to rise, you can drink all you want but it won’t heal what’s inside.”
That’s what love is for.

Harry from Hartlepool’s just lost his job and he’s feeling quite down on his luck,
He calls up a lady who some might call shady, and spends fifty quid on a f**k.
And it goes in out, shake it all about, Harry pumps all his problems away.
He’s only searching for someone who deserted him, someone with whom he could rest his weary bones.
That’s what love is for.

Love, that silly thing, it can make or break you in an instant.
Love, that simple little thing, you can spend your whole life looking for it when it’s right in front of you.

Larry from Lancaster stared in the mirror and saw a stranger stare back,
He longed for the road trip he’d taken last summer with Molly and the kids in the back.
And he said “Oh what I’d give to go back to the times before sleeping around and the lies!”
“I’d like to improve and to try to remove all the bad blood between us and try to be a dad.”
That’s what love is for.

Rachel from Ramsbottom sat at her desk and she typed the words into the screen.
The more emails she wrote the closer to promotion and living the corporate dream.
She said that “Harry’s a bum I was done with the slum of a life that we’d built for ourselves.”
“I’m better without him, I’m tired of vouching for someone in who I do not believe in.”
Oh, that’s not what love is for.

Love, that silly thing, it can make or break you in an instant.
Love, that simple little thing, you can spend your whole life looking for it when it’s right in front of you.
That’s what love is for.

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Why Would the French Kiss Like This?

Spirits are high for the very first time,
then suddenly shot down the gullet.
Hosting parents must look away,
unwilling to see their compliance
in the teenage cesspool of tongues,
who, uncaring, do not know one from another.
Their only desire to rise, circle, fall,
dart left, swipe right, then finally remember to breathe.

The cherub wonders why the French would kiss like this?
Watching the cacophony of canoodling,
bothered and bewildered by the room of writhing mouths
before they break away, mumbling good nights and
feigning sobered innocence in the car journey home.

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