Steph Gorman

Steph Gorman is a native Londoner who completed her BA in English with Creative Writing at Goldsmiths in 2016. When not writing she works at a famous British fashion retailer, who shall go unnamed.

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I feel like a weird stomach groan

that is not a groan of hunger

in a silent lecture hall.


I feel like a nineties tribal tattoo

on the small of a professional back.


I feel like an impertinent statement

about a brothel in a packed lift.


Waiting for the gift of a little red coin

with a 1 on its belly,

I feel like a failed comeback album.



howling howling

since i left

you quarter

sleeping ive been



i carry the cat

for something

to cuddle

i cling

to him

like a hopeless

creature clinging to

a horoscope


i cant


if ive never

been bluer

you had me howlin

                                                                         or if im


                                          you had me howlin

                                                                     to the point



                                                                               hoooh hoooh blush

                                                                             hoooh hoooh blush


ur pose xx

desire descends

like flu

like the bends

in the coffee queue

on the bakerloo

line i want you



A South Western Railway Family

The family all have hook noses, even the mother and father, as if they both declared when they met each other ‘May we spread the gene for beakish noses far and wide! May our daughters have aquiline, Snape-like projections from their faces!’ Actually, one girl’s nose is almost straight save for a slight bump, more Ryan Gosling than bald eagle.

The family are all drinking from Pret elderberry cans with straws rather than straight from the blunt opening, which is:

a)  profligate

b)  lavish and

c)  embarrassing

Some time later, Pret cans dispensed with, they all push headphones in, have left to get lost inside their own devices. Perhaps this is what it is like to be in a standard, classic, customary family. I couldn’t tell you.


this bye is slim like

a good knife

shut door light

hundreds and thousands

a rich adolescent

a managerial smile

a missed tube

an interlude

eyebrow hairs

shallow sleep

ladder steps

british kisses







bike spokes






the volume of poetry

i would have given you


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