am I a little mad?

The romance is all in your head, you know, when you fetishize the rose or the cherry shade of your lover’s cheek or her little button nose. Your morning is in your head, you know, with cold prescription rows, your coffee mug holds no memory nor the incense your close one chose. All day is in your head, you know, the people are of your design - but squeeze that hell out again,

angry? pretty much.

‘Snap’ goes your soul tumbling down from the tree of leisure, and could be magic, the way that her fingers entwined and constrained, like the tiger’s claws clench and tear- but don’t worry, you’re my fetish, because Marx and Engels wouldn’t have been heard if they had tits

so fucking slow

Caught in this loop of clocks I twist in circles looking for the right door the flimsy locks that keep my daddy out are like air, slap my pocket for reassurance, feel the fat slap back and want to burn it for warmth on a rusty bike rack having my first cig of the morning ///\\x///\\x///\\x///\\x///\\x///\\ A little twist of steel and click goes the sanctuary and thrash on the bed for a sleeping cycle

asking around

The buzz falls from my head to my belly like it always does. The ones with the pop and the ones with the rawk like it’s 1979, the subversives and the dabblers and the ones who just want to get fucked up - and me, that little pretentious freak who tries so hard to prove she’s not brilliant - I just wanna be touched, okay? Drug dealers like tumblr follows - do you have that hookup, the one that makes me feel human again?

There’s a Line in my Mash

These trees quietly listen and inhale the tobacco smoke from those who need courtyard light and twittering, ambiance by the ounce, half, and eight. I wish I would die so I wouldn’t have to decide what song to play at my funeral. I want the sound of birds and the junkie’s moan and a single flower- not in my honour, but as reparation for all of my damage. Sweet as honey bunny bleed,

for Josephine.

A maudlin sea, for Josephine, is not enough by half; so pour your tea to spirits unseen on that great woman’s behalf. A sitting tree, for Josephine, is better than rich men’s satin; so follow the bee, the fawn, the swine, for a kind bosom society flattened.

Plucking One of Each Kind for Her

The tip of a finger to petal, again, knife to the stem, grandmother’s sin, twice and thrice and slip once more, Saved for time when candles dim, back is thrown against the door. Time is my heart, rarely to start, stopping only for our kiss.

the feeling of waiting - romantic, uncomfortable, dragging, ugh

Elizabeth, dearest a Saturday apart, yeah but a million miles away and a billion little droplets of water not to mention the air which multiplies only to spite me like so many other unshakeable ‘facts’ of nature but I know their true design but a spirit, lack of refine and hearts, like blue roses, serve only to compare to that feeling before the kiss of a throat long parched tasting bitter water at long last

Books of Colours like Books of Sex Positions

Books of colours like books of sex positions, directing perception of pleasure and visions, putting feelings to thought and words to feelings, dissecting the process of wild lovers’ peelings and sunsets and wine and plums from the vine, stretched out over concrete steel promenade drapes brushing over textured facade, somewhat to the right and somewhat to the left, flying for a week leaving own bereft, least of those being that the bed is still made

from a Hope & Union window

The stark white walls seem to scream ‘sanctuary’ across from the layered wooden fences, imported ’natives,' it houses calm for the imported natives, light pastel rows of apartments for those willing to make a home by the sea; here stands a place to be for the new bohemian cast-out-but-in looking for comfort beside labelled trash bins under berries so wild man dares not eat from roads made for soles but never feet.

I just like to be alone, okay?

The brown wash of Autumn hides the Winter as it coldly bides, frank and simple and moist and warm, wearing the forest to a vow of silence While leaves crunch running from the growing swarm of tiny buzzing fleeting things, O, let us find the honey she brings in the wooden carriage while we camp our tents, for those who yearn for solitude find redemption in rot and decrepitude like a bird pulls apart her home to make home,

Christmas Evening, suicide

One day I’ll grow up and I’ll be strong I’ve got the plans made up if I’m alive that long And my words will fall like rain from my eyes Just like what the poets say to mean tears in a song One day I’ll grow up and I’ll be a child Like the Christ kid lay so old and so mild I’ll be my own mother and my own grandmother too


Through the token trees my eyes do wander, to the crowds as they ebb and sway, the Sun with its Summer death grip no longer, and the bikes left deserted all day. Hours where mortal life is wasted, but what’s really wasted to life? Leaves blowing flowing slowing sparse plantlife dying- sparse life shows billion strong. Brief hungers roaring yet easily sated, Long hungers humming till release of death. Sometimes, to me, the day is too long.

Hope in meagre tastes of reUnion

Coffee and cigarettes congregate like the masses of addicts of sip and strike do, in their ways of cold wooden benches like men at war, tense in their trenches till too-late comes and legs wander home by muscles and wheels and well-worn chrome and moon peeks through clouds in windows shown, a puff of white smoke and it feels so alone, drifting soft thoughts on the day’s feelings strewn.

I’m a Big Girl Now - I Promise

can’t, she said, “Forever is reserved,” I begged, I’ve settled for far less, “No.” “It’d end badly, my child, and you’re so sweet!” I’m sweet? Candy is sweet. Strip off quickly the wrapper. Shove it in your mouth. Consume it, Possess it as you have my body and mind. Let it melt in your mouth, disappear, only the skeleton left, sticky, worthless, Then throw what’s left in the dirt -

In the Arms of a Slender Tree

Chittering and chattering and sitting in a tree, smoke another cigarette and think of who to be, legs over the berries and I’m seeing what I see, gently swaying, singing, I don’t know where to begin, brush the brush and twigs aside to keep away the din. Blue skies and frosted clouds in Winter, what a joy, mind is grey and purple and I’m thinking of a boy, I don’t want to fuck him so he’s saying that I’m coy,

Library <=> Mirror

The Library was a Mirror… I ran away a while to pluck three damp white buds for her, Graze cheek with kiss, brush hair amiss and wait for my lover to stir. On chill stone round the pool we lay, blood spilled from mind to head and back, With waist and waist and breath to taste I drink of the love of long lack. …and the Mirror was a Library. My lover’s carvings on my back

Maria Had a Name and Her Name Wasn’t Maria

If you hold me down then I can’t get up if you close my mouth then I guess I’ll shut up if you open my eyes then I have to see if you close the door then I won’t get free I don’t think you know quite what it means For you to break into my dreams When you come you can’t hear my screams Years later in a lonely place

Memory Lost

Do you remember, in the winter…? We were sitting by the fire, your nose inside that book, I had to restrain the desire, to lean over and steal a look. Goodness knows you’ve stolen yours. And I know you’ve stolen mine. Sleeping beneath the lights, to keep the dreams away, And in these colder nights, I’ve just got to have my way. Warm bodies off limits. I’m writing poetry on your back.

Ode to an Artist

The palest note described is the softest light despised, early in the morning dawn when dreams and days are intertwined, leaping high like the lightest fawn, in a world for men, like God, resigned till our eyes the dew-light finds. Proudest artist laid in bed, her captors know not the changes she led, winter-nighttime-flooding bug, if Mother Seamstress, Mother Fate, fading lonely flower slug long-lost years from Springtime mate Proud artist failing, death came late.

Tubes and Needles

This place is keeping me alive holding me from the edge of crash on the condition that I thrive. Who expects the damaged plant repotted not to show bruises? You pick up a wounded animal not to cure but to soothe. Would they throw them back out if their bruises heal slowly? if their limp still shows? Would you throw out a dog, meek and lowly? Tubes and needles only prolong my throes

Untitled - January 25th/December 17th

A blue, a green, a sound unseen, a chain around your neck- I was, you’d been, the writer’s scene, so old you hardly check- but red hits green and orange light seen a hand pulls at your- a gurgle of song, tug known too long, he never forgets to check.