Kieron Gillen's workblog




"This was the last day I remember being at home:

My body was curled tight in the foetal position. I was stupidly scared. Depressingly, degradingly scared. I felt sick: sick of being sick. And this only redoubled my piss-streaks of anger. In the crevices of my mouth, traces of leftover vomit swum for attention among slivers of vodka. As I yawned, saliva dripped down my chin with aching slowness. Fuzzyheaded from bodily abuse and glowing with rage, I was backed into a corner with nowhere to go, with nothing left to hate but hate itself. I plucked at the plastic rose by my sodden pillow and passively, impassively sniffed, numbly unaware that I was trying to inhale what was essentially painted shit from a gumtree. I looked at the bruises on my thighs and smiled. I knew that there would still be those marks from him. His bruises. His beautiful bruises. Beautiful like him. In my dreams he spins swords around his head like a samurai.

Self-harm, to me, isn't an act of vanity. It's an act re-enlivening the deadening flow of modern life. Of course I KNOW that every cut isn't cute. It's a cure."

Guest-writer time over at Panelbleed. Old zine-kid chum Clare Falry writes about Transmetropolitan: Back on the Streets.




Kieron Gillen's Workblog, foo'.