New Writing: Private and Confidential

Violet Malice on the beach
Violet Malice
Fire doors and dressing gowns

Violet Malice has some hot smut cooking on the tarmac off the A-road by the Happy Shopper. Here is some writing. She has written. With you in mind. FYI the Raunch Review will return next week. Violet has been up in Edinburgh this week (hence the silence) watching the fringe pant. 

They sleep together. All over the place. The two of them.

In her living room. On the kitchen table.

Inside the duvet cover like ghosts. All over his bed. And then spilled on the carpet.

Against the wash basin. One leg bristling. Under the shower.

On tip toes behind an old English Master. Constable.

In the cold glow of the fridge. By the pre-tossed salad. In his living room.

Up against frosted glass. Under a bare bulb that flickers and teases moths mouths most nights. In the rain. In the driving rain.

In the middle of 12 Angry Men.

Between the mast and the rigging. Shrimper. Mainsail. And Boom!


Following two hardly dressed hamburgers topped with glassy tomatoes sliced and extruding. Tickling the ivories. The back teeth and all 206 bones. The sternum and the stapes. Intermediate phalanges.

Driving through the rain. The driving rain.

Starting in Times New Roman and being found face down in TNT Battenberg. Bold. Italics. Tits underlined.

On the corner of Christopher Street and Howard’s End. Trails.

In the mirror. In the mind’s eye. This way and that. Tossed. The other way around. Bouncing off iris. Lids closed shut for the weekend.

At their house. On their pressed sheets. It will happen. Tea sandwiches and finger rings.

And then. In the afternoon sun. Twenty-days on. Rises one towering Dracula. Hot bloodied and sex eyed. Desperate for a crisp IPA in the shade of their exhaustion.

Watch Violet’s poem about icecream

Nothing To Sea Here

Violet Malice
Violet Malice
I don’t want to put a fucking caption you fucking mega dick

Just checking you’re still with me?

Had to deal with some serious bleeding from the rectum, if you really want to know. It’s a hard water area. Normal cervix will resume shortly. Please accept this concrete poem as some sort of palate cleanser.

Also, while you’re at it. Sign-up to my damn mailing list HERE. 

Like a Sex Cactus in the Desert

Growing growing growing groan!
Moaning moaning moaning mown!

It seems that no one wants to have sex with me anymore. This is quite a hard dick to swallow given that sex and sex-related activities are up there in the top quartile of stuff I like to fill myself/my time with, alongside consuming various foodstuffs from jars on sunny balconies in company.

Statistically speaking it seems that everyone would prefer not to have it off with me, which is totally cool. But you know, it can get on ones tits. Physical contact and intimacy are important for my wellbeing. I know this because my body starts calling out to people in the street. I have to carry it away kicking and screaming and then try to distract it by going on a 50 mile cycling tour of the South Downs. My latex shorts riding up my arse for hours on end, relentlessly driving further and further into my large intestine, is about as good as it gets for me.

I wonder whether anyone else does this too. I make eyes at the other helmeted streaks of muscle careering up and down, and in and out, of the ribbons of tarmac but they don’t notice me. Maybe it’s because I have a heavy bike and a wigwam full of condoms. Let’s be clear – I’m not trying to make a move on the Armstrong set – obviously I totally would – but in this example I’m merely trying for verbal intercourse. Not fly fishing.

Not overthinking overthinking is the problem here. Automatically my brain starts writhing around in the shit swelling up on everything that’s wrong with me. What I could change. Starts comparing myself to other people. Starts thinking that maybe my whole face and body is a total shit show as well as my barbed personality. Can you get a face, brain and tit transplant package deal? I’m trying to stop going down on myself all the time, but it’s really difficult when no one else is going down on me. I know, deep inside, that ultimately no one will want to have reasonably sexy time with me if my face looks like a slapped horses arse all the time from my negative thoughts that have been totally wanked off by all that capitalism in my coffee crema.

Maybe watch Violet’s latest poetry video to make her feel better:

Soup of the Day: Shit Pea

I had this great desire for Soup of the Day. I don’t know what/who came over me. But I needed it. Hot in the bowl. White roll. Wide spoon. You get me?

I dragged myself on my belly from trendy café to sexy vend searching for it. But it was just dastard salads, chicken fillets and taramasalata, everywhere. I stepped out and all I could smell was disappointment.

Is this the end? Has all the excitement in the world dried up into a bitter Oxo Cube of shite? Should I Google it? Yes, I could get soup online. Yes, I could get it delivered, canned or chilled. Yes, I could boil a kettle and whack in some cuppa dust. But that’s not Soup of the Day, that’s just regular soup.

Favourite soups (in no particular order):
Pea & mint
Pea & ham
Lentil & pea
Ham salad
Horse chestnut
Spinach & briar
Hot & sour
Four bean & penis
Radiator keys & a cold hand-job

Why not watch this shit new video of me to make me feel better:

Violet Malice

Suck It and See