I inhale

September 12, 2013 at 11:34 am (Bodies, Halves, misogyny, poem, The Real) (, , , , , , , , )

I found Cissy wrapped up in a grubby paisley throw upon the riverside where I knew it was her before unrolling from all that matted red hair out the top it was luminous and partdreaded but perhaps would coil if brushed it lay on the dusty sunroasted asphalt clean somehow protruding bodiless from the O opening of greenblue weave I knew it was her before I rolled her and the face was when it came pale and unfamiliar though fitting  and the sight of my own sore hands on and rolling out the bluegreen cloth awoke me in some sense of myself as the centre of a tableau I was my own audience to and so she was unwound at the riverside which suggested drowning but her lips pink and dry and asking for I’m sure everything she eventually got as I thought cruelly my becoming aware of her discovery at all before here in venom though lucid I am paralysed I am  always paralysed for a moment upon revelation just as on waking the exception being so distinct from the rule I leap out of bed sometimes my chest throbbing onto the river bed perhaps lay her to rest either in before or since the rescue which itself was staged by someone else her counterpart my carer though a creation as much as any old thing I can think before I see but her is and that unrolling body tumbles about the bleengrue teardrops the wrists leaping over each other and clatter on her thin bones her body unfolded itself to me as she unfolded herself at my push a mile or two from gruebleen sea where she could have gone to drown it was not me for though I have the face in mind and the face was hers I had never seen it once before for as they say the brain will not conjure faces of its own accord but can so make ex nihilo the sensation of  familiarity that old measure of being what well we miss when pointedly in our present when déjà vu strikes stronger than any fixed memory the brush creaking through her knotted hair musksmell of synthetic bristles head bobbing back as though on a spring the wrists again now the wrists clattering over a broken neck almost bruiseless and quite peaceful my own hands in my peripheral growing numbish as I take the formality of her pulse two hunks of meat pressing into each other as the breeze dies down to tepid stillness like any sealed room the mouth lolling open in the dead air as my own breath tugs at diaphragm spasmodic I reverse the riverflow and drift backwards into my own blackness to see first the beginning.

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The Colour, That Colour

January 20, 2013 at 8:47 pm (Bodies, circus, Home, Out) (, , , )

That month, crisp
on evening of alarming skies,
some awesome shade (or other).
The iced grass crossroads of King Mab
barking orders
to stop.
He did now.

With home gone

he did now spit fire.
He did now juggle that knife;
learned there was no trick to it,
you just did it without dropping the blade,
swallowed the fire and winced
through the blisters. Bubbled
up throat.

Now he did feel that sharp
pick adrenaline fueling his shudder as he knew
by the way someone stood
that they meant for their next word to be brutal.

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June 16, 2012 at 9:11 pm (Home, Observations, Out) (, , , )

Why on earth do you do it?
The mud on the knees and seat of your jeans give you away;
the dirt that lurks under your nails
shamelessly for days following.

I’ve seen you
at night

Do you think you’re some kind of
horticultural vigilante
Digging up flowers and seeds,
some with old roots, deep and tangled into nests
some seeds, barely sprouted, embryonic.

Don’t tell me you’re acting in the name of some
high botanical justice.
I’ve seen those you leave bereft:
Tiny, Mr Phips
tending to chrysanthemums alone
since 2004;
Lindsy, and Helen with her round belly,
who just want one shot at the white picket fence.

This morning I found a baby shrub
leaning against the kitchen door.
It’s leaves pale and waxy,
covered in the delicate blossom of some older tree
like a mould.

You sap stained murderer,
why on earth do you do it?

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Some Poems – Eris and Dionysus

June 8, 2012 at 2:32 pm (Bodies, Female, Halves) (, , )


You touch the edges of my jaw
and I wonder if you could pull me out,
out of the disorder;

out of the haze and lifting
my face to yours –

clarity –

[Go hunting,
Take the heart of some small
something between your teeth]

and there is this delicate
tranquillity in seeing
the jagged edges and crazy fog clear, but
I hope you let go.


My spirit soars,
as the skin flays to nothing
in bliss
it blackens.

I am pulling myself apart
with this Dionysus
while my body disintegrates –
a flaming husk with a single living core

Death is imminent,
but for now,
I have nothing to fear-

everything to love.
As flesh and bone fall away,
my spirit soars.

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Obsolete Love Object (A Lesbian Ode to a Socket)

March 14, 2012 at 1:10 pm (Female, Halves, Observations, Rooms, Uncategorized) (, , , , )

For every tune

your partner is better,

and when you buzz

we’ll sing together.

Your sister orifice

is ignorant.

I’ll wet my finger

and electrocute myself –

you bitch, you complicated

rejecter and bleeder.

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Cut Here

February 24, 2012 at 12:06 am (Sea) (, , )

I woke up this morning with the thought already clear and distinct in my mind that all the love has gone out of what I do. When did you last call me Grey Eyed Athena? White Armed Athena? Titan-Born Athena? Why was I always Athena? Like anyone else I have been on the mouth-end of a phone, muttering and scrabbling for the innate truths of endurance to keep the recipient ear alive and well for another day. I am bad at it, and I sense the same desperation in your voice. I deliver every prompt perfectly – every ‘why should’ and ‘what’s the point’ and ‘how long’. You got nothing, Hun; I terminate the call. Go the beach again. Write about salt, grit and doubt.

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Aspice Porro, Aspice Retro

September 30, 2011 at 11:27 am (sleeping) (, , , , , , )

The bottle is transparent,
the clouds are made of wine;
“Shout” is such a little word to
tense one’s naked spine.

Quantum doesn’t make for magic,
turquoise pieces deep;
But shades of grey persist and stay
in troubled, twitching sleep.

Now, if one was to switch the words
“Sleep” for “sheep”,
the poem reacts in a volitile manner

Troubled, twitching sheep persist
to chant in shades of grey,
Deepened turquoise pierces through
the quantum matinee.

Shards of naked spine will tense
When whispered shouts align,
and clouds reflect transparent in
The bottle filled with wine.

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The Alpha Omega of: Why I am an Awful Writer.

September 27, 2010 at 10:03 pm (Art, For Larks, Observations) (, , )

A is for Almost,
B is for Blast
and C for those Constant
Confusions I Cast.

D makes Disaster
for all Else, my E,
F brings the Fuck ups
and Grievance with G.

H is for Hatred
for myself (that is I),
for the J that is Jaded,
and L, that I Lie.

M is my Mindset
and P is my Pen,
O is for Obvious –
I’m (Q)uite sick of them.

R is for Really
I could if I tried,
S is for Soddit:
my T – Temper decides

how my U – Ultimate
V – Vision turns out.
W for a Writer whose awful at-
Xylophone, fuck!

But with a Y simply Yearns
to mimic her heroes
at the end of her pen spouts
Zip, Zilch, Zero.

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