Sunday, 23 November 2014

November Day

You said the most beautiful thing
about that day, was me,
in a Saturday pony-tail,
woollen jumper, and jeans,
and you said it didn’t matter how many times
you had seen, all those dresses and
heels that I wear – you told me you loved
when I was really there, as gentle and soft
as the autumn air, and all the wisps and spirals
of hair that, untamed, sprang forth,
from a hat - that,
you said,
was the diamond, the pearl:
and how your eyes could skate
across the curve, of the serpent of my lower back – and oh, you waxed
about the nip at my waist that was the
pinnacle, of joy amongst November trees,
all in filtered sunlight and falling leaves,
and the sight of my soul, you said you
could see, was smiling, like the light
in my eyes:
laid bare, we wore 
no disguise, only a promise
that all words here
were true. And I whispered, that yours were wrong, because,
what was truly beautiful
that day,

was you.

Thursday, 6 November 2014



Take me by the hand, and lead me amongst my scars:
touch every one
and it is reborn, a star at your fingertips, each fear,
all harm; nought but sweet air now,
in the safest of
arms, and feather-pillows,
deep, soul-cleansing
kiss –  and you can ask me never,
to live
without this, or the whispers
that all shimmer
and bend,
as it falls from your lips: “my twelve,
out of ten”,

and somewhere
inside me, spread wings, as doves soar,
behind all of the blinds,
and the skin,
and the tightly closed
door, on those predators, circling,
out there: because none of it matters with
your breath
on my hair,

and all of your fragrant
at my back – here, there is nothing I
could want for, or lack in the depths of my soul:
- no panic,
 - no holes,
can exist
when you say what you see:
strong, brave, beautiful me, no damage,
inside or out:
nobody’s prey, no doubt
I have grown

like a Guelder Rose,
covered in thorns
from my head to my toes, but
bearing more petals than you ever
might know without equal wounds from the spikes – and I beg you now please
 turn off the lights,
for you make me
 more woman
than I’ve ever been – and I want to remember
all I have seen, tonight,  
in the truth of your eyes,
neither one of us
with need for disguises, nor pantomime masks;

for here lies the sacred moment,
we both
were shelter

at last.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

Don't Panic...

You know that fundamental thing, at the base of you? Whatever it is that makes you feel grounded and safe in the world? You got it from your nurturing; from your childhood; from your mother, perhaps…a safe base to explore the world from, a basic trust in other human beings.
You know what I mean, right? The thing that gives you a place of peace inside of you, that says it’s ok to wander away. It’s ok to roam and most things are safe to touch. And when they’re not, and you burn your finger, there’s someone, somewhere, to return to; to be held close and be comforted; and it’ll all be okay…it’ll all be okay…
It’s that thing that’s always grown within you, - go on, you can admit it, you’ve taken it for granted; didn’t know it was there, until I showed it to you – that thing that means you’ll always find the courage and the confidence to go back, to explore again, despite the thorns and the nettles that stung you.
Well, here’s the thing - I’m going to take that from you now. Not a bit of it. All of it. Every last internal attachment and scrap of core security – gone - in the blink of my eye, a single click of my fingers. Gone. Just like that.
And without it, see how nothing is true or certain anymore, how there is no feeling that anything is okay, or ever will be again, and how you will panic – oh, how you will panic, that you will not have to seek the thorns, but instead, they will come for you.
See now, how you hesitate at the menace of the first night of sleep in a strange, new bed, at the person who bumps in to you from behind, and sets a lump in your throat, a sea-sickness in your stomach…feel how your heart will hammer at the noises unfamiliar radiators stirring into life will make, at creaking floorboards on an unknown landing…not dangerous once, but now, horrifying - certain harm…see how sweat beads on your neck at someone walking behind you in the dark, at a firm knock on a door you cannot see through. Feel it grip you, like a claw to the chest, beyond any thought or rationale – nothing there to call upon to settle yourself, to soothe you – when the threats come close. And then, come closer... And they are everywhere.
I’m taking that part of you that knows, in those moments, that there is no danger, no peril. And you will not know, and you will panic so hard, and tremble with so many internal terrors that your core understands are nothing, nothing, nothing …but they’ll be everything now, everything that might…that WILL…get you, won’t they? Aren’t they? Every slow and sneaking thing that might creep up on you in the middle of the night, or on the bus to work, might pounce and grab you and back you up against stone prison walls, skin scraping, mouth suffocating, stomach nauseating…they might…they might…they WILL.
But you won’t be able to tell. No. No. Don’t tell. Don’t ever tell. Because all the world still has their safety, their nurturing, their born, human courage. And trust. And they’ll laugh at you. Laugh until you shake and sweat, and stand naked and terrified before them. And they’ll mock and pity you, all because of the things that I took from you tonight.

So, find a way. Find a way right now, to push it down, down into the dark, depths of where the safety used to be, where it dwelled in dead calm, inside you, before I had it. Yes, where something cold and shivering, now sits instead. That’s it. Push it there, and hold on to it. Live with it; right inside. The quaking, the churning…the fear. Yes…because I know, none of them mean you well now? Do they? Not without it. And I have it: I have it all for my own.



So what if I told you, sometimes,
that you walk in my dreams? That
you float like paper amongst the
cotton-wool trees, that pepper,
the mountains and gentle
streams, as you stretch along banks of bright fire?

And what if you lay, as the flames lick
higher, and tell me all the woes of
your day? Do I reach out my fingers and
trace them away, as the catkins that swing
in my mind?

Do I turn and roll over,
and stiffen and hide,
for all the times I have willed you to stay? For all the
right things
I have not heard you say as the swimming
night becomes intrusive day, and what way
do I find
to give
as you take?
And quiet this yawning soul?

Just to be still,
and to need.

am the one, made of paper,
is all.

Saturday, 1 November 2014


This could be
any love story,
if I whispered about your eyes,
if I brought tears to mine
and cried out about the sanctity
of your arms.
This could be
any declaration,
any abject devotion, if I honoured
the shining temple of you,
left offerings at your altar like
a stupid pilgrim seduced.
It could be any
tale of tender worship, any yarn of salvation,
if I prostrated before you, and polished your
ruby-studded wings…
It could be any of these things,
if it weren’t for the sacrifices
and martyrdoms of your cross
born upon a back so beautiful
and the tears of blood I let
weep forth
from their host.
So come, come now my deity,
entomb me softly in your
feathered embrace
and mark my emerald eyes, 
remind me of the moment
we decided
it was better this way?
Remind me why,
my faith grew weak,
and I promise,

I will let you go.


Profound grace
and utter harmony
Beauty, light and
palest ivory.
Silken sheet, fairest pearl,
All but call my name.

Scarlet lily, bird of paradise,
follow a trail of coolest ice
Whispered from ear to brow.

How now if butterflies land there
do I believe them yellow
not blue…?

Ah, but you…
angel, glory, starlight,
fever, desert night.
Violet sunrise, silver sea,
Hear my velvet tongue…
Believe me,

And give me what I want.

Requiem for the Ghost of Forever

A ceiling above us, and a floor below,
don’t touch, don’t touch,
this forever-ghost,
watch the cracks
 as they spread and flow,
all mine for the taking,
if I want it,
I know. Stop.

Stop, at the edges,
put your hands out now,
and knock me, tender, to the floorboard-ground,
roll me beneath you and without a sound,
speak the words, say them over again.
Listen, listen – can you hear
the rain, on the slates,
down the chimney shaft? Raise an eyebrow, make me
laugh, like the water
as it scurries through drains – watch the forever-ghost wax
and wane, like a moon in the window pane.

Lay, lay,
lay my head
on your shoulder,
so much time now;
past and older, so much tomorrow
and yesterday grown colder,
so much ‘sorry’ already…too much.
All passed,
all is trust,
in your eyes as you smile and make plans;
and the forever-ghost sits down
on the
bottles and
cans of a barely contained future,
she bows her head, as a weary creature,
for she knows
the awful truth.

Those words are spoken again,
and I cannot answer - because it isn’t you.

And the forever-ghost fades away to nothing,
leaving behind her,

a deepening blue.